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HELLSTRIDER: An Exalted Quest

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[X] You grew up tending to the panoply of Zsofika, The Kite Flute, the Messenger Soul Of The Prince Upon The Tower.
 
Looks like the vote is neck and neck, so I will keep it open for a bit longer - but I do intend to close it today and to move to writing the next update.
 
Gargulec said:
While I, by no means, wish to dissuade anyone from voting for Mara, I want to stress that the MC of this quest is a demon-blood. She has learned many tricks from her demon patron, and inherited much of her nature, but martial arts are unlikely to feature as an asset she wields. However, Black Claw's philosophy is another matter entirely...
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ahem

black claw metaphor quest black claw metaphor quest black claw m-
 
[X] You grew up as a forge hand of Alveua, the Keeper of the Forge of Night, the Expressive Soul of That Which Calls To The Shadow.

Combine Necrotech with Demoncraft.
 
[X] You grew up as a doted-on handmaid of Mara, The Shadow Lover, the Defining Soul of That Which Calls To The Shadow.
 
[X] You grew up as a forge hand of Alveua, the Keeper of the Forge of Night, the Expressive Soul of That Which Calls To The Shadow.
 
[X] You grew up tending to the panoply of Zsofika, The Kite Flute, the Messenger Soul Of The Prince Upon The Tower.
 
[X] You grew up as a doted-on handmaid of Mara, The Shadow Lover, the Defining Soul of That Which Calls To The Shadow.
 
[X] You grew up tending to the panoply of Zsofika, The Kite Flute, the Messenger Soul Of The Prince Upon The Tower.
I actually like Alveua a little better, but it looks like it's her or Mara, and I don't want Mara.
 
[x] You grew up tending to the panoply of Zsofika, The Kite Flute, the Messenger Soul Of The Prince Upon The Tower.
 
[X] You grew up as a doted-on handmaid of Mara, The Shadow Lover, the Defining Soul of That Which Calls To The Shadow.
 
Okay, I will hold the vote open for 30 minutes more.

In the interest of helping people decide between the two leading options, I will provide some clues as to themes promised by Mara and Zsofika:

Mara:

Zsofika:


I hope this is helpful.
 
I know neither of these novels so this doesn't tell me much but I'm sure both will be very fun to read about.
 
The vote is now closed.

Zsofika and Mara come in perfectly tied. I could toss a coin, or wait for someone to break the vote, but on further consideration, I will instead make the call personally: I believe the hook I have planned for Mara is stronger and more distinctive than the one for Zsofika, no matter how much I love the Kite Flute as a character.

Mara, The Shadow Lover, the Defining Soul of That Which Calls To The Shadow wins.

Update tomorrow or Sunday.
 
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AT THE VERY BEGINNING 2
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    • [X] You grew up as a doted-on handmaid of Mara, The Shadow Lover, the Defining Soul of That Which Calls To The Shadow.
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    The sorceries taught by the Shadow Lover feed off shadows and unrequited desires. Under the harsh light of the traitor Sun, there is little of the former for you to grasp and sculpt, and you don't expect to find much of the latter around, either. Just to make sure, you flick your serpentine tongue at the air, only to taste in it a hint of the coppery tang of raw want. You cover your mouth to hide your shock—and to let no one notice your smile.

    "I have them," Eshra produces a familiar silver-wood case from the folds of her robes. "If they are the tools in question."

    "Precisely them, lady steward."

    The honorific burdens your voice with obeisant fear. You bow, contrite and ready to serve. When she handles you the case, you fleetingly brush your fingers against hers, the gesture brief enough to come across as nothing but an accident of touch—one she neither shies away from, nor tries to extend. Your probe is met with indifference, not desire. There is something galvanic about the implication that leaves.

    An engraving of a pillar wrapped in chains adorns the lid of the case. You flip it open, making sure to hold the oblong box between you and the Dragon-Blooded general. Four long needles rest in their grooves inside, their polished surface opalescent under the brightness of the day. When you wave your hand above them, they follow it on their own, locking into an orbit around your hand, stabbing at the air. You guide them around, waiting for Lynx's attention to catch—and when it unavoidably does, with a flick of your wrist you send them up, so that the Dragon-Blood sees through them and straight into your eyes.

    When you were initiated into sorcery, it was through a harrowing of shadows; at the end, you were reduced to sobbing uncontrollably in Mara's confident embrace. The Shadow Lover didn't try to console you with empty words; instead, she held a mirror to your face, so that for the first time you could see the badge of your power in the whirlpool stare of Peacock Shadow Eyes, studded with flakes of red, green, and silver all flickering like Malfeas' bashful stars.

