[Exalted] The Dragon Blood, Never Born
- Thread starter VagueZ
- Start date
- Fantasy
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Extremely fair, unless you happen to be looking at it from the point of a view of a demented, millennia-old ghost dedicated to the destruction of Creation.
A day in the life
- Pronouns
- They/Them
After a moment of thought, you bite the base of your right thumb with canines that enlarge and sharpen as you need them. Blood wells up immediately. You dip your pointer finger in the flow and trace letters on the mirror.
I must take care. I can move at midnight.
As soon as you're done, the blood sinks into the mirror and, thankfully, vanishes completely. With a thought, your blood flow staunches, too. Being an Exalt is useful, in even the small things.
You look around again, and again confirm that you're alone. You give it a minute more, in case there is a follow-up, but no subsequent message appears.
That is a relief, really. It's like the Realm spell Infallible Messenger: it doesn't have any way to know if the recipient is in a position to give undivided attention to the message, or even receive it discreetly, and unlike most versions of Infallible Messenger, a bloody message on the mirror isn't immune to someone else noticing. This necromancer wasn't just communicating: they were also risking your exposure and sharing a way that they could always choose to unmask you should need be.
Finally, you leave the offending mirror behind. You've told Taara you wanted to cancel things today, but mainly that means that your day is going to be less busy, not that you're actually free. A Dynast's life is one of service, not of leisure.
In the end, the main appointment you can't cancel is a meeting with Talon-Captain Vancer. Vancer is one of the officers for the Realm legion here, and one whom you've worked closely with. He is calm and serious, as well as the sort of quietly competent that everyone wants to have near them, taking care of things so you don't have to. It's a pity he's only mortal. It was men from under his command that you led against the bestial Anathema, and three of them died in that fight. This means that he is readily accepting of your choice in attire, and if anything actually approves of it. He doesn't like losing his men unnecessarily.
He relatively quickly turns the discussion to your fight. "The Anathema you fought... could it have been Strength of Many?" Vancer names a particularly infamous Anathema, one who's been spotted all over the South, disrupting legitimate trading functions in the name of freeing slaves.
You shake your head. "I doubt it. Strength of Many is supposed to be a huge man, with a bull's countenance and the mark of a Frenzied." You cast your thoughts back to the fight, that long pursuit. "The man I was chasing was more of a predator type. Shorter than me, sand-colored hair. His true form had savage claws. We found him not only because of the ratmen with him, but because his forehead mark shown with the crescent mark of a Trickster." The types of Anathema are not exhaustive, but those two are among the more common types. Frenzied are outrageous brutes: Strength of Many, in particular, is said to have sent Ledaal Midaras back to the Blessed Isle with a tremendous amount of broken bones and internal injuries after hurling him through the air so far he was mistaken for a fall of starmetal. Tricksters are more in the 'incredibly beautiful and deceitful' range. Until his transformation, the Anathema hadn't been bad looking, you have to admit to yourself. "He didn't give a name, but I think he may have been trying some sorcery of his own."
Vancer accepts your logic and expertise. "That may mean we have two Anathema in the general vicinity of the Lap, then." Before you can get overly concerned about that, he explains. "I've been collecting relatively verified reports on Strength of Many, and he may be within a few hundred miles of the Lap now. He may have caught wind of the shipment from the Scavenger Lands that's passing through here soon on its way to Gem."
"Hm. So we are looking at a potential Anathema raid right as the Realm is ordering back all the best military forces to the Blessed Isle."
You get a dark smile from Vancer. "Why do you think your counterpart Triumvirs were so eager to put you in charge of security?"
"Don't remind me. We'll figure it out."
"There may be some good news on that front. There was a decent-sized mercenary troop that was looking to move into the area. Leader is named something like Succor or Solace, and met with Anira earlier. They've done caravan security and helped handle some outbreaks of hungry dead along the routes between here and Paragon, including some ghosts that might have been fairly powerful, even if you scale down tall tales to reasonable levels. If they're worth it and as good as they say, that might help us if we're going to need to train up local reserves to replace Realm forces."
You just know that if you do propose that, it's going to come out of your chunk of the Lap's profits, or at least yours and the section for your House. And your parents and senior members of House Peleps won't be happy if the jade doesn't flow their way. Maybe you can trick one of the other Triumvirs into helping foot the bill.
"There was one other thing," Vancer says, pulling out some additional paperwork. "The men we lost... I was hoping we could put your signature on this."
He slides it over to you, and you look at it. It's paperwork to help pay out pensions to their families. The way things have been over the last five years since the Empress disappeared, yen-pinching accountants are getting ever bolder about finding creative ways to not pay out useless things like this, but they're less likely to do that if you can show any sort of personal concern for it. Having died in the course of hunting Anathema won't hurt, either. The Realm has every reason to still want people to emphasize the Wyld Hunt, after all.
That sticks in your mind anew as you do the expected tasks. Here you are, some sort of secret Anathema, and trying to hide yourself in plain sight as one of the most important people in one of the Realm's most important satrapies. This is a dangerous game, and one that, presumably, will eventually end with things completely breaking down. After all, you've never heard of an Anathema hiding themselves successfully for a lifetime.
Of course, if they did, you'd hardly hear about them.
Vancer leaves. You have time with your thoughts before evening falls.
Like with the Peleps manor, there's a garden space out behind the Cathak manor that can be used for events such as this. Bored guards stand next to open gates, allowing noise and light to spill out as you approach.
Anira has put on a moderately expensive production. Some local musicians provide acceptably adept music on drums and wind instruments, cycling between songs so that different performers have a chance to rest. Light is provided by oil lanterns, tinted by some chemist to burn in novel colors, with bronze reflectors to make sure that the light is as bright as it can be on the ground. The result is still dim enough on a near-moonless night like this for reading to be difficult and companions to be imagined more beautiful than bare reality.
Anira meets you at the gate. "_____, darling, it's good you could make it. Congratulations on your rather tardy blessing of the dragons, dear." Your fellow Triumvir holds out both hands as if she's going to give you a hug, but claps you on both shoulders, instead. You expected it. That's her usual greeting. She take a moment to frown at your grey mourning clothes, but doesn't say anything about them.
She lets you go and steps in alongside you, laying on ringed, manicured hand on a shoulder again. "I must confess, Ptheno and I? We were beginning to think it would never happen. Just goes to show the inscrutable wisdom of the Immaculate Dragons, does it not?" Anira is a woman of medium height who looked forty before she turned thirty, and is probably going to look the same even when she turns two hundred. Just being a wood aspect doesn't mean that her life force allows perpetual youth.
"Thank you for your kind words," you say, as the dance requires. Both of you recognize exactly how nasty she was being, but it's not technically overt enough for you to take offense.
