Sidestories, worldbuilding, short fiction, omakes and other works related to IQNF, the world of Never Full and Never Free.
IQNF Snippets, Short Fiction, and Static Side-Stories
- Thread starter Wicked Sanguine
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What Is This
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
Welcome to the Continent! This thread is where I'm storing all kinds of short fiction and worldbuilding as pertains to IQNF/"The Hungerverse," the setting of my runaway hits mildly slightly popular original quests, Never Full and Never Free! Finally you too can understand all of the oblique, vague references our awful bug children are constantly making! This thread was started to help me, Sang, do NaNo, but who knows what it'll become? I sure don't!
This thread is also where omakes and fanwork of this universe/its quests can be posted/shilled!
I will be posting here every day of November that I don't update Never Free or Never Full, so stay tuned for good(?) things to come all month.
If you like anything here, let me know, something might come of it! I might expand it, transport the elements into one of the quests, or just add another chapter in that saga!
This thread is also where omakes and fanwork of this universe/its quests can be posted/shilled!
I will be posting here every day of November that I don't update Never Free or Never Full, so stay tuned for good(?) things to come all month.
If you like anything here, let me know, something might come of it! I might expand it, transport the elements into one of the quests, or just add another chapter in that saga!
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The Stars Are Right
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
The Stars Are Right
Twelvestones, Ravening Coast, Starborn Protectorate of Nashax.
From the Ravening Coast to the Sunwall along the Confederate border, every citizen of Nashax knows that the Sea and the Stars watch over them, their chosen Wavewatchers and Stargazers working their will on the land and its inhabitants. And when your gods choose specific people to speak for them, why would you leave real authority in the hands of anyone else? While the laity may aspire to moderate military command or the cabinet of a real leader, everything from large military units to the stewardship of entire provinces or cities falls to a priest. Authority in the church is equivalent to authority over the affairs of the nation.
That passage from The Starborn Protectorate: Thoughts Upon Our Northern Neighbors passes through Hayeen's head as the Master of Ceremonies chants and cleanses the ritual knife. The foreign textbook is technically a heretical work, forbidden to good citizens, but priests are allowed to read all kinds of heresy, especially ones being groomed for the administrative track. So Hayeen knows more than the average citizen or even priest about what the outside world thinks of Nashax and its ways. And it worries them. The more they learn about the other nations on the Continent, the more they feel besieged, as if they'll be called to protect Twelvestones from invasion as soon as the ceremony concludes.
The Master coughs, giving Hayeen a Look visible even through his veil, and they come back to themselves with a start, hurriedly holding out their slender hand over the stone ritual bowl of seawater, reflecting the night sky above. The Master takes said hand, and asks the Question.
"You are seen by powers greater than you or I can ever aspire to, Aspirant Hayeen. The Sea and Stars watch you here in this place. Under their eyes, will you live to protect their possessions, to guide their chosen people, to use every drop of blood in your body to bring prosperity and protection to this city of Twelvestones or die in the attempt?"
"Under their all-seeing gaze I do so pledge to live," Hayeen replies, a faint tremble in their reedy voice, "until my skull meets the gaze of the stars and the salt of my blood joins that of the sea."
"This marks the pact so agreed," the Master intones, passing the blade across Hayeen's palm. Bright red blood joins the painted spirals of white that contrast against their dark brown skin, drizzling down from the thin, perfectly straight cut into the bowl of saltwater. The reflections of the stars grow pink, and the faint humming that's been echoing around the hilltop chapel grows higher and sharper.
"Complete your pact." the Master commands.
Hayeen nods and steels themselves before picking up the bowl and taking a deep drink, tasting so sharp and salty of blood and ritual reagents and the dark waters below. Half of the draught is swallowed, while the rest they swish around their mouth before putting the bowl down, wheeling their chair to the edge of the chapel, and spitting a perfect arc of the bloody water out over the edge of the cliff. The jet catches the starlight briefly, twinkling almost as bright as sunlight on a fountain's rim, before falling into the sea with a splash far bigger than that tiny mouthful warranted, and tension that had been seizing Hayeen's shoulders for months releases all at once. The Sea and Stars approved of her appointment.
The Master's face is impassive behind the veil, but her voice is smiling as she tells Hayeen,
"You are accepted. Rule in Their stead with grace and wisdom, Paraseer Hayeen, Stargazer Hayeen, Hayeen of Twelvestones."
Hayeen wheels around to face the master, and can't stop a huge grin from crossing their face.
"I thank you, and I thank the Stars and Sea. My only hope is to live up to the expectations laid upon me."
"We have faith you will," the Master smiles.
A Confirmation ritual takes place in the hours before midnight and dawn, and the sun is painting the bay in rose and gold by the time Hayeen's wheeled their way from the chapel to the rectory where they'd been staying in order to pick up their few possessions, and then from the rectory to the governor's seat. A teetering, gargoyle-encrusted manse of dark wood and travertine marble, topped with a towering crooked campanile and perched upon a cliffside across from the chapel on the other side of Twelvestones town, the governor's house provides a view of the city and bay paralleled only by the chapel. Rising in a great circle around the city and bay, with five rising from the waters of the bay itself, are the gigantic stone pillars that give the city its name, covered with reliefs and writing that predate the founding of the settlement. It's not a settlement of enormous economical or military importance, but the ritual significance of Twelvestones is immense, and the fact that the Two-Headed Priesthood selected Hayeen, 17 summers of age and having just assumed the rank of Paraseer all of two hours ago, to administrate it speaks to how high their expectations are for them and how good their reputation is so far. A hotshot rising star with good grades and glowing reports from all the priests that taught them could find no better trial by fire than a few seasons presiding over the administration of Twelvestones. Hayeen just hopes they can live up to the hype.
Paraseer Hayeen of the Order of Stargazers, dedicate priest of the Stars and newest administrator of the coastal city of Twelvestones in the Starborn Protectorate of Nashax, was born face-up with eyes open, and so was taken from her family after being weaned from the breast to be raised in the priesthood. She was a bright student, more eager to learn and to answer questions than to do almost anything else, overcoming legs withered since birth and poor vision requiring corrective spectacles to become what the priests considered a shining example of a child chosen by the stars. At 14 summers of age, she took the oaths to enter the Order of Stargazers and so cast aside gender in order to emulate the distant perfection of the Stars themselves. They continued to distinguish themselves as a scholar and student of politics, and were thus fast-tracked along the course to administration, their instructors considering it a waste to consign such a bright, clever mind to some nonpolitical role like scribing or that of an anchorite. Finally, at 17, after a grueling spring and summer full of tests and trials, they got to see in the autumn by being officially promoted to Paraseer. Now, they're faced with choosing their cabinet and beginning their administration of the city of Twelvestones. Success will open the rest of the doors available to the priesthood. Failure will result in, at best, becoming an anchorite or village priest, and at worst a chance to honorably give themselves to the sky and sea as an apology for failure. It's the most pressure they've ever been under.
But Hayeen has always thrived under pressure.
The governor's manse features, like all important Nashaxi buildings, an open-air courtyard built around a saltwater pool. Hayeen wheels their way into it through the serpent-carved gate, rucksack full of the few books, backup simple clothing, and trinkets that they can call their own, the ceremonial robes of copper-embroidered black silk and linen and the coronet of beaten starmetal and bone on their brow technically belonging to the priesthood, and the rest of their wardrobe waiting above in their quarters belonging to the city. Like all prosthetics, the wheelchair also belongs to them as much as their body does--not at all, as said body belongs, like Hayeen's mind and soul and skills, to the Stars, to be used at their discretion. Wicker-and-bone wheels clack gently over the flagstones as they maneuver into the courtyard to face the dozen candidates arranged for their perusal, from which they'll select their advising council of five for the duration of their first (and hopefully not last) term of office.
The process of picking cabinet members is that curious combination of "unutterably boring" and "inscrutably terrifying" that characterizes so many of the duties of a Nashaxi priest, especially one who's taken the governmental track as opposed to the scholastic tracks (though the ritual and militant paths of the priesthoods could give the government a run for their money, and arguing about whose job is hardest and therefore most important is what most of the conversation between these branches consists of). Hayeen takes several hours to choose between the candidates, who range from "amazingly laid-back" to "distressingly keen", even needing to break out the old bowl and knife to make a quick request to the Stars for help. Finally, they narrow it down to five, with themselves being understood as the religious voice and overall power of veto and final choice.
Hov as Voice of Defense. The old Erzan man with an animated mechanical arm is a veteran of both the army and the Dragon Corps, the force that protects Nashaxi civilization from monsters, and expert military engineer, and will be of vital use in protecting Twelvestones from physical threats.
Javen as Voice of Morale. This worryingly keen and fiery-eyed human woman is an expert investigator and mental operator, who will keep Twelvestones' morale up and ferret out dissent and heresy for Hayeen to deal with.
Ahmad as Voice of Harvest. Tall and handsome, with a jeweled prosthetic eyeball, this human man will be responsible for resource extraction from the sea, mines, and meager farms, keeping Twelvestones supplied with food, mineral wealth, and the various gifts of monster parts and meteors supplied by the Sea and Sky.
Ozhar as Voice of Metal. This squat Oriza with the bullet casings threaded onto their quills is responsible for commerce and trade, the economic health of Twelvestones, ensuring that the resources Ahmad shepherds are used to properly keep the city healthy and its coffers full.
Braganza as Voice of Stone. An immigrant from the far west, this beautiful human woman with her flamboyant purple clothing is responsible for civil engineering and keeping the city's utilities, structures, and services functional. She keeps the actual city's structure itself running.
Hayeen themselves is the Voice of Stars, the final word on any expenditure or action and the interpreter of the will of the Stars.
They pass out the ritual objects, the symbols of office, from the huge darkwood chest located inside the airy, hunting-trophy-bedecked foyer of the manse. The Voice of Defense's bronzewood macuahuitl edged with dragon teeth, the Voice of Morale's bronze mirror edged with onyxes and agates, the Voice of Harvest's kheferu sickle with salt crystals growing from its red blade, the Voice of Metal's necklace of coins from all Nashax's neighbors, strung with starmetal beads between each example of foreign currency, and the Voice of Stone's belt made from a chunk of bedrock, a chunk of travertine, a chunk of meteoric stone, and interlocking gears, all strung on hide cords. Hayeen themselves gets to wear a pectoral made of a hexagonal bronze plate set with starmetal, seabone and gemstone tiles, hung from a cord made from the sinew of the very first overseer of Twelvestones. Each cabinet member holds their symbol of office with a mixture of awe and solemnity, save for Hov, who holds it like one more burden, and Braganza, who holds it with well-disguised distaste for how heavy and garish it is.