    Immediately, you look down and away, as a good servant should, but not before getting a glimpse of the Dragon-Blood's face contorting into an expression of revulsion too stiff not to be masking shame. Gold trails your needles where they have caught strands of Lynx's lust. With it, you draw a wire-frame outline of a celestial skiff, ready to be filled out with cloudstuff.

    It's a slow work, rendered all the more drudging by how unfamiliar you are with the Essence you work with. But it only keeps your hands busy; you hum to yourself a heranhel work-song, and let your mind wander. Is Lynx conscious of what you drew from her? Or is she one of those who refuse to acknowledge how close desire falls to disgust? If only you had your patron's charms, that split hearts open to find what people conceal from themselves.

    "All ready," you announce, seating your needles back in their box.

    The Exigent tests the cloud deck apprehensively, visibly distraught when her feet sink half an inch into the cloud-stuff before coming to stop. The general, meanwhile, lacks any such doubts; she confidently steps inside, seating herself at the prow, her red jade blade stuffed between her knees. Eshra follows suit, sitting down behind the Dragon-Blood; you squeeze in last, at the rudder, with barely enough room left for your legs. A brief sense of shared appreciation of just how unpleasant the trip is going to be settles on you all. Still, you can't help but to be glad to leave this fortress behind.

    "Let's get it over with," Lynx calls, and you follow.

    Throwing down the milky-white moorings, you release the skiff and let it ascend high into the air, to hide in the scant flocks of clouds above. Passing through them and feeling water condense on your skin without even the slightest sting of acid burn, in itself, a queer feeling. Then, you break through the clouds again and emerge into a sky flooded with sunlight, and chilled by wind. Though you have gotten closer to the traitor Sun, he does not reward you with warmth.

    You peek overboard, the horizon endlessly open and impossibly far away. How should you even feel against such unbounded vastness? The words of an old prayer run through your mouth; you press two fingers to the red spot in the crook of your tattoo. And cursed be those who collapsed your infinities, and cursed be those who closed your world. It's not a metaphor, you realize, and you are so very far from home.

    All the worse, then, is the silence, interrupted solely by the whistling wind. Such a journey should have an angylakae or a fulope, or any other musician-demon who could fill time and space with music, to blunt this emptiness' edge. You shiver, and you are not sure if it is cold, fear, or awe.

    The two Chosen, meanwhile, are unperturbed. Apparently neither the void, nor the quiet moves them much. There are tears welling Eshra's eyes, but they don't come, you think, from the crushing sense of being alone under the bottomless sky. No, she cries at the slow roll of massacred land below, and worse yet, swallows her grief instead of howling it out to the world. You don't know if to be repulsed, or sympathetic.

    "Would it please you, lady steward, if I were to sing?" you offer, for your own sake as much as for hers.

    In response, Lynx spits a thick gobbet of saliva overboard.

    "Tell her to keep her Anathema chants to herself," she grunts, studiously avoiding looking at you.

    The Chosen of Locked Tombs shrugs; the patchwork of black and green you pass over engrosses her completely, and she says nothing. As for you, the frigid air slowly cures you out of the existential fear of falling into the sky's infinity. Instead, you grow to envy your passengers, who seem better prepared for this baffling weather. Eshra, wrapped in her robes, seems insulated, and you have no doubt that the Dragon-Blood's fiery Essence shields her even better. You are left trying to wrap yourself tighter in your prison rags, thinking longingly back to the wardrobe you've left behind in Mara's palace-manse.

    Some time later, once you have cleared the siege, the stretch of the Land of Repose below only sparingly marked by war, Lynx finally decides to break the silence.

    "I don't think we're being followed," she declares.

    "A hopeful assumption," Eshra wipes her face; for some time now, she's been watching the horizon, instead of the ground below. "Perhaps even naive."

    The Dragon-Blood sighs ruefully and attempts to shift to a more comfortable position, managing to bump an elbow into the Exigent's stomach. It's hard to say whether it is accidental, or childish; in any case, Eshra makes a point of not gracing it with a reaction—at least not immediately. She gives it a few moments of listlessly watching a feathery cloud pass you by.

    "You are aware of the fact that she is not an Anathema?" she asks suddenly, pointing at you.

    The Dragon-Blood furrows her remaining brow, glancing at Eshra with a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

    "She is demon-descended, not demon-possesed," Eshra continues lightly, not matching the Dragon-Blood's stare. "It's a subtle distinction, yes, but absolutely crucial, when it comes to the Immaculate."