The majority of attendees are already here, enjoying either the chance for some political jockeying or just the party itself. The servants, men and women both, are all fit young adults in abbreviated outfits. The guests, of course, are all pretty much exactly age 43, and show it. It makes for a very visible split.
Anira abandons you to play host before you can say much else or get back at her properly. Ptheno approaches, in turn. The overall impression the tall fire aspect gives is just Red. His outfit is a fiery red, matching his short-trimmed hair and eyes, and he's also positioned himself beneath a red-tinged lantern. Whenever he can manage it, which doesn't include a party like this, he wears a pair of red jade short daiklaves. He never misses a chance to non-verbally suggest he's mastered Fire Dragon Style, mainly because he hasn't and thus can't say it out loud. "Peleps," he says, offering his hand to shake.
He's got his arm and shoulder tensed and positioned to squeeze your hand overly painfully. You counter by latching onto his hand a little too far out, so you squeeze his fingers and he can't leverage his entire arm into his grip to squash your own hand. "Ragara," you reply.
Ragara Ptheno slaps you on the shoulder, pretending it's companionable while trying to bruise you a bit. He enjoys inflicting pain a little too much. "Good to see you could join us," he says, overly loudly, and then laughs at his own joke: not only joining us this evening, but also joining the Great Host of Dragon-Blooded. "Say," he adds, even louder, and in the tone of someone who was just struck by a thought. "Perhaps we could end out the evening in a little exhibition match. A little bare-handed spar between princes of the earth should be a treat for our guests." He makes a wide, sweeping gesture, taking in all the people around. This gets an immediate roar of approval, the same as any other piece of theatre would.
"I would be honored," you say. It's not really something you're looking forward to. Ptheno isn't as bad as your infamous second cousin, Peleps Deled, in terms of horrific injuries to sparring partners, but he's certainly left a few life-altering wounds behind in the process of 'toughening up the troops'. Refusing now would just mean he'd find a worse way to punish you later and you'd lose face in the meantime.
"Did you hear that?" He calls out to the crowd. "Here's something special to cap off the evening. No one better leave early!" He grins, and gets the polite laugh he was expecting.
A serving girl with a tray of some sweet pastries catches Ptheno's attention, and you slip away from him. A couple of dozen middle-aged people you've never met give you congratulations in turn, and you offer similar sentiments back, thanking them for their decades of faithful, competent service to the Lap. Some comment on your upcoming brawl. They're all looking forward to it: seeing Dragon-Blooded fights, even in a casual spar like this, is genuinely rare and exciting to the average layperson. You deflect a few more comments about your attire, but it's definitely one of the least interesting things about you right now.
Before you know it, you're on the periphery of the party. There's a thunderous, rhythmic noise here, which you'd probably mistake for a malfunctioning irrigation pump if you weren't familiar with Avalanche Fury Roiling.
Avalanche, the ranking Immaculate monk (and sole Dragon-Blood currently at the Immaculate temple), is 'meditating'. The snores are just his mantra. You've never met a man who can sleep half as much as he does. Somehow, the earth aspect has mastered the art of sleeping while sitting bolt upright and with a serene look on his face. He hasn't been able to do anything about the snoring, however, leaving him a perfectly composed image of a monk sitting lotus style, deep in commune with the Immaculate Dragons, save only for the rumbling noise of his breathing. The bald monk looks like nothing so much as a smaller, muscular version of the Penitent, the statue the Lap is built on. Well, except that Avalanche still has his face. The Penitent's face was half melted off about eight centuries back. You can't remember the exact details; it's really never mattered.
A woman had been sitting next to him, but she pulls herself to her feet as you approach. You don't recognize her. She's slightly on the shorter side, and her red-orange hair floats on the thin breeze in a fashion very reminiscent of flames. By that and a couple of other small marks, she's an elemental-blood, child of a human and some elemental spirit of fire. Immaculate philosophy looks askance at that sort of cross-breeding.
She's wearing a rather plain but clean poncho, as well as a wide-brimmed hat she doffs as you approach as part of a gallant bow. "Triumvir, I believe?" You nod, and she takes your hand to kiss the back of it as if she's playing the knight. "Solace Through the Night."
Recognition. "Ah, you're that mercenary."
"Indeed." Solace settles the hat back on her head, then tilts it at a rakish angle so you can still look each other in the eyes. "I was honored to get your counterpart's invitation tonight. I'm hoping to make a good enough impression that you'll hire my men." She offers you a pleasant grin. "How'd I do?" She's mercenary in a few different meanings of the word.
"I'm off duty this late. Ask in the office tomorrow." You look back towards Avalanche. "I confess I'm surprised to see you with him."
"He was checking my religious credentials, to be sure the Immaculate Order wouldn't object to my presence." That would be the whole question of her spiritual parent's nature, the supremacy of the Dragon-Blooded host, and related topics.
"And?" you prompt.
"I'm very willing to accept the spiritual primacy of those blessed by the Immaculate Dragons if you sign my paycheck." Solace shrugs with one shoulder. "Then he fell asleep."
"He does that."
The party passes you by. You're still a little too tense to really enjoy yourself, but you think you manage to be relatively inconspicuous.
The crowds cheers as you and Ptheno limber up. Anira has marked out a large rectangle, denoted with ropes on the ground, and some hasty effort has redirected lamps to shine on you. The band was induced to ring up something martial.
Both the crowd of regular guests and the handful of servants are allowed to watch this. Ptheno removes his red silk shirt to show of the wires of muscle he's developed and to show off his torso. You don't do the same. You feel better in mourning clothes.
While Ptheno has no mastery of the Glorious Dragon Styles, he's far from a novice, and he doubtless is expecting you are. Which is foolish of him, since he's known you for long enough to know you were raised to be a Dragon-Blood, trained for it, and given every opportunity to be ready for the power it entails.
You can't believe that the dark power of an Anathema will be equal to that of a proper prince of the earth, but it shouldn't be wholly dissimilar, either. There's many little tricks of Essence that you can be prepared for, you've already realized, and generations of Dragon-Blooded heroes have absolutely learned how to pass those along. Why not commit one small further blasphemy and make use of what you're given?
Anira steps in front of everyone, right at the middle line, and raises and handkerchief, waiting until everyone is duly silent. "The match is to the ground, to submission, or to a step outside the ring. No weapons, no interference, no crippling or lethal blows. Gentlemen: are you ready?" She glances at each of you to get her affirmation. She lets the square of cloth drop. "Begin!"
Ptheno darts forward, sliding in for a kick at your forward knee. You give ground, and he launches forward again, a stiff-fingered thrust at your eyes that you bat away with a ready arm. He's close, so you try to slip a gut punch in with your other hand, but he's ready and blocks your punch with a forearm. You try to sweep his legs out from underneath him, but he leaps over your leg and does a backflip away.