Hayeen leads the new cabinet in prayer as the stars gradually fade into the dawn sky, a sign that they're leaving it in the young priest's hands for now, though they'll still watch from behind the blue. It's a simple ritual, barely an hour, praying for strength and guidance and to be struck down if they fail. At the end of it, Hayeen straightens up and rubs their hands together, bangles clattering.
"Alright! Let's get to work."
Twelvestones, Ravening Coast, Starborn Protectorate of Nashax.
From the Ravening Coast to the Sunwall along the Confederate border, every citizen of Nashax knows that the Sea and the Stars watch over them, their chosen Wavewatchers and Stargazers working their will on the land and its inhabitants. And when your gods choose specific people to speak for them, why would you leave real authority in the hands of anyone else? While the laity may aspire to moderate military command or the cabinet of a real leader, everything from large military units to the stewardship of entire provinces or cities falls to a priest. Authority in the church is equivalent to authority over the affairs of the nation.
That passage from The Starborn Protectorate: Thoughts Upon Our Northern Neighbors passes through Hayeen's head as the Master of Ceremonies chants and cleanses the ritual knife. The foreign textbook is technically a heretical work, forbidden to good citizens, but priests are allowed to read all kinds of heresy, especially ones being groomed for the administrative track. So Hayeen knows more than the average citizen or even priest about what the outside world thinks of Nashax and its ways. And it worries them. The more they learn about the other nations on the Continent, the more they feel besieged, as if they'll be called to protect Twelvestones from invasion as soon as the ceremony concludes.
The Master coughs, giving Hayeen a Look visible even through his veil, and they come back to themselves with a start, hurriedly holding out their slender hand over the stone ritual bowl of seawater, reflecting the night sky above. The Master takes said hand, and asks the Question.
"You are seen by powers greater than you or I can ever aspire to, Aspirant Hayeen. The Sea and Stars watch you here in this place. Under their eyes, will you live to protect their possessions, to guide their chosen people, to use every drop of blood in your body to bring prosperity and protection to this city of Twelvestones or die in the attempt?"
"Under their all-seeing gaze I do so pledge to live," Hayeen replies, a faint tremble in their reedy voice, "until my skull meets the gaze of the stars and the salt of my blood joins that of the sea."
"This marks the pact so agreed," the Master intones, passing the blade across Hayeen's palm. Bright red blood joins the painted spirals of white that contrast against their dark brown skin, drizzling down from the thin, perfectly straight cut into the bowl of saltwater. The reflections of the stars grow pink, and the faint humming that's been echoing around the hilltop chapel grows higher and sharper.
"Complete your pact." the Master commands.
Hayeen nods and steels themselves before picking up the bowl and taking a deep drink, tasting so sharp and salty of blood and ritual reagents and the dark waters below. Half of the draught is swallowed, while the rest they swish around their mouth before putting the bowl down, wheeling their chair to the edge of the chapel, and spitting a perfect arc of the bloody water out over the edge of the cliff. The jet catches the starlight briefly, twinkling almost as bright as sunlight on a fountain's rim, before falling into the sea with a splash far bigger than that tiny mouthful warranted, and tension that had been seizing Hayeen's shoulders for months releases all at once. The Sea and Stars approved of her appointment.
The Master's face is impassive behind the veil, but her voice is smiling as she tells Hayeen,
"You are accepted. Rule in Their stead with grace and wisdom, Paraseer Hayeen, Stargazer Hayeen, Hayeen of Twelvestones."
Hayeen wheels around to face the master, and can't stop a huge grin from crossing their face.
"I thank you, and I thank the Stars and Sea. My only hope is to live up to the expectations laid upon me."
"We have faith you will," the Master smiles.
A Confirmation ritual takes place in the hours before midnight and dawn, and the sun is painting the bay in rose and gold by the time Hayeen's wheeled their way from the chapel to the rectory where they'd been staying in order to pick up their few possessions, and then from the rectory to the governor's seat. A teetering, gargoyle-encrusted manse of dark wood and travertine marble, topped with a towering crooked campanile and perched upon a cliffside across from the chapel on the other side of Twelvestones town, the governor's house provides a view of the city and bay paralleled only by the chapel. Rising in a great circle around the city and bay, with five rising from the waters of the bay itself, are the gigantic stone pillars that give the city its name, covered with reliefs and writing that predate the founding of the settlement. It's not a settlement of enormous economical or military importance, but the ritual significance of Twelvestones is immense, and the fact that the Two-Headed Priesthood selected Hayeen, 17 summers of age and having just assumed the rank of Paraseer all of two hours ago, to administrate it speaks to how high their expectations are for them and how good their reputation is so far. A hotshot rising star with good grades and glowing reports from all the priests that taught them could find no better trial by fire than a few seasons presiding over the administration of Twelvestones. Hayeen just hopes they can live up to the hype.
Paraseer Hayeen of the Order of Stargazers, dedicate priest of the Stars and newest administrator of the coastal city of Twelvestones in the Starborn Protectorate of Nashax, was born face-up with eyes open, and so was taken from her family after being weaned from the breast to be raised in the priesthood. She was a bright student, more eager to learn and to answer questions than to do almost anything else, overcoming legs withered since birth and poor vision requiring corrective spectacles to become what the priests considered a shining example of a child chosen by the stars. At 14 summers of age, she took the oaths to enter the Order of Stargazers and so cast aside gender in order to emulate the distant perfection of the Stars themselves. They continued to distinguish themselves as a scholar and student of politics, and were thus fast-tracked along the course to administration, their instructors considering it a waste to consign such a bright, clever mind to some nonpolitical role like scribing or that of an anchorite. Finally, at 17, after a grueling spring and summer full of tests and trials, they got to see in the autumn by being officially promoted to Paraseer. Now, they're faced with choosing their cabinet and beginning their administration of the city of Twelvestones. Success will open the rest of the doors available to the priesthood. Failure will result in, at best, becoming an anchorite or village priest, and at worst a chance to honorably give themselves to the sky and sea as an apology for failure. It's the most pressure they've ever been under.
But Hayeen has always thrived under pressure.
The governor's manse features, like all important Nashaxi buildings, an open-air courtyard built around a saltwater pool. Hayeen wheels their way into it through the serpent-carved gate, rucksack full of the few books, backup simple clothing, and trinkets that they can call their own, the ceremonial robes of copper-embroidered black silk and linen and the coronet of beaten starmetal and bone on their brow technically belonging to the priesthood, and the rest of their wardrobe waiting above in their quarters belonging to the city. Like all prosthetics, the wheelchair also belongs to them as much as their body does--not at all, as said body belongs, like Hayeen's mind and soul and skills, to the Stars, to be used at their discretion. Wicker-and-bone wheels clack gently over the flagstones as they maneuver into the courtyard to face the dozen candidates arranged for their perusal, from which they'll select their advising council of five for the duration of their first (and hopefully not last) term of office.
The process of picking cabinet members is that curious combination of "unutterably boring" and "inscrutably terrifying" that characterizes so many of the duties of a Nashaxi priest, especially one who's taken the governmental track as opposed to the scholastic tracks (though the ritual and militant paths of the priesthoods could give the government a run for their money, and arguing about whose job is hardest and therefore most important is what most of the conversation between these branches consists of). Hayeen takes several hours to choose between the candidates, who range from "amazingly laid-back" to "distressingly keen", even needing to break out the old bowl and knife to make a quick request to the Stars for help. Finally, they narrow it down to five, with themselves being understood as the religious voice and overall power of veto and final choice.
Hov as Voice of Defense. The old Erzan man with an animated mechanical arm is a veteran of both the army and the Dragon Corps, the force that protects Nashaxi civilization from monsters, and expert military engineer, and will be of vital use in protecting Twelvestones from physical threats.
Javen as Voice of Morale. This worryingly keen and fiery-eyed human woman is an expert investigator and mental operator, who will keep Twelvestones' morale up and ferret out dissent and heresy for Hayeen to deal with.
Ahmad as Voice of Harvest. Tall and handsome, with a jeweled prosthetic eyeball, this human man will be responsible for resource extraction from the sea, mines, and meager farms, keeping Twelvestones supplied with food, mineral wealth, and the various gifts of monster parts and meteors supplied by the Sea and Sky.
Ozhar as Voice of Metal. This squat Oriza with the bullet casings threaded onto their quills is responsible for commerce and trade, the economic health of Twelvestones, ensuring that the resources Ahmad shepherds are used to properly keep the city healthy and its coffers full.
Braganza as Voice of Stone. An immigrant from the far west, this beautiful human woman with her flamboyant purple clothing is responsible for civil engineering and keeping the city's utilities, structures, and services functional. She keeps the actual city's structure itself running.
Hayeen themselves is the Voice of Stars, the final word on any expenditure or action and the interpreter of the will of the Stars.
They pass out the ritual objects, the symbols of office, from the huge darkwood chest located inside the airy, hunting-trophy-bedecked foyer of the manse. The Voice of Defense's bronzewood macuahuitl edged with dragon teeth, the Voice of Morale's bronze mirror edged with onyxes and agates, the Voice of Harvest's kheferu sickle with salt crystals growing from its red blade, the Voice of Metal's necklace of coins from all Nashax's neighbors, strung with starmetal beads between each example of foreign currency, and the Voice of Stone's belt made from a chunk of bedrock, a chunk of travertine, a chunk of meteoric stone, and interlocking gears, all strung on hide cords. Hayeen themselves gets to wear a pectoral made of a hexagonal bronze plate set with starmetal, seabone and gemstone tiles, hung from a cord made from the sinew of the very first overseer of Twelvestones. Each cabinet member holds their symbol of office with a mixture of awe and solemnity, save for Hov, who holds it like one more burden, and Braganza, who holds it with well-disguised distaste for how heavy and garish it is.
Hayeen leads the new cabinet in prayer as the stars gradually fade into the dawn sky, a sign that they're leaving it in the young priest's hands for now, though they'll still watch from behind the blue. It's a simple ritual, barely an hour, praying for strength and guidance and to be struck down if they fail. At the end of it, Hayeen straightens up and rubs their hands together, bangles clattering.
"Alright! Let's get to work."
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boo600
Ego sum egredietur tempestas.
- Location
- Texas
- Pronouns
- He/Him/Hungry
No omake ideas yet, but I absolutely adore the ritual obkects. Macuahuitl show up so rarely in the media I've cOnSuMed that I'm not sure what the proper way to refer to them in the plural is, and the descriptions are driving me nuts. Metoric stone, starmetal, seabone...
I must have more knowledge of this world, and what these all mean! The curiosity consumes me!
More details! MOAR!
Nom nom nom...