    "Oh," Lynx chortles out an unpleasant laugh, "you're an Immaculate now?"

    "I may not believe in the Immaculate Dragons," the steward of the Land of Repose waves dismissively, golden bracelets clinking high notes as she does. "But I believe in my duty, and it is to be closely familiar with the religion of women threatening to rob my land. So yes, I am closely familiar with the Immaculate Texts."

    The pause she makes is not to give the conversation room to breathe. It is to suggest a very loud 'clearly more than you are' to Lynx, who just rolls her eyes, her hand making a very rude and rather explicit gesture in Eshra's direction. You look away from them, putting on the appearance of a servant trying not to listen on to her masters' argument. Which is to say that you are catching every word, finally getting a good measure of the two.

    "To clarify, according to your religion, an Anathema is specifically a mortal who has been possessed by a demonic force," undeterred, the Chosen of Locked Tombs continues, tone viciously disaffected. "While it is common among the uneducated to apply this term more broadly, say to anything remotely associated with the matters of Hell, this is inappropriate. I repeat: this woman has only been sired for a demon, and though this should for you imply a failure of virtue in her previous life, an Immaculate should begrudge her for that. Only for her grave-robbing habits, instead."

    To your surprise, Lynx listens to the entire lecture with nothing more than a slight grimace on her face, fingers picking boredly through the half-solid cloudstuff of the cirrus skiff. But you think it is a pose, and that she is more fragile than she would have others think. Again, the comparison with Octavian makes itself.

    "Your point?" she sighs, sounding more tired than annoyed.

    "My point," Eshra straightens, arms folded across her chest, "is that you shouldn't have hit her. Or called her an Anathema just because she was praying."

    "To demons," Lynx states without heat.

    "And said Sextes Jylis unto the overzealous: nurture misaimed piety, for its crop may yet be virtue," Eshra responds with an unpleasant smile. "It's from the Fifth Verdant Scroll. You know, that Immaculate Text."

    The reaction is a slight, but unmistakable flinch. Sure, you lack some context necessary to measure the full extent of the impact here—it would help to know what this Immaculate thing is all about—but you have seen enough. No matter how good Lynx is at holding herself steady, you have to give this exchange to Eshra. It struck a sore point.

    "Never heard of it," when the Dragon-Blood speaks, her voice is dry. She exhales and runs a hand through her hair, picking out a clump of dried blood and flicking it the ground far below.

    "I am unsurprised."

    And now, she is getting too catty. She had the general humiliated already, and still decided to push on harder, assuming the blow to have been more devastating than it actually was. In your experiences, this is usually an overextension.

    "Look not for a petal," Lynx recites after a pause, voice distant, maybe even wistful, "but for a flower. Admire not a star, but the whole sky."

    You fight your curiosity not to try to glance at Eshra to see how she looks at Lynx. The correct move would be to refuse to engage, but that would require a measure of respect for her opponent she clearly lacks.

    "Have I wounded your Realm pride so much," the Chosen of Locked Tombs gloats, taking the obvious bait, "that you now feel compelled to show that you can quote poets at me?"

    You wince.

    "So you are familiar."

    The Dragon-Blood lets her voice hang, and you can already tell how the conversation will develop from this point on. You stifle a sight, thinking back to one of Mara's first lessons: never show that you are wanting. Including, of course, for answers.

    "Oh yes," Eshra rasps. "But do explain."

    "If you insist. What I meant by it is fuck you. You don't know jack shit about religion or piety, you crypt-dwelling ghoul."

    Now this—this you really like. The flat, exhausted delivery works very well, especially without having it come immediately in response to Eshra's insult. However hurt Lynx was, she managed to not give her opponent the satisfaction of having riled her up, while still hitting back. Perhaps you have underestimated her.

    "What?" the Chosen of Locked Tomb spits back, visibly stumbling.

    "Literally the same thing you said to me, only actually to the point," Lynx shrugs.

    They break up the argument there, regretfully returning to the sulking silence. But you can't say it wasn't an illuminating exchange. The Dragon-Blood's rough shell holds something very tender inside, a vulnerability she probably isn't even aware how obvious it is. And as for Eshra, you were probably too quick in thinking of her as being cast in the mold of Lucien. Perhaps the old Whim-of-the-Wind would be a better comparison, evincing a similar mix of erudition and ego-driven arrogance. The kind of a woman you only ever want to stand to the side of, as Mara would have it.

    Honestly, you can work with that.