The crowd explodes, cheering for the fight as he considers you again, the first exchange having come to basically nothing. Under the cover of that noise, you hear him hiss, "Let's spill some of that blood and compare it to a proper dragon, see just how thin it runs." It's not just a hot-blooded cry. He thinks he can bully you here, in this ring.
You, however, are realizing something deeply unexpected: you didn't go all-out in that exchange.
You don't have to lose this.
[] Fight as hard as you have to in order to win decisively. Carve respect out of violence.
[] Fight cautiously. Win, but carefully. It won't be a good show, but it will work.
[] Throw the fight. Let him strut around and think himself superior. You don't need the limelight.
You have something important for after the fight, too. You told that necromancer you would be moving at midnight. Are you?
[] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night.
[] That was just to buy time.
(unconnected votes)
I must take care. I can move at midnight.
As soon as you're done, the blood sinks into the mirror and, thankfully, vanishes completely. With a thought, your blood flow staunches, too. Being an Exalt is useful, in even the small things.
You look around again, and again confirm that you're alone. You give it a minute more, in case there is a follow-up, but no subsequent message appears.
That is a relief, really. It's like the Realm spell Infallible Messenger: it doesn't have any way to know if the recipient is in a position to give undivided attention to the message, or even receive it discreetly, and unlike most versions of Infallible Messenger, a bloody message on the mirror isn't immune to someone else noticing. This necromancer wasn't just communicating: they were also risking your exposure and sharing a way that they could always choose to unmask you should need be.
Finally, you leave the offending mirror behind. You've told Taara you wanted to cancel things today, but mainly that means that your day is going to be less busy, not that you're actually free. A Dynast's life is one of service, not of leisure.
* * *
In the end, the main appointment you can't cancel is a meeting with Talon-Captain Vancer. Vancer is one of the officers for the Realm legion here, and one whom you've worked closely with. He is calm and serious, as well as the sort of quietly competent that everyone wants to have near them, taking care of things so you don't have to. It's a pity he's only mortal. It was men from under his command that you led against the bestial Anathema, and three of them died in that fight. This means that he is readily accepting of your choice in attire, and if anything actually approves of it. He doesn't like losing his men unnecessarily.
He relatively quickly turns the discussion to your fight. "The Anathema you fought... could it have been Strength of Many?" Vancer names a particularly infamous Anathema, one who's been spotted all over the South, disrupting legitimate trading functions in the name of freeing slaves.
You shake your head. "I doubt it. Strength of Many is supposed to be a huge man, with a bull's countenance and the mark of a Frenzied." You cast your thoughts back to the fight, that long pursuit. "The man I was chasing was more of a predator type. Shorter than me, sand-colored hair. His true form had savage claws. We found him not only because of the ratmen with him, but because his forehead mark shown with the crescent mark of a Trickster." The types of Anathema are not exhaustive, but those two are among the more common types. Frenzied are outrageous brutes: Strength of Many, in particular, is said to have sent Ledaal Midaras back to the Blessed Isle with a tremendous amount of broken bones and internal injuries after hurling him through the air so far he was mistaken for a fall of starmetal. Tricksters are more in the 'incredibly beautiful and deceitful' range. Until his transformation, the Anathema hadn't been bad looking, you have to admit to yourself. "He didn't give a name, but I think he may have been trying some sorcery of his own."
Vancer accepts your logic and expertise. "That may mean we have two Anathema in the general vicinity of the Lap, then." Before you can get overly concerned about that, he explains. "I've been collecting relatively verified reports on Strength of Many, and he may be within a few hundred miles of the Lap now. He may have caught wind of the shipment from the Scavenger Lands that's passing through here soon on its way to Gem."
"Hm. So we are looking at a potential Anathema raid right as the Realm is ordering back all the best military forces to the Blessed Isle."
You get a dark smile from Vancer. "Why do you think your counterpart Triumvirs were so eager to put you in charge of security?"
"Don't remind me. We'll figure it out."
"There may be some good news on that front. There was a decent-sized mercenary troop that was looking to move into the area. Leader is named something like Succor or Solace, and met with Anira earlier. They've done caravan security and helped handle some outbreaks of hungry dead along the routes between here and Paragon, including some ghosts that might have been fairly powerful, even if you scale down tall tales to reasonable levels. If they're worth it and as good as they say, that might help us if we're going to need to train up local reserves to replace Realm forces."
You just know that if you do propose that, it's going to come out of your chunk of the Lap's profits, or at least yours and the section for your House. And your parents and senior members of House Peleps won't be happy if the jade doesn't flow their way. Maybe you can trick one of the other Triumvirs into helping foot the bill.
"There was one other thing," Vancer says, pulling out some additional paperwork. "The men we lost... I was hoping we could put your signature on this."
He slides it over to you, and you look at it. It's paperwork to help pay out pensions to their families. The way things have been over the last five years since the Empress disappeared, yen-pinching accountants are getting ever bolder about finding creative ways to not pay out useless things like this, but they're less likely to do that if you can show any sort of personal concern for it. Having died in the course of hunting Anathema won't hurt, either. The Realm has every reason to still want people to emphasize the Wyld Hunt, after all.
That sticks in your mind anew as you do the expected tasks. Here you are, some sort of secret Anathema, and trying to hide yourself in plain sight as one of the most important people in one of the Realm's most important satrapies. This is a dangerous game, and one that, presumably, will eventually end with things completely breaking down. After all, you've never heard of an Anathema hiding themselves successfully for a lifetime.
Of course, if they did, you'd hardly hear about them.
Vancer leaves. You have time with your thoughts before evening falls.
* * *
Like with the Peleps manor, there's a garden space out behind the Cathak manor that can be used for events such as this. Bored guards stand next to open gates, allowing noise and light to spill out as you approach.
Anira has put on a moderately expensive production. Some local musicians provide acceptably adept music on drums and wind instruments, cycling between songs so that different performers have a chance to rest. Light is provided by oil lanterns, tinted by some chemist to burn in novel colors, with bronze reflectors to make sure that the light is as bright as it can be on the ground. The result is still dim enough on a near-moonless night like this for reading to be difficult and companions to be imagined more beautiful than bare reality.
Anira meets you at the gate. "_____, darling, it's good you could make it. Congratulations on your rather tardy blessing of the dragons, dear." Your fellow Triumvir holds out both hands as if she's going to give you a hug, but claps you on both shoulders, instead. You expected it. That's her usual greeting. She take a moment to frown at your grey mourning clothes, but doesn't say anything about them.
She lets you go and steps in alongside you, laying on ringed, manicured hand on a shoulder again. "I must confess, Ptheno and I? We were beginning to think it would never happen. Just goes to show the inscrutable wisdom of the Immaculate Dragons, does it not?" Anira is a woman of medium height who looked forty before she turned thirty, and is probably going to look the same even when she turns two hundred. Just being a wood aspect doesn't mean that her life force allows perpetual youth.