Also, I'm kinda curious about Javan's social techniques. And manse construction, and how the Master became the Master, and aaaargh why do I not have more time to type more questions.
More, good anchor-based eldritch abomination*!
*Sir
I must have more knowledge of this world, and what these all mean! The curiosity consumes me!
More details! MOAR!
Nom nom nom...
Also, I'm kinda curious about Javan's social techniques. And manse construction, and how the Master became the Master, and aaaargh why do I not have more time to type more questions.
More, good anchor-based eldritch abomination*!
*Sir
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Another Day Older
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
Another Day Older
Avalgrath, Oskhivol Province, Obsidian Confederacy of Azharach.
"Alright, break's over!" the overseer bawled to be heard over the shift bell and the whistles of the counting-machine. "Back to work!"
Vhoka groaned as she stood up, joints popping and crackling, the light fall of coal dust dislodged by her rising combining with the tendon chorus to make her seem like a crumbling statue. By her side, the new guy, skinny little dude who could still swing a pick all day like nobody's business, who had some Northerner name she could not remember for the life of her, chuckled dryly before taking a swig from his canteen and following suit, rising from the log they'd taken their break on and dusting himself off.
"Back into the tomb, I guess. Come on, let's go get black lung and die."
Vhoka shoved him, none too kindly but just light enough to leave plausible deniability.
"Not funny. Scal's taken home four this month already."
He looked back at her with dark-circled eyes and a sharp, hard smirk as he took his pick off the wall and slung it over his shoulder.
"If you can't laugh about death, what can you laugh about?"
Vhoka wanted to say something about that, but she found herself unable to. Instead, she spat, fished the hank of rawhide back out of her pocket and tied her quills back into a low tail, and grabbed her own pick. The pair of them headed down in the middle of a long line of tool-toting workers, descending the well-worn pathway into the adit of Second Bore Coal/Rough Crystal. The sun was high overhead, the hill was dark and barren, bristling with the remnants of its recent clear-cutting, and the air was cool and crisp with the promise of snow. Above the adit and its labelling of what minerals were to be found within stood the crest of Duke Sabnach, overseer of the entire region, the snake coiled around a bundle of three spears. Found on every machine, tool-head, and sack or barrel of material involved with the mine, there were more than a few workers in this mine or the many others scattered throughout the town's lands and the province beyond for whom the crest would be the last thing they saw before they died.
It was two hours later into the shift that something occurred to Vhoka.
She turned from the dry vein she'd spent the last little while excavating, wiping dust from her front.
"Hey... uh, new guy."
New Guy didn't look up from his own work, though he did briefly arm sweat off his forehead. Funny, that sweating thing humans did. Vhoka only barely understood it, Oriza not being burdened with the same reaction.
"It's Shirdon, actually. What?"
"That thing you said earlier, about going back into the mine."
He sighed, cutting a weary glance over to Vhoka.
"Listen, about the black lung joke. If it legitimately upset you, I'm sorry--"
"No no," she waved away his concerns. "I got what you mean, about the laughing and stuff. Says so in the Ninth Shield that if you meet the end with a grimace or a song on your lips, it doesn't matter so long as you meet it. No, I was wondering something else."
As she paused, he made a "go on" gesture, curious despite himself.
"...What's a tomb?"
He stared, began to laugh, then stopped at Vhoka's earnestly puzzled expression.
"You-you're serious?"
"Yeah, I don't know what that is. Is it some Northern word for cave or mine?"
He paused, clearly marshalling his words, and once he resumed mining, Vhoka assumed he'd given up on the conversation. But, a few swings of the pick later, he spoke, voice raised a little above the rhythmic clang of good local steel on soft crumbly coal-bearing rock.
"How do you deal with the bodies of the dead down here?"
"We burn them, usually, save for the dedicates, who usually get to be thrown to the animals or something, then we put up some kind of remembrance plaque in the hall. Why?"
"Yeah, that tracks. If there's anything you have in abundance down here, it's fire, and if there's something you have at a premium, it's dirt that nobody's gonna go digging in for coal or metal. Up north, though, we bury our honored dead in special caves or buildings. Those are called 'tombs,' the places where our dead rest. A chamber with the body and some things to celebrate and remember their life, at peace in the dark."
Vhoka stopped mining at that, shocked, and it took the harsh whistle of a boss to get her to start swinging again.
"That seems so wasteful, though! Can't you make better use of those caves and buildings for the people or for storage? Why should the dead get their own space that the living could use?"
"I couldn't tell you, just that we've always done it that way. But... I guess I always thought that, well. So much is demanded of us while we live, to work and fight and suffer. Aren't we entitled to a little peace and quiet after we die? A chance to rest in the dark?"
Vhoka got ready to argue with him about that, but then the rest of what he'd said earlier caught up with her.
"So, when you called this whole place a tomb... you think we're gonna die down here?"
His answering shrug was so perfectly fatalistic, she would never be sure, even looking back on it years later, whether it broke her heart or filled her with pride that someone could be so perfectly Savnoki, so accepting of inevitable death.
"We all have to die sometime. Buried in the dark with no one to bother you ever again beats the shit out of poison, or gunfire, or drowning as you wait for some awful great eel to come eat you."
Vhoka had no idea what to say to that. Instead, she just hefted her pick and got back to work, and, with a bitter chuckle, Shirdon did the same.
She'd think back on that conversation a lot, in the years to come, but especially later that night, after the dust had settled.
It was hours later, and everyone's muscles, no matter how labor-hardened or experienced with pick-swinging, shovel-lifting and cart-loading, were aching, everyone's lungs raw with stone and coal dust, ears ringing with picksong and the whistle and screech of the loading and sorting machines and carts. So much so, in fact, that it took even the keenest of them precious segments to, when a bell began ringing, recognize it as not a somehow-hours-early shift bell but as the bell to signal an attack. Then, the boss with the most presence of mind shouted "To arms! All hands up top!"
Bodies wrung out by work became revitalized with desire to protect everything they'd worked so hard for, and the miners ran up the slopes with their picks and shovels in hand, some clutching handfuls of stone or coal to throw. Vhoka and Shirdon, as ever, were in the middle wave, slower than some and faster than many, tools clenched in fighting stances, and, like everyone who'd made it up top before them, they winced in pain as the late afternoon sunlight blasted eyes that had gotten used to the werelight-and-lantern dimness of the tunnels. When their eyes had recovered, the same wave of fear that had washed over those standing in ranks outside the mine gripped their own hearts in turn, as the reason for the alarm came boiling out of the horizon with a massive trail of dust and smoke behind it. Locusts, a good half-dozen of them, and the traitors, pirates, brigands, mercenaries and hangers-on that trail in such beings' wakes.
Sabnach's guards and overseers raced to organize a defense of the mine, working with the quick slapdash efficiency of the kind of person that skips the military to work security at a mining concern soon learns. Arbalesters with their massive crossbows took vantage point above lines of rifle troops and slingers, while those with pikes and shields clogged up any easy access point, and those equipped with their own personal weapons, hammers and falcata and handguns, went werever they could find room to fit. The miners with their tools and rocks clustered in ranks around the entry to the mine and the storage sheds, a last line of defense, because no Confederate citizen would dream of going down without a fight, and no soldier or guard would let civilians stand on the front line. Scattered amid the ranks of defenders were the machines, heavy drillers and Made Men specialized for sorting or refining particularly tough ores and rocks used like the real army would use war machines, picks and drills turned from bringing mineral wealth to the province towards the dirty business of defending it.
The Locusts came on the backs of monokeras and wild-eyed feral yzobu, the horns and teeth of their mounts gleaming in the late golden stone, along with the blades of hooked spears and poleaxes and giant, brutal cleavers, the barrels of weapons that would break a human's shoulder if they dared to fire them, the plates of armor stolen from the soldiers and mercenaries they'd successfully killed on their journey of pillage and ruin. Those riding beside them looked just as rough and vicious, makeshift armor and stolen military weapons, guns and spears and axes dulled to cut glare, the mark of bushwhackers and ambush experts. Every heart dropped, and every gut roiled, but the miners and guards still stood ready--better to die standing.
The battle, when it joined, was simultaneously everything and nothing like what Vhoka had imagined. Every Confederate citizen was trained for combat, of course, and she'd watched all manner of tournaments and duels, for fun or honor or justice, as well as miners and stokers spar with their shovels as part of a night of drinking and betting. She'd seen hunters and citizen militia pile upon a monster or lone Locust every now and then, too, tearing it apart with pitchforks and makeshift spears and wood-axes and forge hammers. But this kind of pitched combat, side upon side, was so much more, and these Locusts weren't starving loners looking for children and pigs to snatch away, but a crew of confident hellraisers full of piss and vinegar and the hellish brew of blood and sorghum and rotten mushrooms they drunk to psych themselves up before a raid.
The Locusts, riding out ahead of their gang, cut into the front line like piss into a snowbank. The guards were hardened fighters trained to hold a pike line or fire a rifle with discipline and accuracy, but a Locust swings with the muscle of a dozen erzan its size, and carries a weapon big enough to split a yzobu lengthwise to take full advantage of that. Blades the size of Vhoka's entire torso swung like scythes through the pikemen, heedless of the spears sticking through their wielders, mowing down the first line. The bark of rifles drowned out her panicked shouts or the muttered prayers of Shirdon, wave after wave of buzzing lead screaming overhead into the attacking bandit line. Human, Oriza and Erzan bandits fell like dead trees, but the Locusts kept walking, bellowing lusty songs of slaughter and devastation in their crackling, snapping, howling language as each one claimed three soldiers with every swing or maneuver, competing with their fellows to use the showiest, most dramatic move. Watching the blood fly, Vhoka's brain somehow chose to focus on the sound of Shirdon praying next to her. Not to Scal for strength to overcome the foes, Savnok for the resilience to hold the line, or Gaevir to just die well and maybe feed some birds with his body, but to his ancestors.
"Not today, grandfather," he whispered hoarsely, eyes fixed on the melee ahead. "Let me join you in a few years' time. Not today."
The rest of the battle was a blur, to Vhoka. Two of the Locusts broke through to the miners, the rest hanging in pieces on pikes or being ground underfoot and stabbed, and the miners, worked into a lather from pain and terror and fury, fell upon the wounded raiders in a frenzy. One of the Locusts, a musclebound brute covered in ochre-colored chitinous plates worryingly close in shade to Vhoka's own skin, wielding no weapon but its shovel-like claws, knocked four miners to pieces before the rest fell upon it in a howling wave. Vhoka's own pick sunk through its tiny yellow eye as it gets wrestled to the ground, and kept going, along with four others', until the thing was torn to pieces. Out of the corner of her eye, she vaguely registered Shirdon falling upon the other, an angular scarecrow of a thing with the head of a grasshopper and two gigantic revolvers, some kind of knife in his hand. The world went dim and bloody for some time, everything Vhoka considers to make her her subsumed under the atavistic revulsion, the haze of terror, the bloody-minded battle fury that would drag her to victory or death at the cost of all higher thought.