    Thankfully, the quiet doesn't last all that long again, as your passengers prove themselves no less immune to boredom than you are.

    "So, she says she can sing?" Lynx asks, continuing to avoid as much as looking at you.

    "You can ask her yourself," Eshra's response comes out with another annoyed wave of her hand.

    You bow your head, presenting yourself in expectation. The Dragon-Blood hesitates for a short moment.

    "Sing something," she barks.

    "As you wish, general," you take a wild guess at how best to address it.

    "I didn't ask you to talk," Lynx proves your assumption wrong.

    Her tone is so unduly barbed that you have to gulp down a chuckle. Does Eshra notice? Still, you can't be too unhappy about this particular command. You haven't had an opportunity to exercise your voice in some time.

    "No blasphemies," the Dragon-Blood adds. "And you shut up when I tell you to."

    Given how you are not fully clear on what she would consider blasphemous, you quickly discard most of your favorite repertoire and settle on the safest choice that comes to your mind, and intone the first line of a desert shanty. It's a flat and monotonous song, barely rising above the level of a low drone; you've learned from the baidak crew of the red-glass ship that took you across the silver waste of Cecelyne. Like the soul-flensed shells of men who fell to Sigreth, the song is not very much, but it is easy on your voice, and inoffensive to any ear. And besides, it drags on forever.

    Unfortunately, it also is hardly among your best performances; you were always more given to bedroom songs, and to give those shanties justice, you'd have to have more than your own throat and slight voice. Gratefully, however, your passengers have seemingly no aural skills at all, or at least no point of comparison. Your song follows your cloudscape journey, trailing into the fading day; Lynx doesn't interrupt, and so you happily sing until your voice tires out.

    "I didn't tell her to stop," the Dragon-Blood rewards you by addressing Eshra instead, again.

    A quick cough comes in useful both to stress just how exhausted your throat is, but also to mask another chuckle. Frankly, you think there is something delightful about this woman; your tongue flicks, and as expected, finds the air thick with the copper and brass of her frustrated desire.

    "Honestly, where did you even find her?" she asks a moment later.

    "In a tomb. While she was robbing it," Eshra grunts.

    "Well, yes, but why?"

    "Ask her."

    Again, there is a tentative pause before the Dragon-Blood decides to address you, as if she was battling it out with her thoughts.

    "You," and again, she makes sure to use a voice that's nothing but edges and barbs. "Why?"

    Briefly, you entertain the idea of making something up, some sort of a wild tale that would only sharpen her appetite for you. But it's a stupid risk, especially against a Chosen whose powers are broadly unknown to you.

    "I was following a vision, general," you admit. "There is something in this land that haunts my dreams. Something…"

    Article:
    Whatever the visions are, they relate to a machine that will soon become central to this quest, and to the demon-blooded sorceress' ancestry. Their full meaning is not clear, and may not become so for a time to come.

    Treat it as a vote for the aesthetics of power that this Quest will focus on, though not the exact nature of those powers.

    [ ] …beatific.
    A serene face bathed in angelic light. White wings and insignia of kingship. Hymns of praise. Seas of fire. Glory that burns. Something dimly lights the way. Armor plated, hell to pay. Violent faith in better days. Alleluia. Everybody knows that I am great.

    Your name is Achamōth. You are descended from a demon belonging to the soul hierarchy of Cecelyne.

    [ ] …predatory.
    Gnashing of iron teeth. Rust devouring the root of the world. Burning eyes and the existence-as-abattoir. Seas of blood. Fury that burns. Caress a monolith. Shape shifting birthing hips. Cut up, cut out, cut in. It's meaningful if nothing's meant. But I'm coming around. I'm feeling okay. I'm changing the locks and I'm seeing: all futures, destruction.

    Your name is One-Hundred-Eight. You are descended from a demon belonging to the soul hierarchy of Malfeas.

    [ ] …otherworldly.
    Screaming glass. Focused light. Infinite recursion, countless reflections. Impossible symmetry lay bare the falsehood of the world. Seas of crystal. Understanding that drowns. End the fantasy. End reality. An all-consuming crash. Pre-ordained, programmed. The atrocities I've chosen, executed with my hands.

    Your name is Adamant Flame. You are descended from a demon belonging to the soul hierarchy of Oramus.
     
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    • Really all of these are cool. I might have to approval vote for one of the others if this gets left behind, but my immediate gut loyalty is clear.

    [X] …otherworldly.

    edit: adding an approval vote for my second fave just so it gets some love.

    [X] …predatory.
     
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