"Thank you for your kind words," you say, as the dance requires. Both of you recognize exactly how nasty she was being, but it's not technically overt enough for you to take offense.
The majority of attendees are already here, enjoying either the chance for some political jockeying or just the party itself. The servants, men and women both, are all fit young adults in abbreviated outfits. The guests, of course, are all pretty much exactly age 43, and show it. It makes for a very visible split.
Anira abandons you to play host before you can say much else or get back at her properly. Ptheno approaches, in turn. The overall impression the tall fire aspect gives is just Red. His outfit is a fiery red, matching his short-trimmed hair and eyes, and he's also positioned himself beneath a red-tinged lantern. Whenever he can manage it, which doesn't include a party like this, he wears a pair of red jade short daiklaves. He never misses a chance to non-verbally suggest he's mastered Fire Dragon Style, mainly because he hasn't and thus can't say it out loud. "Peleps," he says, offering his hand to shake.
He's got his arm and shoulder tensed and positioned to squeeze your hand overly painfully. You counter by latching onto his hand a little too far out, so you squeeze his fingers and he can't leverage his entire arm into his grip to squash your own hand. "Ragara," you reply.
Ragara Ptheno slaps you on the shoulder, pretending it's companionable while trying to bruise you a bit. He enjoys inflicting pain a little too much. "Good to see you could join us," he says, overly loudly, and then laughs at his own joke: not only joining us this evening, but also joining the Great Host of Dragon-Blooded. "Say," he adds, even louder, and in the tone of someone who was just struck by a thought. "Perhaps we could end out the evening in a little exhibition match. A little bare-handed spar between princes of the earth should be a treat for our guests." He makes a wide, sweeping gesture, taking in all the people around. This gets an immediate roar of approval, the same as any other piece of theatre would.
"I would be honored," you say. It's not really something you're looking forward to. Ptheno isn't as bad as your infamous second cousin, Peleps Deled, in terms of horrific injuries to sparring partners, but he's certainly left a few life-altering wounds behind in the process of 'toughening up the troops'. Refusing now would just mean he'd find a worse way to punish you later and you'd lose face in the meantime.
"Did you hear that?" He calls out to the crowd. "Here's something special to cap off the evening. No one better leave early!" He grins, and gets the polite laugh he was expecting.
A serving girl with a tray of some sweet pastries catches Ptheno's attention, and you slip away from him. A couple of dozen middle-aged people you've never met give you congratulations in turn, and you offer similar sentiments back, thanking them for their decades of faithful, competent service to the Lap. Some comment on your upcoming brawl. They're all looking forward to it: seeing Dragon-Blooded fights, even in a casual spar like this, is genuinely rare and exciting to the average layperson. You deflect a few more comments about your attire, but it's definitely one of the least interesting things about you right now.
Before you know it, you're on the periphery of the party. There's a thunderous, rhythmic noise here, which you'd probably mistake for a malfunctioning irrigation pump if you weren't familiar with Avalanche Fury Roiling.
Avalanche, the ranking Immaculate monk (and sole Dragon-Blood currently at the Immaculate temple), is 'meditating'. The snores are just his mantra. You've never met a man who can sleep half as much as he does. Somehow, the earth aspect has mastered the art of sleeping while sitting bolt upright and with a serene look on his face. He hasn't been able to do anything about the snoring, however, leaving him a perfectly composed image of a monk sitting lotus style, deep in commune with the Immaculate Dragons, save only for the rumbling noise of his breathing. The bald monk looks like nothing so much as a smaller, muscular version of the Penitent, the statue the Lap is built on. Well, except that Avalanche still has his face. The Penitent's face was half melted off about eight centuries back. You can't remember the exact details; it's really never mattered.
A woman had been sitting next to him, but she pulls herself to her feet as you approach. You don't recognize her. She's slightly on the shorter side, and her red-orange hair floats on the thin breeze in a fashion very reminiscent of flames. By that and a couple of other small marks, she's an elemental-blood, child of a human and some elemental spirit of fire. Immaculate philosophy looks askance at that sort of cross-breeding.
She's wearing a rather plain but clean poncho, as well as a wide-brimmed hat she doffs as you approach as part of a gallant bow. "Triumvir, I believe?" You nod, and she takes your hand to kiss the back of it as if she's playing the knight. "Solace Through the Night."
Recognition. "Ah, you're that mercenary."
"Indeed." Solace settles the hat back on her head, then tilts it at a rakish angle so you can still look each other in the eyes. "I was honored to get your counterpart's invitation tonight. I'm hoping to make a good enough impression that you'll hire my men." She offers you a pleasant grin. "How'd I do?" She's mercenary in a few different meanings of the word.
"I'm off duty this late. Ask in the office tomorrow." You look back towards Avalanche. "I confess I'm surprised to see you with him."
"He was checking my religious credentials, to be sure the Immaculate Order wouldn't object to my presence." That would be the whole question of her spiritual parent's nature, the supremacy of the Dragon-Blooded host, and related topics.
"And?" you prompt.
"I'm very willing to accept the spiritual primacy of those blessed by the Immaculate Dragons if you sign my paycheck." Solace shrugs with one shoulder. "Then he fell asleep."
"He does that."
The party passes you by. You're still a little too tense to really enjoy yourself, but you think you manage to be relatively inconspicuous.
* * *
The crowds cheers as you and Ptheno limber up. Anira has marked out a large rectangle, denoted with ropes on the ground, and some hasty effort has redirected lamps to shine on you. The band was induced to ring up something martial.
Both the crowd of regular guests and the handful of servants are allowed to watch this. Ptheno removes his red silk shirt to show of the wires of muscle he's developed and to show off his torso. You don't do the same. You feel better in mourning clothes.
While Ptheno has no mastery of the Glorious Dragon Styles, he's far from a novice, and he doubtless is expecting you are. Which is foolish of him, since he's known you for long enough to know you were raised to be a Dragon-Blood, trained for it, and given every opportunity to be ready for the power it entails.
You can't believe that the dark power of an Anathema will be equal to that of a proper prince of the earth, but it shouldn't be wholly dissimilar, either. There's many little tricks of Essence that you can be prepared for, you've already realized, and generations of Dragon-Blooded heroes have absolutely learned how to pass those along. Why not commit one small further blasphemy and make use of what you're given?
Anira steps in front of everyone, right at the middle line, and raises and handkerchief, waiting until everyone is duly silent. "The match is to the ground, to submission, or to a step outside the ring. No weapons, no interference, no crippling or lethal blows. Gentlemen: are you ready?" She glances at each of you to get her affirmation. She lets the square of cloth drop. "Begin!"
Ptheno darts forward, sliding in for a kick at your forward knee. You give ground, and he launches forward again, a stiff-fingered thrust at your eyes that you bat away with a ready arm. He's close, so you try to slip a gut punch in with your other hand, but he's ready and blocks your punch with a forearm. You try to sweep his legs out from underneath him, but he leaps over your leg and does a backflip away.