When she finally came to, the battle is over and the sun is halfway below the horizon, painting the battlefield such an unrelieved red that the gore doesn't stand out. Vhoka sat there on the same log she'd eaten her lunch, glassy eyes looking at the battlefield but not seeing it. The survivors had gotten on the echo to call in reinforcements from the city to repair and reinforce and provide medical aid. Sitting there with her pick still coated in lemon-yellow blood, she thought to herself, clearly but slowly, I think I am more tired than I have ever been in my entire life.
Shirdon stumbled up to her and sat down heavily, carrying two steaming tin mugs full of a foul brew of smuggled whisky and awful burnt miner coffee. Vokha took hers gratefully, nursing at it and feeling a crude facsimile of life return to her aching limbs.
They sat together in silence, watching the survivors comfort each other. Only a third of the soldiers and one in nine of the miners had actually died, something of a record when it came to Locust raids, but Vhoka couldn't brink herself to celebrate that just then, only feel a dim sort of triumph at having lived. Later, after she's had a chance to sleep and eat and talk to some priests, she'd feel triumphant and proud, if somber, but just then all she felt was vague relief to have not died. At length, Shirdon laughed bitterly, drained his cup, and slapped Vhoka on the back without looking away from the Locust corpse that had been nailed above the adit as a sign of triumph.
"See? The mine won't let us die outside of it, not yet. The old tomb has a lot more in store for us."
Avalgrath, Oskhivol Province, Obsidian Confederacy of Azharach.
"Alright, break's over!" the overseer bawled to be heard over the shift bell and the whistles of the counting-machine. "Back to work!"
Vhoka groaned as she stood up, joints popping and crackling, the light fall of coal dust dislodged by her rising combining with the tendon chorus to make her seem like a crumbling statue. By her side, the new guy, skinny little dude who could still swing a pick all day like nobody's business, who had some Northerner name she could not remember for the life of her, chuckled dryly before taking a swig from his canteen and following suit, rising from the log they'd taken their break on and dusting himself off.
"Back into the tomb, I guess. Come on, let's go get black lung and die."
Vhoka shoved him, none too kindly but just light enough to leave plausible deniability.
"Not funny. Scal's taken home four this month already."
He looked back at her with dark-circled eyes and a sharp, hard smirk as he took his pick off the wall and slung it over his shoulder.
"If you can't laugh about death, what can you laugh about?"
Vhoka wanted to say something about that, but she found herself unable to. Instead, she spat, fished the hank of rawhide back out of her pocket and tied her quills back into a low tail, and grabbed her own pick. The pair of them headed down in the middle of a long line of tool-toting workers, descending the well-worn pathway into the adit of Second Bore Coal/Rough Crystal. The sun was high overhead, the hill was dark and barren, bristling with the remnants of its recent clear-cutting, and the air was cool and crisp with the promise of snow. Above the adit and its labelling of what minerals were to be found within stood the crest of Duke Sabnach, overseer of the entire region, the snake coiled around a bundle of three spears. Found on every machine, tool-head, and sack or barrel of material involved with the mine, there were more than a few workers in this mine or the many others scattered throughout the town's lands and the province beyond for whom the crest would be the last thing they saw before they died.
It was two hours later into the shift that something occurred to Vhoka.
She turned from the dry vein she'd spent the last little while excavating, wiping dust from her front.
"Hey... uh, new guy."
New Guy didn't look up from his own work, though he did briefly arm sweat off his forehead. Funny, that sweating thing humans did. Vhoka only barely understood it, Oriza not being burdened with the same reaction.
"It's Shirdon, actually. What?"
"That thing you said earlier, about going back into the mine."
He sighed, cutting a weary glance over to Vhoka.
"Listen, about the black lung joke. If it legitimately upset you, I'm sorry--"
"No no," she waved away his concerns. "I got what you mean, about the laughing and stuff. Says so in the Ninth Shield that if you meet the end with a grimace or a song on your lips, it doesn't matter so long as you meet it. No, I was wondering something else."
As she paused, he made a "go on" gesture, curious despite himself.
"...What's a tomb?"
He stared, began to laugh, then stopped at Vhoka's earnestly puzzled expression.
"You-you're serious?"
"Yeah, I don't know what that is. Is it some Northern word for cave or mine?"
He paused, clearly marshalling his words, and once he resumed mining, Vhoka assumed he'd given up on the conversation. But, a few swings of the pick later, he spoke, voice raised a little above the rhythmic clang of good local steel on soft crumbly coal-bearing rock.
"How do you deal with the bodies of the dead down here?"
"We burn them, usually, save for the dedicates, who usually get to be thrown to the animals or something, then we put up some kind of remembrance plaque in the hall. Why?"
"Yeah, that tracks. If there's anything you have in abundance down here, it's fire, and if there's something you have at a premium, it's dirt that nobody's gonna go digging in for coal or metal. Up north, though, we bury our honored dead in special caves or buildings. Those are called 'tombs,' the places where our dead rest. A chamber with the body and some things to celebrate and remember their life, at peace in the dark."
Vhoka stopped mining at that, shocked, and it took the harsh whistle of a boss to get her to start swinging again.
"That seems so wasteful, though! Can't you make better use of those caves and buildings for the people or for storage? Why should the dead get their own space that the living could use?"
"I couldn't tell you, just that we've always done it that way. But... I guess I always thought that, well. So much is demanded of us while we live, to work and fight and suffer. Aren't we entitled to a little peace and quiet after we die? A chance to rest in the dark?"
Vhoka got ready to argue with him about that, but then the rest of what he'd said earlier caught up with her.
"So, when you called this whole place a tomb... you think we're gonna die down here?"
His answering shrug was so perfectly fatalistic, she would never be sure, even looking back on it years later, whether it broke her heart or filled her with pride that someone could be so perfectly Savnoki, so accepting of inevitable death.
"We all have to die sometime. Buried in the dark with no one to bother you ever again beats the shit out of poison, or gunfire, or drowning as you wait for some awful great eel to come eat you."
Vhoka had no idea what to say to that. Instead, she just hefted her pick and got back to work, and, with a bitter chuckle, Shirdon did the same.
She'd think back on that conversation a lot, in the years to come, but especially later that night, after the dust had settled.
It was hours later, and everyone's muscles, no matter how labor-hardened or experienced with pick-swinging, shovel-lifting and cart-loading, were aching, everyone's lungs raw with stone and coal dust, ears ringing with picksong and the whistle and screech of the loading and sorting machines and carts. So much so, in fact, that it took even the keenest of them precious segments to, when a bell began ringing, recognize it as not a somehow-hours-early shift bell but as the bell to signal an attack. Then, the boss with the most presence of mind shouted "To arms! All hands up top!"
Bodies wrung out by work became revitalized with desire to protect everything they'd worked so hard for, and the miners ran up the slopes with their picks and shovels in hand, some clutching handfuls of stone or coal to throw. Vhoka and Shirdon, as ever, were in the middle wave, slower than some and faster than many, tools clenched in fighting stances, and, like everyone who'd made it up top before them, they winced in pain as the late afternoon sunlight blasted eyes that had gotten used to the werelight-and-lantern dimness of the tunnels. When their eyes had recovered, the same wave of fear that had washed over those standing in ranks outside the mine gripped their own hearts in turn, as the reason for the alarm came boiling out of the horizon with a massive trail of dust and smoke behind it. Locusts, a good half-dozen of them, and the traitors, pirates, brigands, mercenaries and hangers-on that trail in such beings' wakes.
Sabnach's guards and overseers raced to organize a defense of the mine, working with the quick slapdash efficiency of the kind of person that skips the military to work security at a mining concern soon learns. Arbalesters with their massive crossbows took vantage point above lines of rifle troops and slingers, while those with pikes and shields clogged up any easy access point, and those equipped with their own personal weapons, hammers and falcata and handguns, went werever they could find room to fit. The miners with their tools and rocks clustered in ranks around the entry to the mine and the storage sheds, a last line of defense, because no Confederate citizen would dream of going down without a fight, and no soldier or guard would let civilians stand on the front line. Scattered amid the ranks of defenders were the machines, heavy drillers and Made Men specialized for sorting or refining particularly tough ores and rocks used like the real army would use war machines, picks and drills turned from bringing mineral wealth to the province towards the dirty business of defending it.
The Locusts came on the backs of monokeras and wild-eyed feral yzobu, the horns and teeth of their mounts gleaming in the late golden stone, along with the blades of hooked spears and poleaxes and giant, brutal cleavers, the barrels of weapons that would break a human's shoulder if they dared to fire them, the plates of armor stolen from the soldiers and mercenaries they'd successfully killed on their journey of pillage and ruin. Those riding beside them looked just as rough and vicious, makeshift armor and stolen military weapons, guns and spears and axes dulled to cut glare, the mark of bushwhackers and ambush experts. Every heart dropped, and every gut roiled, but the miners and guards still stood ready--better to die standing.
The battle, when it joined, was simultaneously everything and nothing like what Vhoka had imagined. Every Confederate citizen was trained for combat, of course, and she'd watched all manner of tournaments and duels, for fun or honor or justice, as well as miners and stokers spar with their shovels as part of a night of drinking and betting. She'd seen hunters and citizen militia pile upon a monster or lone Locust every now and then, too, tearing it apart with pitchforks and makeshift spears and wood-axes and forge hammers. But this kind of pitched combat, side upon side, was so much more, and these Locusts weren't starving loners looking for children and pigs to snatch away, but a crew of confident hellraisers full of piss and vinegar and the hellish brew of blood and sorghum and rotten mushrooms they drunk to psych themselves up before a raid.
The Locusts, riding out ahead of their gang, cut into the front line like piss into a snowbank. The guards were hardened fighters trained to hold a pike line or fire a rifle with discipline and accuracy, but a Locust swings with the muscle of a dozen erzan its size, and carries a weapon big enough to split a yzobu lengthwise to take full advantage of that. Blades the size of Vhoka's entire torso swung like scythes through the pikemen, heedless of the spears sticking through their wielders, mowing down the first line. The bark of rifles drowned out her panicked shouts or the muttered prayers of Shirdon, wave after wave of buzzing lead screaming overhead into the attacking bandit line. Human, Oriza and Erzan bandits fell like dead trees, but the Locusts kept walking, bellowing lusty songs of slaughter and devastation in their crackling, snapping, howling language as each one claimed three soldiers with every swing or maneuver, competing with their fellows to use the showiest, most dramatic move. Watching the blood fly, Vhoka's brain somehow chose to focus on the sound of Shirdon praying next to her. Not to Scal for strength to overcome the foes, Savnok for the resilience to hold the line, or Gaevir to just die well and maybe feed some birds with his body, but to his ancestors.