The crowd explodes, cheering for the fight as he considers you again, the first exchange having come to basically nothing. Under the cover of that noise, you hear him hiss, "Let's spill some of that blood and compare it to a proper dragon, see just how thin it runs." It's not just a hot-blooded cry. He thinks he can bully you here, in this ring.
You, however, are realizing something deeply unexpected: you didn't go all-out in that exchange.
You don't have to lose this.
[] Fight as hard as you have to in order to win decisively. Carve respect out of violence.
[] Fight cautiously. Win, but carefully. It won't be a good show, but it will work.
[] Throw the fight. Let him strut around and think himself superior. You don't need the limelight.
You have something important for after the fight, too. You told that necromancer you would be moving at midnight. Are you?
[] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night.
[] That was just to buy time.
(unconnected votes)
Last edited:
- Location
- Bed
So, looks like we've got Lunars on our hands. Good for Creation, bad for us. Then again, so long as we're careful we should be okay.
[X] Fight cautiously.
- On the one hand, going all-out will absolutely flare our anima, since we're new to Essence control, and that will spoil our whole scheme. On the other hand, letting him win would be the smarter option and good decisions are for losers. Plus, screw this guy.
[X] Yes.
- Now that we've been formally invited, it would be impolite to be a no-show. And politeness is very important, after all.
[X] Fight cautiously.
- On the one hand, going all-out will absolutely flare our anima, since we're new to Essence control, and that will spoil our whole scheme. On the other hand, letting him win would be the smarter option and good decisions are for losers. Plus, screw this guy.
[X] Yes.
- Now that we've been formally invited, it would be impolite to be a no-show. And politeness is very important, after all.
- Location
- France
[X] Throw the fight. Let him strut around and think himself superior. You don't need the limelight.
We're a monster wearing the mask of a man. Hiding our strength and our nature is our primary goal. Also I just want to do a " this was my true strength all along" when our nature is revealed so we can kill some people in the process.
[X] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night.
This meeting is inevitable so better make sure the necromancer doesn't suspect our future totally unexpected betrayal.
We're a monster wearing the mask of a man. Hiding our strength and our nature is our primary goal. Also I just want to do a " this was my true strength all along" when our nature is revealed so we can kill some people in the process.
[X] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night.
This meeting is inevitable so better make sure the necromancer doesn't suspect our future totally unexpected betrayal.
- Location
- Vermont
This is a very good point, but as a night caste, I think we know how to avoid doing that instinctively, and it is something that night caste's can spend a few extra mote's to not do. I'm all in for it.
[X] Fight as hard as you have to in order to win decisively. Carve respect out of violence.
"Be nice, because once you've been mean, you can never take it back. Be nice, until you're ready to destroy them utterly."
I'm not sure who said that, but this guy? He's going down. He's not going to respect us, he's not going to stop if he gets a victory, and he's not going to take bribes well. Losing to a man who's been exalted for all of a day and a night, after years to hone your blessing? Utterly pathetic, especially for someone who likes to imply mastery. Take his pride in martial arts, and break it so hard it turns into a weakness. Get him fired, disgraced, killed, whatever, tonight is the first day of the end of his life. It's time to destroy.
[X] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night.
I'm all up for not pissing off the crazy-ass ghost monster, because wow, that could go badly. We do meet them, and we get some orders we don't like, we can always figure out how to throw them to the wolves later.
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Fight cautiously.
[X] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night.
[X] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
"sight"
The end of the sentence is missing.
Missing space.
[x] Fight as hard as you have to in order to win decisively. Carve respect out of violence.
[x] That was just to buy time.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Fixed; thank you.
We're now three and three on fighting hard versus fighting cautiously; if anyone else wants to weigh in, a tiebreaker would be great.
- Location
- Texas
[X] Fight as hard as you have to in order to win decisively. Carve respect out of violence.
[X] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night
Let the fool learn a little.
[X] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night
Let the fool learn a little.
Nighttime brawl
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[] Fight as hard as you have to in order to win decisively. Carve respect out of violence.
[] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night.
There are two priorities you have here, you decide. The first one is keeping your nature hidden. You can't very well maintain your place here if you stand revealed as Anathema. As long as you're careful, though, it shouldn't be impossible to just qualify as "a slightly odd Dragon-Blood".
Your second priority is laying Ragara Ptheno out flat. Dozens of little petty cruelties, aimed at you or not, float up through your memory. Nothing wrong with taking a little revenge there.
You raise your hands in a ready position. Ptheno sees this and sneers slightly. He slams his knuckles together, and a slight curl of fire surrounds his fists. It would be hard to see in the daylight, but in the low light here it makes a striking effect. The watches cheer as the two of you circle each other. This is exactly the sort of theater they don't normally get to see.
Distantly, you see Anira's lips thin as she looks at Ptheno. He's flouting the rules she established by bringing that sort of fire into the match. She can't very well call the fight on a technical foul, though: it would only disappoint her guests and make the whole Triumvirate look weaker.
As if he has become a hammer, Ptheno comes at you again, throwing a series of jabs. You duck and weave as you consider. You can't easily deflect his blows here; they will absolutely burn you if you try to grapple with him, even if you just try a slapping parry. "Stand still!" he commands.
He over commits, and you duck under, slamming the heel of your hand against his rib cage as you dart past his left. He gives a deep whuff noise, but he can at least take a punch. Still, that round clearly you won. You offer him a grin. "Just catch the wind and I will."
The crowd cheers again. They're only cheering you because you look like you're winning, but that's still enough to incense Ptheno further. Neither you nor Ptheno are experts at unarmed combat: he is more a swordsman and you are more focused around your throwing arm. Still, he clearly feels certain that he should be winning this. That's the stereotype, after all: those graced by the dragons earlier in life are the result of stronger and purer bloodlines and lineage.
You take the offense, focusing on lower kicks, aiming to knock his knees and thighs out. The power he's using can make his feet blaze just as easily, so you can't aim too low. Ptheno backs away, and you press harder. Just as you're about to land a solid hit, Ptheno suddenly blazes like a forge's fire. His anima burns freely, surrounding his whole body with an image of swords being hammered on anvils.
Forced to pull your kick and flinch back from that inferno, you can't completely wiggle free, and Ptheno's right elbow comes down hard on your forehead.
He's close, now, trusting in the power of flames to be sufficient to overwhelm you in a wrestling match.
He's wrong.
Graveyard chills run through you, allowing at least some match to his fire. You grab here and here, places that feel natural and suddenly your arms are pinning his. You lift, and his feet come off the ground. His neck is close. So close to your lips. Somehow you avoid opening your mouth. You slam him to the singed circle of grass he's created, and stand up. You beat here and there at your clothes, where the simple grey material is smouldering.
It's a long few seconds more before he catches his breath and stands up. Anira blinks. "To-to the floor it is. It's Ragara Ptheno's defeat." The crowd cheers just as loudly as they would have if he had won, but the fire aspect sets his jaw and pointedly doesn't directly glare at either of you fellow Triumvirs. He stalks off.
The party kicks back up: some people leave, as it's late enough for that to be polite. Others seek out food, companionship, or someone to jaw about the fight with. Servants start cleaning up.
You aren't really eager for any more talk, and apart from a few quick congratulations, people seem to understand this and leave you be.
Only one doesn't.
Solace Through the Night approaches you. "Good fight, Triumvir," she says. You make a non-committal noise. She tilts the hat up further, and considers your face. "You're bleeding from your forehead, though," she adds, hooking a thumb at the same spot on herself.
With a sudden guilty reaction, you slap a hand over the offending space. That's where Ptheno hit you, yes, but it's also where your Wretched caste mark would appear. "It's fine," you say, gruffly. "It's nothing."
Solace considers this. She's no Immaculate, you tell yourself. Even if the mark were there, it certainly wouldn't be something she'd recognize fully. They're supposed to be relatively subtle unless the Anathema truly exerts himself. Eventually, Solace shrugs. "Well, regardless. It was a good show, and I'm looking forward to doing business with the Golden Triumvirate. I hope we can come to a mutually profitable arrangement in the coming days."
You make your escape from the party as quickly as you can after that. You have places to be.
Being an Exalt certainly hasn't done anything positive for your sleep schedule. You were up all night last night, stumbling around, climbing up wagon ramps, and otherwise not resting. You had a nap before Anira's party, but things ran relatively late there.
It's not affecting you much, which is nice, but you're not totally sure how far that resistance will stretch. It can't be indefinite, since attacking Anathema when they're asleep is a handy tactic for the Wyld Hunt.
These sorts of thoughts are significantly less distressing than the rest of what you could be thinking about: namely, that you're slipping out from the Lap again, this time more intentionally and less being-thrown-out-of-the-sky, but are on your way to meet with some unknown but powerful being who claimed you as their own, with no defense but a single jade skycutter.
The Lap is not completely impossible to climb, and the beckoning in your head that you're following tells you that you're headed out beyond it. The Lap's lands expand well beyond the statue itself: farms, vineyards, ranches, orchards and more sprawl out across the relatively fertile soil near the statue before disappearing into the savannahs and scrublands of the South.
You briefly toy with just climbing down, but the many hundreds of feet between you and the ground is more than you want to bother with when you don't have to. After a moment staring down the seemingly endless black depths at the edge, you turn and walk alongside it. The drilled-in wagon paths are not the only ways up and down, just the main ones. There's also simple elevators all along the Hem. You walk along the edge until you find one with an operator.
The operator is a thirty-something indentured servant, who is probably serving here as a slap on the wrist for something he fouled up on in his day job. The operator scrambles to his feet as you approach. He's just a farmer, not a military man, but after a moment of squinting and comparing the face he sees to propaganda posters he attempts to fire off a salute. "At ease," you say, with a calming gesture.
"Sir! Um, Prince-Triu-my lord?" He looks guilty. It's possible he's not here directly as punishment, but instead as part of some smuggling operation; you mentally weigh it up and mark that as 'possible, but not probable'. There's always a bit of that, and it's not worth chasing down every tiny case of corruption. There's easier ways to get your bribes. "Can I help you?" he finally manages to get out.
"A ride down."
"This late?" You arch an eyebrow at him. Mortal humans shouldn't question Dragon-Blooded. "Right! Of course!" Let him think whatever he wants; he's not going to try to dump you off, so let him dream up whatever he needs to in order to make his lonely shift less dull.
Clever use of weights and winches mean that these elevators are relatively easy to operate; a single goat hitched to things and going in a circle is all that's needed for the operator to get your descent started. The actual ride is squeaky and long and heart-stopping with every sway and also incredibly boring given that it's completely dark on a near-moonless night. It's hard to even measure time during that descent.
You exit the elevator platform at the ground and keep going. The night is near-silent around you as you pad along, the same internal sense still directing you as surely as any compass. Little barracks for the indentured, the occasional house for those who've worked their thirty years, and the infrequent meeting house for either travelers or various functions all disappear behind you as you head along.
Before you know it, you're not too far from where you first woke as an Exalt. There's a graveyard not far from there, only a quarter-mile or so along a smaller path. You take it.
The graveyard turns out to be mostly just dull. Graveyards usually are. It's a comforting kind of dull, but nothing more. You find yourself pulled further. You pass through the graveyard, to a little triangle of trees in a little hollow just beyond it. This feels different. You have no idea what happened here, but something clearly did. The world is thin here. The branches outside the triangle look fine. They're thick and full and would probably be green were there enough light to see them.
Within the triangle is different. The branches immediately knot up, and there's no grass here, though the few leaves that remain are small and shriveled and unable to block sunlight. This is clearly where your senses had been carrying you.
A figure detaches itself from a still vigil in the shade of one of the trees. It's still within the triangle. It is a stocky figure, but a passing moonbeam reveals details best left hidden: a grinning, skeletal head atop the rich, dark purples of its outfit. A palpable aura of power surrounds it.
It's a nephwrack, one of the most powerful types of undead, one skilled in wielding advanced necromantic power itself. Mortal thaumaturges versed in anti-undead arts would be swept aside should they challenge it, and even Dragon-Blooded would not engage such a foe lightly.
This nephwrack, however, offers you a polite bow, one meant for a peer. He opens his jaw, and a thin, reedy voice floats out. "Fellow servant," he says. "I greet you. I am Tesklore, servant of the great Deathlord by strength of our master's necromancy."
You stop. You're not totally sure how to address this situation. Somehow, it was never covered in your standard etiquette classes.
Tesklore takes no offense. "The great Deathlord is, regrettably, unable to meet you in person, but I shall serve as a conduit so you can speak." Tesklore raises his hands, and a dark energy gathers. It's the first time you've actually seen necromancy worked in person. It looks much like sorcery: gathering ambient energy and shaping the effect, weaving it almost like a garment. You stand politely until Tesklore releases the energy.
Instantly, Tesklore almost collapses. He would have fallen to the ground, but immaterial dark threads hold him aloft at wrist, elbows, and back of neck, like a puppet. These slowly work Tesklore into an upright configuration again.
After a moment, Tesklore shudders, and his posture smooths out again. It is clearly not the same mind as before, as the nephwrack stands completely differently. A glimmer of ancient intelligence peers at you from empty eye sockets: the Deathlord is here.
The Deathlord you swore yourself to.
[]Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers
Also known as the Black Heron, this Deathlord challenged the gods of Great Forks and was driven back by some mighty working of theirs. Whispers say she was punished for her failure (though not what could levy such punishment), and that she grows desperate now.