"Not today, grandfather," he whispered hoarsely, eyes fixed on the melee ahead. "Let me join you in a few years' time. Not today."
The rest of the battle was a blur, to Vhoka. Two of the Locusts broke through to the miners, the rest hanging in pieces on pikes or being ground underfoot and stabbed, and the miners, worked into a lather from pain and terror and fury, fell upon the wounded raiders in a frenzy. One of the Locusts, a musclebound brute covered in ochre-colored chitinous plates worryingly close in shade to Vhoka's own skin, wielding no weapon but its shovel-like claws, knocked four miners to pieces before the rest fell upon it in a howling wave. Vhoka's own pick sunk through its tiny yellow eye as it gets wrestled to the ground, and kept going, along with four others', until the thing was torn to pieces. Out of the corner of her eye, she vaguely registered Shirdon falling upon the other, an angular scarecrow of a thing with the head of a grasshopper and two gigantic revolvers, some kind of knife in his hand. The world went dim and bloody for some time, everything Vhoka considers to make her her subsumed under the atavistic revulsion, the haze of terror, the bloody-minded battle fury that would drag her to victory or death at the cost of all higher thought.
When she finally came to, the battle is over and the sun is halfway below the horizon, painting the battlefield such an unrelieved red that the gore doesn't stand out. Vhoka sat there on the same log she'd eaten her lunch, glassy eyes looking at the battlefield but not seeing it. The survivors had gotten on the echo to call in reinforcements from the city to repair and reinforce and provide medical aid. Sitting there with her pick still coated in lemon-yellow blood, she thought to herself, clearly but slowly, I think I am more tired than I have ever been in my entire life.
Shirdon stumbled up to her and sat down heavily, carrying two steaming tin mugs full of a foul brew of smuggled whisky and awful burnt miner coffee. Vokha took hers gratefully, nursing at it and feeling a crude facsimile of life return to her aching limbs.
They sat together in silence, watching the survivors comfort each other. Only a third of the soldiers and one in nine of the miners had actually died, something of a record when it came to Locust raids, but Vhoka couldn't brink herself to celebrate that just then, only feel a dim sort of triumph at having lived. Later, after she's had a chance to sleep and eat and talk to some priests, she'd feel triumphant and proud, if somber, but just then all she felt was vague relief to have not died. At length, Shirdon laughed bitterly, drained his cup, and slapped Vhoka on the back without looking away from the Locust corpse that had been nailed above the adit as a sign of triumph.
"See? The mine won't let us die outside of it, not yet. The old tomb has a lot more in store for us."
Every Action an Act of Creation
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
Every Action an Act of Creation
Red Heron Coffeehouse, Shelomith City, Chelqath
Yael stretched out extravagantly, feeling the chorus of pops and crackles in her spine and neck. When moving your limbs makes you sound like an almond cookie being trod underfoot, she thought irrelevantly, it's a sign that you should probably move either more or less.
Her second cup of coffee had gone stone cold, a fact evinced to anyone watching by the grimace that crosses her round, tan features as she took an unsuspecting sip. She makes a signal, and the owner came by with a steaming pot, wordlessly freshening up the offending cup with a long, artful pour of hot, fragrant brew. She took a deep breath and nodded gratefully. Leon'd known her since she was a kid, hiding behind her mother's knees at meetings at the Red Heron. She drank for free here.
Halfway through the cup, the little silver bell above the door rings. Leon glances at it, and the enemy-charm carved into its metal remains dark. Nobody currently entering means the place or its inhabitants harm. Due diligence done, he moves to behind the counter, straightening his magnificent dark moustaches as a force of habit.
The tall skinny man who came in through the door ducked, holding the lintel at bay with one hand, a sure mark of someone who habitually spent a lot of time onboard ships at sea. His long coat, dark cloth with fur trim, marked him as much as his knife-like nose and violet eyes did as a Nostrian. He looked over to Yael, who nodded and gestured to one of the seven open seats at the long table she'd commandeered.
"Comrade Songbird?" Yael winced at his enormously thick Nostrian accent. Honestly, she thought with a current of bitter amusement, he might as well have ridden in here on a wolf wearing a skull helmet and drinking from a bottle of beet liquor. Never seen such a Nostrian in all my born days.
"Please, Comrade Greyjaw, we're among friends here. Call me Yael."
He sat down with some difficulty, folding himself into the chair like a carpenter's ruler.
"Then I am Aleksy." He looked around the almost-deserted coffee-house, its dark wood paneling and warm gas lamps, the mirrored tiles on the ceiling and the carpeted floor. "I see I am the first of our little group to arrive here?"
Yael nodded, cracking her knuckles. Her bangles lightly clacked with the motion.
"The others will join us soon. For now, order a coffee, maybe a pastry to go with it. I guarantee it's worth it. We have a lot of dealing and discussion to do tonight, and to decide the fate of a movement on an empty stomach is a trial we do not need to undergo as long as we meet under Uncle Leon's watchful eye."
Aleksy's next words are quiet, his eyes focused on said proprietor as he leans in.
"So he can be trusted?"
Yael's answer is firm.
"With our lives."
The other members of the cell filter in over time. Four other Chelqathi like Yael, relatively short and well-built, skin, hair and eyes various shades of lighter and darker brown and black, save for Yitzhak, aka Comrade Stone, who'd always towered head and shoulders over the rest of his kibbutz. Comrade Nail, an Oriza and a soldier both, who drew all manner of fearful gazes towards her permanent grimace of exposed teeth and the upright, ready-to-kill bearing she carried no matter what she wore. And Comrade Indigo, wrapped in scarves and coats and shawls, the only visible aspect of them at all a pair of bright yellow sparks for eyes staring out from the darkness of their wrappings and hood.
Coffee, tea, and/or pastries had been placed in front of everyone, save Indigo, who Leon nervously served a platter of snails and a cup of pickle brine, and the group had had a chance to share small talk and pleasantries about the city and the weather and other such niceties, before Yael finally coughed and nodded. Leon, in response, walked over and turned the little wooden sign from the open-sigil to the closed-sigil, calling in the local dialect to the few other patrons, who shuffled out one after another. When the Heron was empty again, Leon checked the bell then gave Yael a thumbs-up. All clear.
She finished her coffee in a single draught, then placed the cup back on the table with a curiously final-sounding clack. One by one, the others stopped speaking, all eyes turning attentively to the woman in well-kept jacket and skirt, wearing the sash of a student at the university and a pair of intricately carved wood picks in the bun of her hair.
"I gathered you here today because we are going to need to move a week ahead of schedule," she began plainly. Gasps and grumbles met her ears immediately, but she continued nonetheless.
"The Raishe will not be stopping over in Danthe City, but instead moving directly from the Summer Palace here to Shelomith for a single night only to resupply and pick up the ambassador before heading on to Bassault. Her mother took sick and wants her to complete the mission's bare essentials before coming home, so she's accelerating the trip and cutting all corners. We don't have another week to plan, nor will we have the three day stopover to let the heat die down. One week from now, she and her whole retinue will be at the Grand Trilobite. One night for us to steal the seal and the documents. So, you're all here because I can't afford to wait for the dead-drops and the double layers of birds and for Comrade Indigo to consult the bees. We finalize the plan tonight and get moving immediately. Any questions?"
There, of course, were plenty. Such an unexpected wrench in the gears threw everything off, and it was a testament to how important the mission was that they weren't considering just trying again some other time. The documents needed to stay out of Confederate hands. Most of them didn't know why--only Yael, Kelesh (Nail's real name) and Indigo, who gave no real name at all truly understood what was at stake. But understand it they did.
If Raishe Moza Ylimari III successfully brought the House of Ylimari's formal acceptance of Clan Barzakh's request for aid to the Confederate naval port of Bassault, then the resulting agreement would forge an undeniable military link between two of the strongest and most hawkish voting blocs within the two great nations. That, in turn, would give the nations that housed said nobles a solid enough base to potentially declare war on the Locust territories, the issues of logistics and supplies handled neatly for both sides. The resulting war would engulf the central Continent, plunging the lands within into bloody, brutal combat from which there would be no safe place--Locusts understood no concept of war that allowed for civilians, after all, and the burning hate the Confederacy held for them would lead them to fight in kind. The young Raishe may have been a pretty, smiling debutante more famous for her appearances in parades and her charity work than her keen political mind, but the papers in her elegant yzobu-hide attache case were nothing less than the fuse to a bomb that would consume the entire Continent in its flame. And Chelqath was not in the business of allowing war to come to its gates. The Bureau of Open Eyes was certainly plotting their own ways to defuse the war, but Yael would be no true Chelqathi if she trusted her own government to get anything done. So, her little conspiracy. Nameless, for Leon suggested that if the eventual jury had a nice threatening name to wave in front of them in the event of their eventual capture, their punishment could be harsher. But not purposeless. Stop Moza III. Prevent the alliance of Ylimari and Barzakh. And, hopefully, keep the entire Continent from burning to the ground.
Simple enough, right?
The planning went late into the night, and then into the early morning. As she plummeted into her bed, Yael's last conscious thought was Thank the King that we decided to work out of a coffee-shop. Imagine if we had had to do that without caffeine...
The plan was set. The wheels were turning. Everything was set up for the Raishe's visit on the following Hearthday. Far too much had been left to chance.
But what revolution was founded without risk?
Red Heron Coffeehouse, Shelomith City, Chelqath
Yael stretched out extravagantly, feeling the chorus of pops and crackles in her spine and neck. When moving your limbs makes you sound like an almond cookie being trod underfoot, she thought irrelevantly, it's a sign that you should probably move either more or less.
Her second cup of coffee had gone stone cold, a fact evinced to anyone watching by the grimace that crosses her round, tan features as she took an unsuspecting sip. She makes a signal, and the owner came by with a steaming pot, wordlessly freshening up the offending cup with a long, artful pour of hot, fragrant brew. She took a deep breath and nodded gratefully. Leon'd known her since she was a kid, hiding behind her mother's knees at meetings at the Red Heron. She drank for free here.
Halfway through the cup, the little silver bell above the door rings. Leon glances at it, and the enemy-charm carved into its metal remains dark. Nobody currently entering means the place or its inhabitants harm. Due diligence done, he moves to behind the counter, straightening his magnificent dark moustaches as a force of habit.