[] The Bishop of the Chalcedony Thurible
A theologian of death and oblivion, the Bishop seeks to convince the world to embrace the void through cunning argument alone. Rumors are that he only empowers those already devoted to his philosophy, which notably does not include you. What has changed to bring him here?
[] The Lonely Waif of Cooling Embers
A Deathlord all but unknown to Creation, the Waif is conjectured to have a deep understanding of ancient Anathema lore and their poisonous devices. Any actions she has taken in the living world have passed without notice, but other sources of information among the dead mention her in passing.
Not a vote, but this is the first time our protagonist may get referred to by an Abyssal name. I am looking for write-ins for what his name may be. I'll take any that appeal to me.
[] Yes. You'll follow your senses and find the meeting place late at night.
There are two priorities you have here, you decide. The first one is keeping your nature hidden. You can't very well maintain your place here if you stand revealed as Anathema. As long as you're careful, though, it shouldn't be impossible to just qualify as "a slightly odd Dragon-Blood".
Your second priority is laying Ragara Ptheno out flat. Dozens of little petty cruelties, aimed at you or not, float up through your memory. Nothing wrong with taking a little revenge there.
You raise your hands in a ready position. Ptheno sees this and sneers slightly. He slams his knuckles together, and a slight curl of fire surrounds his fists. It would be hard to see in the daylight, but in the low light here it makes a striking effect. The watches cheer as the two of you circle each other. This is exactly the sort of theater they don't normally get to see.
Distantly, you see Anira's lips thin as she looks at Ptheno. He's flouting the rules she established by bringing that sort of fire into the match. She can't very well call the fight on a technical foul, though: it would only disappoint her guests and make the whole Triumvirate look weaker.
As if he has become a hammer, Ptheno comes at you again, throwing a series of jabs. You duck and weave as you consider. You can't easily deflect his blows here; they will absolutely burn you if you try to grapple with him, even if you just try a slapping parry. "Stand still!" he commands.
He over commits, and you duck under, slamming the heel of your hand against his rib cage as you dart past his left. He gives a deep whuff noise, but he can at least take a punch. Still, that round clearly you won. You offer him a grin. "Just catch the wind and I will."
The crowd cheers again. They're only cheering you because you look like you're winning, but that's still enough to incense Ptheno further. Neither you nor Ptheno are experts at unarmed combat: he is more a swordsman and you are more focused around your throwing arm. Still, he clearly feels certain that he should be winning this. That's the stereotype, after all: those graced by the dragons earlier in life are the result of stronger and purer bloodlines and lineage.
You take the offense, focusing on lower kicks, aiming to knock his knees and thighs out. The power he's using can make his feet blaze just as easily, so you can't aim too low. Ptheno backs away, and you press harder. Just as you're about to land a solid hit, Ptheno suddenly blazes like a forge's fire. His anima burns freely, surrounding his whole body with an image of swords being hammered on anvils.
Forced to pull your kick and flinch back from that inferno, you can't completely wiggle free, and Ptheno's right elbow comes down hard on your forehead.
He's close, now, trusting in the power of flames to be sufficient to overwhelm you in a wrestling match.
He's wrong.
Graveyard chills run through you, allowing at least some match to his fire. You grab here and here, places that feel natural and suddenly your arms are pinning his. You lift, and his feet come off the ground. His neck is close. So close to your lips. Somehow you avoid opening your mouth. You slam him to the singed circle of grass he's created, and stand up. You beat here and there at your clothes, where the simple grey material is smouldering.
It's a long few seconds more before he catches his breath and stands up. Anira blinks. "To-to the floor it is. It's Ragara Ptheno's defeat." The crowd cheers just as loudly as they would have if he had won, but the fire aspect sets his jaw and pointedly doesn't directly glare at either of you fellow Triumvirs. He stalks off.
The party kicks back up: some people leave, as it's late enough for that to be polite. Others seek out food, companionship, or someone to jaw about the fight with. Servants start cleaning up.
You aren't really eager for any more talk, and apart from a few quick congratulations, people seem to understand this and leave you be.
Only one doesn't.
Solace Through the Night approaches you. "Good fight, Triumvir," she says. You make a non-committal noise. She tilts the hat up further, and considers your face. "You're bleeding from your forehead, though," she adds, hooking a thumb at the same spot on herself.
With a sudden guilty reaction, you slap a hand over the offending space. That's where Ptheno hit you, yes, but it's also where your Wretched caste mark would appear. "It's fine," you say, gruffly. "It's nothing."
Solace considers this. She's no Immaculate, you tell yourself. Even if the mark were there, it certainly wouldn't be something she'd recognize fully. They're supposed to be relatively subtle unless the Anathema truly exerts himself. Eventually, Solace shrugs. "Well, regardless. It was a good show, and I'm looking forward to doing business with the Golden Triumvirate. I hope we can come to a mutually profitable arrangement in the coming days."
You make your escape from the party as quickly as you can after that. You have places to be.
* * *
Being an Exalt certainly hasn't done anything positive for your sleep schedule. You were up all night last night, stumbling around, climbing up wagon ramps, and otherwise not resting. You had a nap before Anira's party, but things ran relatively late there.
It's not affecting you much, which is nice, but you're not totally sure how far that resistance will stretch. It can't be indefinite, since attacking Anathema when they're asleep is a handy tactic for the Wyld Hunt.
These sorts of thoughts are significantly less distressing than the rest of what you could be thinking about: namely, that you're slipping out from the Lap again, this time more intentionally and less being-thrown-out-of-the-sky, but are on your way to meet with some unknown but powerful being who claimed you as their own, with no defense but a single jade skycutter.
The Lap is not completely impossible to climb, and the beckoning in your head that you're following tells you that you're headed out beyond it. The Lap's lands expand well beyond the statue itself: farms, vineyards, ranches, orchards and more sprawl out across the relatively fertile soil near the statue before disappearing into the savannahs and scrublands of the South.
You briefly toy with just climbing down, but the many hundreds of feet between you and the ground is more than you want to bother with when you don't have to. After a moment staring down the seemingly endless black depths at the edge, you turn and walk alongside it. The drilled-in wagon paths are not the only ways up and down, just the main ones. There's also simple elevators all along the Hem. You walk along the edge until you find one with an operator.
The operator is a thirty-something indentured servant, who is probably serving here as a slap on the wrist for something he fouled up on in his day job. The operator scrambles to his feet as you approach. He's just a farmer, not a military man, but after a moment of squinting and comparing the face he sees to propaganda posters he attempts to fire off a salute. "At ease," you say, with a calming gesture.
"Sir! Um, Prince-Triu-my lord?" He looks guilty. It's possible he's not here directly as punishment, but instead as part of some smuggling operation; you mentally weigh it up and mark that as 'possible, but not probable'. There's always a bit of that, and it's not worth chasing down every tiny case of corruption. There's easier ways to get your bribes. "Can I help you?" he finally manages to get out.
"A ride down."
"This late?" You arch an eyebrow at him. Mortal humans shouldn't question Dragon-Blooded. "Right! Of course!" Let him think whatever he wants; he's not going to try to dump you off, so let him dream up whatever he needs to in order to make his lonely shift less dull.
Clever use of weights and winches mean that these elevators are relatively easy to operate; a single goat hitched to things and going in a circle is all that's needed for the operator to get your descent started. The actual ride is squeaky and long and heart-stopping with every sway and also incredibly boring given that it's completely dark on a near-moonless night. It's hard to even measure time during that descent.
You exit the elevator platform at the ground and keep going. The night is near-silent around you as you pad along, the same internal sense still directing you as surely as any compass. Little barracks for the indentured, the occasional house for those who've worked their thirty years, and the infrequent meeting house for either travelers or various functions all disappear behind you as you head along.
Before you know it, you're not too far from where you first woke as an Exalt. There's a graveyard not far from there, only a quarter-mile or so along a smaller path. You take it.
The graveyard turns out to be mostly just dull. Graveyards usually are. It's a comforting kind of dull, but nothing more. You find yourself pulled further. You pass through the graveyard, to a little triangle of trees in a little hollow just beyond it. This feels different. You have no idea what happened here, but something clearly did. The world is thin here. The branches outside the triangle look fine. They're thick and full and would probably be green were there enough light to see them.
Within the triangle is different. The branches immediately knot up, and there's no grass here, though the few leaves that remain are small and shriveled and unable to block sunlight. This is clearly where your senses had been carrying you.
A figure detaches itself from a still vigil in the shade of one of the trees. It's still within the triangle. It is a stocky figure, but a passing moonbeam reveals details best left hidden: a grinning, skeletal head atop the rich, dark purples of its outfit. A palpable aura of power surrounds it.
It's a nephwrack, one of the most powerful types of undead, one skilled in wielding advanced necromantic power itself. Mortal thaumaturges versed in anti-undead arts would be swept aside should they challenge it, and even Dragon-Blooded would not engage such a foe lightly.
This nephwrack, however, offers you a polite bow, one meant for a peer. He opens his jaw, and a thin, reedy voice floats out. "Fellow servant," he says. "I greet you. I am Tesklore, servant of the great Deathlord by strength of our master's necromancy."
You stop. You're not totally sure how to address this situation. Somehow, it was never covered in your standard etiquette classes.
Tesklore takes no offense. "The great Deathlord is, regrettably, unable to meet you in person, but I shall serve as a conduit so you can speak." Tesklore raises his hands, and a dark energy gathers. It's the first time you've actually seen necromancy worked in person. It looks much like sorcery: gathering ambient energy and shaping the effect, weaving it almost like a garment. You stand politely until Tesklore releases the energy.
Instantly, Tesklore almost collapses. He would have fallen to the ground, but immaterial dark threads hold him aloft at wrist, elbows, and back of neck, like a puppet. These slowly work Tesklore into an upright configuration again.
After a moment, Tesklore shudders, and his posture smooths out again. It is clearly not the same mind as before, as the nephwrack stands completely differently. A glimmer of ancient intelligence peers at you from empty eye sockets: the Deathlord is here.
The Deathlord you swore yourself to.
[]Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers
Also known as the Black Heron, this Deathlord challenged the gods of Great Forks and was driven back by some mighty working of theirs. Whispers say she was punished for her failure (though not what could levy such punishment), and that she grows desperate now.
[] The Bishop of the Chalcedony Thurible
A theologian of death and oblivion, the Bishop seeks to convince the world to embrace the void through cunning argument alone. Rumors are that he only empowers those already devoted to his philosophy, which notably does not include you. What has changed to bring him here?
[] The Lonely Waif of Cooling Embers
A Deathlord all but unknown to Creation, the Waif is conjectured to have a deep understanding of ancient Anathema lore and their poisonous devices. Any actions she has taken in the living world have passed without notice, but other sources of information among the dead mention her in passing.
Not a vote, but this is the first time our protagonist may get referred to by an Abyssal name. I am looking for write-ins for what his name may be. I'll take any that appeal to me.
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- Location
- Vermont
[X]Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers
Also known as the Black Heron, this Deathlord challenged the gods of Great Forks and was driven back by some mighty working of theirs. Whispers say she was punished for her failure (though not what could levy such punishment), and that she grows desperate now.
Princess Magnificent, the deathlord who would very much like to stab her bosses wherever she can. I'm very curious how she has abyssals in this setting, and what she wants to do with them.
As for a name? Castoff of the Rotted Blood's Lineage.
Also known as the Black Heron, this Deathlord challenged the gods of Great Forks and was driven back by some mighty working of theirs. Whispers say she was punished for her failure (though not what could levy such punishment), and that she grows desperate now.
Princess Magnificent, the deathlord who would very much like to stab her bosses wherever she can. I'm very curious how she has abyssals in this setting, and what she wants to do with them.
As for a name? Castoff of the Rotted Blood's Lineage.
- Location
- Bed
[X]Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers
Why? Because any chance to beat up the First and Forsaken Lion is a chance that should be taken.
As for a name, how about something a bit subtle? Vessel of the Mourning's Light Unyielding
(Yes this is a direct jab at the Unconquered Sun, we're a Day caste after all)
Why? Because any chance to beat up the First and Forsaken Lion is a chance that should be taken.
As for a name, how about something a bit subtle? Vessel of the Mourning's Light Unyielding
(Yes this is a direct jab at the Unconquered Sun, we're a Day caste after all)
- Location
- St. Petersburg
[x] The Lonely Waif of Cooling Embers
I don't know a lot about the setting, so from the description the Bishop and the Waif appeal to me. The first one because we represent some kind of exception to his philosophy, and the second... is she an original character? I can't find anything on her in the wiki.
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Princess Magnificent with Lips of Coral and Robes of Black Feathers
I am 100% onboard with being thrust into an ancient power struggle we know nothing about, in a position worse than we have any way of understanding.
Princess Magnificent With Lips Of Coral And Robes Of Bla - Exalted 3e
It's easier if you just plug her name into Google.
I am 100% onboard with being thrust into an ancient power struggle we know nothing about, in a position worse than we have any way of understanding.
Princess Magnificent With Lips Of Coral And Robes Of Bla - Exalted 3e
It's easier if you just plug her name into Google.
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- Pronouns
- They/Them
Fixing the typo.
And, yes, the Waif is original. She would fit into a role that none of the canon Deathlords do (according to 2nd edition lore there's 13 Deathlords and 9 are written up); it's just a different type of tie for our protagonist.
- Location
- Philippines
[X] The Lonely Waif of Cooling Embers