The tall skinny man who came in through the door ducked, holding the lintel at bay with one hand, a sure mark of someone who habitually spent a lot of time onboard ships at sea. His long coat, dark cloth with fur trim, marked him as much as his knife-like nose and violet eyes did as a Nostrian. He looked over to Yael, who nodded and gestured to one of the seven open seats at the long table she'd commandeered.
"Comrade Songbird?" Yael winced at his enormously thick Nostrian accent. Honestly, she thought with a current of bitter amusement, he might as well have ridden in here on a wolf wearing a skull helmet and drinking from a bottle of beet liquor. Never seen such a Nostrian in all my born days.
"Please, Comrade Greyjaw, we're among friends here. Call me Yael."
He sat down with some difficulty, folding himself into the chair like a carpenter's ruler.
"Then I am Aleksy." He looked around the almost-deserted coffee-house, its dark wood paneling and warm gas lamps, the mirrored tiles on the ceiling and the carpeted floor. "I see I am the first of our little group to arrive here?"
Yael nodded, cracking her knuckles. Her bangles lightly clacked with the motion.
"The others will join us soon. For now, order a coffee, maybe a pastry to go with it. I guarantee it's worth it. We have a lot of dealing and discussion to do tonight, and to decide the fate of a movement on an empty stomach is a trial we do not need to undergo as long as we meet under Uncle Leon's watchful eye."
Aleksy's next words are quiet, his eyes focused on said proprietor as he leans in.
"So he can be trusted?"
Yael's answer is firm.
"With our lives."
The other members of the cell filter in over time. Four other Chelqathi like Yael, relatively short and well-built, skin, hair and eyes various shades of lighter and darker brown and black, save for Yitzhak, aka Comrade Stone, who'd always towered head and shoulders over the rest of his kibbutz. Comrade Nail, an Oriza and a soldier both, who drew all manner of fearful gazes towards her permanent grimace of exposed teeth and the upright, ready-to-kill bearing she carried no matter what she wore. And Comrade Indigo, wrapped in scarves and coats and shawls, the only visible aspect of them at all a pair of bright yellow sparks for eyes staring out from the darkness of their wrappings and hood.
Coffee, tea, and/or pastries had been placed in front of everyone, save Indigo, who Leon nervously served a platter of snails and a cup of pickle brine, and the group had had a chance to share small talk and pleasantries about the city and the weather and other such niceties, before Yael finally coughed and nodded. Leon, in response, walked over and turned the little wooden sign from the open-sigil to the closed-sigil, calling in the local dialect to the few other patrons, who shuffled out one after another. When the Heron was empty again, Leon checked the bell then gave Yael a thumbs-up. All clear.
She finished her coffee in a single draught, then placed the cup back on the table with a curiously final-sounding clack. One by one, the others stopped speaking, all eyes turning attentively to the woman in well-kept jacket and skirt, wearing the sash of a student at the university and a pair of intricately carved wood picks in the bun of her hair.
"I gathered you here today because we are going to need to move a week ahead of schedule," she began plainly. Gasps and grumbles met her ears immediately, but she continued nonetheless.
"The Raishe will not be stopping over in Danthe City, but instead moving directly from the Summer Palace here to Shelomith for a single night only to resupply and pick up the ambassador before heading on to Bassault. Her mother took sick and wants her to complete the mission's bare essentials before coming home, so she's accelerating the trip and cutting all corners. We don't have another week to plan, nor will we have the three day stopover to let the heat die down. One week from now, she and her whole retinue will be at the Grand Trilobite. One night for us to steal the seal and the documents. So, you're all here because I can't afford to wait for the dead-drops and the double layers of birds and for Comrade Indigo to consult the bees. We finalize the plan tonight and get moving immediately. Any questions?"
There, of course, were plenty. Such an unexpected wrench in the gears threw everything off, and it was a testament to how important the mission was that they weren't considering just trying again some other time. The documents needed to stay out of Confederate hands. Most of them didn't know why--only Yael, Kelesh (Nail's real name) and Indigo, who gave no real name at all truly understood what was at stake. But understand it they did.
If Raishe Moza Ylimari III successfully brought the House of Ylimari's formal acceptance of Clan Barzakh's request for aid to the Confederate naval port of Bassault, then the resulting agreement would forge an undeniable military link between two of the strongest and most hawkish voting blocs within the two great nations. That, in turn, would give the nations that housed said nobles a solid enough base to potentially declare war on the Locust territories, the issues of logistics and supplies handled neatly for both sides. The resulting war would engulf the central Continent, plunging the lands within into bloody, brutal combat from which there would be no safe place--Locusts understood no concept of war that allowed for civilians, after all, and the burning hate the Confederacy held for them would lead them to fight in kind. The young Raishe may have been a pretty, smiling debutante more famous for her appearances in parades and her charity work than her keen political mind, but the papers in her elegant yzobu-hide attache case were nothing less than the fuse to a bomb that would consume the entire Continent in its flame. And Chelqath was not in the business of allowing war to come to its gates. The Bureau of Open Eyes was certainly plotting their own ways to defuse the war, but Yael would be no true Chelqathi if she trusted her own government to get anything done. So, her little conspiracy. Nameless, for Leon suggested that if the eventual jury had a nice threatening name to wave in front of them in the event of their eventual capture, their punishment could be harsher. But not purposeless. Stop Moza III. Prevent the alliance of Ylimari and Barzakh. And, hopefully, keep the entire Continent from burning to the ground.
Simple enough, right?
The planning went late into the night, and then into the early morning. As she plummeted into her bed, Yael's last conscious thought was Thank the King that we decided to work out of a coffee-shop. Imagine if we had had to do that without caffeine...
The plan was set. The wheels were turning. Everything was set up for the Raishe's visit on the following Hearthday. Far too much had been left to chance.
But what revolution was founded without risk?
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
Open poll! What do y'all want to see in the near future?
[ ] Letters from a Yasaali noblewoman to her lovers, servants and family.
[ ] A day in the life of a Confederate Duke overseeing a province.
[ ] Nostrian necrochemists making unscrupulous business decisions.
[ ] Excerpts from Orizan and Erzan holy books.
[ ] Ch2 of The Stars Are Right
[ ] Ch2 of Another Day Older
[ ] Ch2 of Every Action an Act of Creation
[ ] None of any of that
[ ] Letters from a Yasaali noblewoman to her lovers, servants and family.
[ ] A day in the life of a Confederate Duke overseeing a province.
[ ] Nostrian necrochemists making unscrupulous business decisions.
[ ] Excerpts from Orizan and Erzan holy books.
[ ] Ch2 of The Stars Are Right
[ ] Ch2 of Another Day Older
[ ] Ch2 of Every Action an Act of Creation
[ ] None of any of that
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)
A Report Found In The Clutches Of A Dead Messenger Bat, At The Battlefield of Splinter Ford
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
Vote results will be next update: you chose Ch2 of Every Action An Act of Creation!
To His Excellency The General Duke Sabnach of the Oskhivol Territory
Sir, I hope this letter finds you in good health and fine fighting fettle, and I apologize for my lack of decorum, for I send it in neither. I expect our position here will be lost in a matter of days, and our cause lost before the end of the week. I will stay here like a captain, going down with her vessel, until our cause is done or I am. I find myself in an unusual position where I can see my imminent demise but have time to discuss why it should be, and I do so in the hopes that this final parchment gasp, this message in a bottle, is of use to you and the Army of the Coal River at large. I fear that, save intervention by Scal's strong right hand plucking me from my tent and casting me like Mornvieva at the enemy camp, nothing I've learned can be of further use to the 41st Heavy Rifles. The gods, whatever their reasons, did not smile upon us here at what the map insists on telling me is Splinter Ford but my eyes insist on telling me is the litterbox of a mountain-sized cat, but this missive may be the form their smile takes for you. Dauntless willing.
I have dissembled too much, sir, and I would pray your forgiveness if I thought you would possibly have the chance to give it to me in any way that will matter.
At dawn on Tidesday the 41st Heavy Rifles arrived to the small township of Splinter Ford, which I am assured provides timber and a small garrison to guard the eponymous ford over this tributary of the Coal River the locals call the Splint. The population was likely about 400 all told, with about half of those being active or reserved soldiers and the remainder being the young, the old, and those no longer in a condition to march with the Army. We were passing down through on our tour of the various installations of the region, strengthening and inspecting them on our way to join the host massing at Bassault. When we arrived, we were greeted with open arms, hospitality, and guides to help us forage sustainably, as any settlement in the whole of the Confederacy might be expected to do upon hosting a company of the Army. We enjoyed their hospitality, which included a unique nut dumpling that, it is entirely possible, may not exist anywhere else on the Continent, and may exist no longer after the events of this campaign, but my sharpest aides noted that something felt amiss about their attitudes. Quiet. Slow. Not forthcoming with information, but not shifty or sneaky, but pale, sleepy, even somewhat drained. Not operating with all the vim and vigor that might be expected of young and bored soldiers seeing a proper company and getting the chance to contribute to an active war effort. Our feet were sore, our animals hungry, and our eyes stinging from road-dust, so I did not treat this caution with all the discipline it deserved. As such, I own the entirety of what happened next. It is my yoke to bear, sir.
The first to discover what would be our death was a private, a human whose name, I regret to inform you, I am only partially sure was something like Bean or Beale. I shall go with Bean. Bean had been tasked with retrieving things from root cellars and storage caverns that the villagers were content with giving us, hauling casks of this and jars of that to and fro to give her unit a chance to eat something besides cornmeal cram and dried bacon and those curious little twigs that the commissary assures us are VEGETABLES, VARIOUS, and which may be anything from dried peas to actual dirt. Bean had found someone whose family had put up entirely too many brandied crabapples and spiced peaches, and was happily shuttling armloads of the stuff from the cellar to her tent circle, when she stumbled upon something she should not have.
She stumbled white-faced into her sergeant's tent, terrified and stammering, and it was only through what I was assured was the sternest and most nonsense-averse interrogation they had to muster that they were able to glean that there was "something big and pale and covered with little spikes, and there's people in it, [...] not alive or dead." Said sergeant, Ekris by name, considered the potential of this being whiskey or moonshine, as no soldier ever born passed up the chance to take the edge off when making camp, but in the end, had decided to send Bean and a pair of her comrades to scope out the place and bring back word if anything unusual was discovered.
I will give all credit to Ekris. They were able to tell me this upon a cot, mazed with the pain from losing an arm and a leg. They were a fine sergeant and a credit to the unit, and while we lost many, many fine people, it is names like Bean and Ekris and poor damned Lieutenant Kasmir that will stick with me for however long I have left.
I cannot credit that that will be very long, sir.
Bean and her companions were the first of the Heavy Rifles to be subsumed by what interrogation revealed to be calling itself the Beggar's Crown. They joined up with those villagers that had similarly succumbed, replenished themselves on the life's blood of the least drained of the garrison guard, and proceeded to infect their fellow soldiers one by one, two platoons of our five gone before I received any word about it at all. They hid quite well until we began talk of leaving, during which a hot-headed corporal who I would have had clapped in irons had he lived struck a villager during an argument. This caused the Crown to show its hand.
Sir, we are dealing with what I believe to be a quite powerful Nephilim, a Six-Star at the minimum using the old classification, which manifests itself as a fungal infection. It manifests first as a pallidity, then as a fire-gleam in the eye, later as red spikes, doughy white masses of fungus and fibrous black matter that completely overtake the host. It is a hive-mind, capable of coordinating with other hosts without sight or sound, and of hiding within hosts while giving little outward sign. I can report that it is of only perhaps 50% communicability, only one of every two victims succumbing, but those immune can still be mazed by some sort of hypnotic effect the hosts can produce via direct eye contact, and those in the village were providing their blood to sustain the hosts.
As I write, I can hear the unearthly piping and wailing of the hosts as they merge and combine within the hasty barricades we used to plug the gaps in Splinter Ford's defenses. Those which have shed their disguises to fully embrace the monstrosity of infection are stronger and far tougher, near proof against bullet and spear, though quite weak against fire, acid and strong drink. The hosts can merge with each other to create larger and more fearsome beasts, akin to living siege engines, and it is these that your hopeful eventual response forces will need to deal with with the most priority, for I fear their ability to disseminate spores. These foes are not as doughty as Locusts, not as fast, skilled, or tenacious, but they are coordinated, they possess no organs or differentiated parts which can be targeted to weaken or confuse them, and they fear neither blade nor salt.
I am sending other letters after this one, but as this is the highest-priority message I would feel remiss if I did not include this-- sir, please inform my family that I died protecting the Confederacy from threats within, like I swore an oath to. Do not let them go their days not knowing what happened to me. Tell them I fought to the end. And, and I would only be this bold if certain of my imminent death, I have served you well and do not expect to live to see further promotion. Please ensure my sister gets a fair chance at the Academy. She will serve you better than I ever did. Serve the Confederacy. I promised I'd look after her. This desperate little bout of begging is the last chance to do so that I expect to receive, at least in this life.
We have fair destroyed half of Splinter Ford in siege warfare, and I have intelligence that a small warband out of Shallow Graves is making its way up the Coal as I write this. I do not expect to hold out long, pressed by Locusts on one side and contagious Nephilim on the other. I ask you to bring fire, bring containment, bring dropwalls. Do not let this spread. Do not let what has happened here happen to other places.
Please.
Your obd't servant,
Captain Shirak Barraga, 41st Heavy Rifles
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Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
The answer is complicated, but the basics are that the world has had visitors from another type of reality in the past, and their descendants form the majority of unique monsters and magical creatures, the alien blood changing the way its bearers work with reality.
Every Action an Act of Creation 2
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
Every Action an Act of Creation Ch.2
Aboard the airship Ninth Empress Heqari, Royal Cabin, Somewhere Above The Yasaal-Chelqath Border
Raishe Moza Aserya N'Irav Ylimari, Third Of Her Name, Ruler of the Golden House At The Cliff's Edge, Holder of the Reins of the Yli River, Slayer of the False-Dawn, May Glory Flow From The Throne Into Her Upraised Hands, idly taps the glass of the airship window, lost in thought. Outside the porthole sunk into the richly lacquered dark wood of the cabin panel, the night sky drifts past. Stars in their millions wheel high above, the lights along the banks of the Yli glitter amid the hills and plains below, and the running lights of other airships are distantly visible. It's cold, this high in the sky, regardless of season, and Moza's usual light, airy silks are augmented by warmer cloth and a heavy cloak rich with golden embroidered spirals. Still, despite the chill emanating from the window, the view attracts Moza. The night sky is just so big, and beautiful, and full of light, light her tutors told her may have other worlds with other peoples drifting around them. When you struggle under the weight of administration and national policy, when you're a basically good-natured and somewhat easily flustered woman who, in a just world, would have ran a bakery, fished, or written romance novels for a living, that instead has the responsibility of controlling a significant, rich province of a powerful, influential nation... the perspective of seeing all those other worlds that know nothing of you, your country or your struggles is comforting. When Moza looks up, she can pretend that the burden is lighter. The sky is full of worlds and wonder, and when so much is spread so far, your concerns just feel a little less crushing.
Hearing about her mother's illness hit her like a brick thrown through a sitting-room window, and it was only after a long, tearful echo-call that she was able to calm herself enough to keep thinking about her mission. In the abstract, she loves her mother and wants her to be safe and healthy. In the concrete, hearing the woman herself coldly dismiss Moza's concerns and order her to get the job done before coming home has a bucket-of-ice-water effect on teariness and sorrow. Moza loves her mother, she really does. But on moonless, sleepless nights she allows herself to admit that she doesn't like her much at all, and so the remainder of the trip is a relief. She can do what she came out here to do, accomplish her tasks and lift her burdens, and then come home and be a good Raishe, a good ruler, a good daughter. Right here, right now, hundreds and hundreds of wheels in the air, in an airship full of pretty servant girls who wait on her hand and foot, her, not her mother and grandmother and then eventually her by proxy, it's easy to forget about the struggles of home and focus on what's good about being the ruler for a change.
The Ninth Empress Heqari was built a scant four months ago as the pride and joy of the Summer City shipyards and the flagship of House Ylimari's personal fleet, a luxury sky-yacht armed and reinforced like a battleship. Fortifications of beautiful dark-lacquered wood and bronzewood, reinforced with glittering starmetal from the meteor-mines of Nashax, top and partially encrust a beautiful envelope of black and gold spirals, the center of each side and each end of the bag bearing the crest of House Ylimari, two bees rampant supporting a cup full of smoke beneath a cloud releasing a thrice-forked lightning bolt. The fortifications and the bronzewood-and-dark-mahogany gondola proper glimmered with round golden windows, elaborate patterns of gilt and black enamel depicted various mythical scenes and geometric designs across every surface, and the opulence almost but didn't quite disguise the slowly panning gun turrets, the emplacements for boarding hooks and siege weapons, the way that every sculpture and pattern served to hide or attract attention away from an arbalest or gun barrel. Like all things of Ylimari, like all things of Yasaal as a whole, the Ninth Empress Heqari was a beautiful, luxurious weapon, a gold-washed blade, a rifle with an intricately carved stock.
Moza's tutors had tried to make her into a similar weapon. A naturally rounded, heavier figure prone to keeping weight and a height that would ensure a lifetime of others offering to reach onto shelves had concealed deadly talents before, in Yasaal's history, but in Moza's case the chubbiness, the open smile, the bright silver eyes and coppery curls, and the matching copper freckles scattered across matte black skin contributed to an impression of innocence that, on second acquaintance, was completely accurate. There was no iron core to her, no knife wrapped in silk, no pistol hidden in the folds of a beautiful fur cape, just sweetness and smiles and a penchant for rambling stories, flirtation and honey candy that ran directly to the core. Oh, she was by no means dim--history and astronomy, patterns and engineering, her mind could store and combine information to give odd but piercing insights, a valuable skill--but she had no talent for turning that to relentless personal advantage, for taking what she noticed about a person and using that as a leash or a whip to ensure they acted in her best interests. Her grandmother, Moza II, was a cunning and vicious mastermind that used Ylimari's rich resources to snap up air trade and set the gas forges to refining airs for a massive fleet of aircraft, and her mother, Iaya IV, was an apparent shrinking violet, all soft purple eyes and downturned demeanor, hiding one of the best sharpshooters and espionage agents that the Empress ever had kill in Her name, working in the shadows while her brighter, taller peers made the broadsheets and the echo broadcasts.
A proud lineage of cleverness, ruthlessness, perfectly applied diplomacy and violence aimed towards keeping Ylimari as the brightest jewel at the Empress's throat, the lushes plant in Her garden. A legacy that the cheerful, kind and friendly girl, who had no desire to lie, cheat, kill, or scramble for position, had terrible difficulty in living up to. Everything she'd ever been told by her family, by fellow students, by other courtiers, reinforced what she told herself every time she looked in a mirror: Weak. Soft. No fire in the belly. Too fleshy, too vulnerable, not strong enough. Not Yasaali enough. But no attempt to disinherit her had worked, no further children came to her mother, or her mother's mistresses, and her older sister went and got herself eaten trying to pacify the outer shores of Shallow Graves when she was but 13. So Moza III remained the Heiress Apparent of House Ylimari, and when the ancient statutes of law demanded Iaya step down, it was Moza who became Raishe. Hers had not been an administration either disastrous or distinguished, a simple girl's simple reign of a vastly complicated place, and her family constantly made cutting remarks about how they would save some money lost by her lack of savvy by not springing for a particularly distinguished artist to commit her to portrait.
What currently sat within the white leather briefcase upon her lap would change all that.
With this little agreement, everything would change for Moza. Her House, united with the famously militant, famously powerful, famously prickly Clan Barzakh? No Raishe of Ylimari had ever done it, or indeed ever secured anything but informal, unwritten pacts of looking the other way, when it came to that particular coast of the Confederacy. Completing the covenant, securing that connection, would open up direct shipping lines through Bassault, completely bypassing Shallow Graves, Cant's Divide, and the Topaz Shores, giving Yasaal direct naval and air trade to the next biggest power on the Continent. Plus, answering a call for aid--Moza had no idea what Duke Mazarin, with her mighty fortress city, with her many soldiers, with her ironclads, would want with Ylimari's resources enough to submit an official call, but that need is something she can fill with what she can bring to bear, bringing prosperity to her House, her lands, her people and her nation. It's a chance she's never been offered, a chance to do something bigger than she thought she'd ever get a chance to do. To make a mark on the history of Ylimari, to get her name up on the wall, to shut up her mothers and grandmother and cousins once and for all.
Raishe Moza Aserya N'Irav Ylimari, Third Of Her Name, Ruler of the Golden House At The Cliff's Edge, Holder of the Reins of the Yli River, Slayer of the False-Dawn, May Glory Flow From The Throne Into Her Upraised Hands. All titles earned by her predecessors. None but "Third Of Her Name" earned by her own merits. This would change all that. Raishe Moza, etc etc, Uniter of the Coasts. Protector of the Stone Port. Moza the Open-Handed, Moza the Generous, Moza the Protector. After an administration of fearing a future of Moza the Unexceptional, Moza the Soft, Moza the Throne-Warmer, the possibility of such distinction is headier than any mead, sweeter than any wine, and she is quite understandably drunk on that pure golden brew. Hope. For a legacy, for recognition, for vindication, for understanding.
Moza sits in her airship's padded seats, dreamily stroking the bag with its precious accords within and staring out the window, head swimming with thoughts of getting everything she ever wanted, while the world goes slowly, sleepily by outside the gleaming gondola. She dreams of being something more than anyone ever thought she could be, of making friends with a famously prickly nation, of going down in history for something that wasn't murder, cutthroat business acumen, or canny wringing-dry of her province's resources.
She doesn't know about the plot to stop her from delivering the accords by any means necessary being hatched in a Chelqathi coffee-shop, about the fears that run through the revolutionaries' minds, about the cold-blooded schemes to stop her that would have ended in her death, about the long arguments on the subject of whether or not to keep said lethal schemes, about how those still remain as backup plans. The revolutionaries don't hate her, don't care about her as a person at all, but as a symbol of a strong Yasaal and a materiel union with the Confederacy, she's a threat they don't necessarily want to eliminate permanently but absolutely will.
She doesn't know about the maps in Duke Mazarin's fortress plotting eventual war with the Locust territories, the schemes that rely on Ylimari's materiel for their completion, the ranks of weapons and soldiers preparing in the garrisons and parade grounds of Bassault. Mazarin's call for aid was legitimate, as food production was down and other vital Yasaali resources were in desperate high demand, but the canny, hawkish noble desired more--a solid base from which to launch a war upon the Locusts, which will proceed whether or not the silly girl sitting upon Ylimari's too-soft throne wants it to or not.
She doesn't know about the ancient cities in the heart of the Carrock Flats where a disgraced General of the Confederacy sits and waits patiently for Yasaali materiel accompanied by a note from one of his few remaining allies. About how he's planned to return to glory and grace by draining her coffers dry, aided by cutting, vicious legalese embedded in the documents Mazarin plans to maze her into being happy enough to sign, weeks and months and years into their business relationship.
She doesn't know about the hordes of Locusts that sweep out of Shallow Graves even as she rides, raiding into Confederate territories, burning villages and plundering towns, increasingly bold sorties that will end in proper Rades thousands strong scything the southern Continent like sandstorms, unless a unified military response is presented to them, and neither does the conspiracy of the Red Heron.
No, for now Moza III slowly drifts off to sleep, tired despite the excitement of her near future. She will not likely be able to seize much sleep amid the events to come.
Aboard the airship Ninth Empress Heqari, Royal Cabin, Somewhere Above The Yasaal-Chelqath Border
Raishe Moza Aserya N'Irav Ylimari, Third Of Her Name, Ruler of the Golden House At The Cliff's Edge, Holder of the Reins of the Yli River, Slayer of the False-Dawn, May Glory Flow From The Throne Into Her Upraised Hands, idly taps the glass of the airship window, lost in thought. Outside the porthole sunk into the richly lacquered dark wood of the cabin panel, the night sky drifts past. Stars in their millions wheel high above, the lights along the banks of the Yli glitter amid the hills and plains below, and the running lights of other airships are distantly visible. It's cold, this high in the sky, regardless of season, and Moza's usual light, airy silks are augmented by warmer cloth and a heavy cloak rich with golden embroidered spirals. Still, despite the chill emanating from the window, the view attracts Moza. The night sky is just so big, and beautiful, and full of light, light her tutors told her may have other worlds with other peoples drifting around them. When you struggle under the weight of administration and national policy, when you're a basically good-natured and somewhat easily flustered woman who, in a just world, would have ran a bakery, fished, or written romance novels for a living, that instead has the responsibility of controlling a significant, rich province of a powerful, influential nation... the perspective of seeing all those other worlds that know nothing of you, your country or your struggles is comforting. When Moza looks up, she can pretend that the burden is lighter. The sky is full of worlds and wonder, and when so much is spread so far, your concerns just feel a little less crushing.
Hearing about her mother's illness hit her like a brick thrown through a sitting-room window, and it was only after a long, tearful echo-call that she was able to calm herself enough to keep thinking about her mission. In the abstract, she loves her mother and wants her to be safe and healthy. In the concrete, hearing the woman herself coldly dismiss Moza's concerns and order her to get the job done before coming home has a bucket-of-ice-water effect on teariness and sorrow. Moza loves her mother, she really does. But on moonless, sleepless nights she allows herself to admit that she doesn't like her much at all, and so the remainder of the trip is a relief. She can do what she came out here to do, accomplish her tasks and lift her burdens, and then come home and be a good Raishe, a good ruler, a good daughter. Right here, right now, hundreds and hundreds of wheels in the air, in an airship full of pretty servant girls who wait on her hand and foot, her, not her mother and grandmother and then eventually her by proxy, it's easy to forget about the struggles of home and focus on what's good about being the ruler for a change.
The Ninth Empress Heqari was built a scant four months ago as the pride and joy of the Summer City shipyards and the flagship of House Ylimari's personal fleet, a luxury sky-yacht armed and reinforced like a battleship. Fortifications of beautiful dark-lacquered wood and bronzewood, reinforced with glittering starmetal from the meteor-mines of Nashax, top and partially encrust a beautiful envelope of black and gold spirals, the center of each side and each end of the bag bearing the crest of House Ylimari, two bees rampant supporting a cup full of smoke beneath a cloud releasing a thrice-forked lightning bolt. The fortifications and the bronzewood-and-dark-mahogany gondola proper glimmered with round golden windows, elaborate patterns of gilt and black enamel depicted various mythical scenes and geometric designs across every surface, and the opulence almost but didn't quite disguise the slowly panning gun turrets, the emplacements for boarding hooks and siege weapons, the way that every sculpture and pattern served to hide or attract attention away from an arbalest or gun barrel. Like all things of Ylimari, like all things of Yasaal as a whole, the Ninth Empress Heqari was a beautiful, luxurious weapon, a gold-washed blade, a rifle with an intricately carved stock.
Moza's tutors had tried to make her into a similar weapon. A naturally rounded, heavier figure prone to keeping weight and a height that would ensure a lifetime of others offering to reach onto shelves had concealed deadly talents before, in Yasaal's history, but in Moza's case the chubbiness, the open smile, the bright silver eyes and coppery curls, and the matching copper freckles scattered across matte black skin contributed to an impression of innocence that, on second acquaintance, was completely accurate. There was no iron core to her, no knife wrapped in silk, no pistol hidden in the folds of a beautiful fur cape, just sweetness and smiles and a penchant for rambling stories, flirtation and honey candy that ran directly to the core. Oh, she was by no means dim--history and astronomy, patterns and engineering, her mind could store and combine information to give odd but piercing insights, a valuable skill--but she had no talent for turning that to relentless personal advantage, for taking what she noticed about a person and using that as a leash or a whip to ensure they acted in her best interests. Her grandmother, Moza II, was a cunning and vicious mastermind that used Ylimari's rich resources to snap up air trade and set the gas forges to refining airs for a massive fleet of aircraft, and her mother, Iaya IV, was an apparent shrinking violet, all soft purple eyes and downturned demeanor, hiding one of the best sharpshooters and espionage agents that the Empress ever had kill in Her name, working in the shadows while her brighter, taller peers made the broadsheets and the echo broadcasts.
A proud lineage of cleverness, ruthlessness, perfectly applied diplomacy and violence aimed towards keeping Ylimari as the brightest jewel at the Empress's throat, the lushes plant in Her garden. A legacy that the cheerful, kind and friendly girl, who had no desire to lie, cheat, kill, or scramble for position, had terrible difficulty in living up to. Everything she'd ever been told by her family, by fellow students, by other courtiers, reinforced what she told herself every time she looked in a mirror: Weak. Soft. No fire in the belly. Too fleshy, too vulnerable, not strong enough. Not Yasaali enough. But no attempt to disinherit her had worked, no further children came to her mother, or her mother's mistresses, and her older sister went and got herself eaten trying to pacify the outer shores of Shallow Graves when she was but 13. So Moza III remained the Heiress Apparent of House Ylimari, and when the ancient statutes of law demanded Iaya step down, it was Moza who became Raishe. Hers had not been an administration either disastrous or distinguished, a simple girl's simple reign of a vastly complicated place, and her family constantly made cutting remarks about how they would save some money lost by her lack of savvy by not springing for a particularly distinguished artist to commit her to portrait.
What currently sat within the white leather briefcase upon her lap would change all that.
With this little agreement, everything would change for Moza. Her House, united with the famously militant, famously powerful, famously prickly Clan Barzakh? No Raishe of Ylimari had ever done it, or indeed ever secured anything but informal, unwritten pacts of looking the other way, when it came to that particular coast of the Confederacy. Completing the covenant, securing that connection, would open up direct shipping lines through Bassault, completely bypassing Shallow Graves, Cant's Divide, and the Topaz Shores, giving Yasaal direct naval and air trade to the next biggest power on the Continent. Plus, answering a call for aid--Moza had no idea what Duke Mazarin, with her mighty fortress city, with her many soldiers, with her ironclads, would want with Ylimari's resources enough to submit an official call, but that need is something she can fill with what she can bring to bear, bringing prosperity to her House, her lands, her people and her nation. It's a chance she's never been offered, a chance to do something bigger than she thought she'd ever get a chance to do. To make a mark on the history of Ylimari, to get her name up on the wall, to shut up her mothers and grandmother and cousins once and for all.
Raishe Moza Aserya N'Irav Ylimari, Third Of Her Name, Ruler of the Golden House At The Cliff's Edge, Holder of the Reins of the Yli River, Slayer of the False-Dawn, May Glory Flow From The Throne Into Her Upraised Hands. All titles earned by her predecessors. None but "Third Of Her Name" earned by her own merits. This would change all that. Raishe Moza, etc etc, Uniter of the Coasts. Protector of the Stone Port. Moza the Open-Handed, Moza the Generous, Moza the Protector. After an administration of fearing a future of Moza the Unexceptional, Moza the Soft, Moza the Throne-Warmer, the possibility of such distinction is headier than any mead, sweeter than any wine, and she is quite understandably drunk on that pure golden brew. Hope. For a legacy, for recognition, for vindication, for understanding.
Moza sits in her airship's padded seats, dreamily stroking the bag with its precious accords within and staring out the window, head swimming with thoughts of getting everything she ever wanted, while the world goes slowly, sleepily by outside the gleaming gondola. She dreams of being something more than anyone ever thought she could be, of making friends with a famously prickly nation, of going down in history for something that wasn't murder, cutthroat business acumen, or canny wringing-dry of her province's resources.
She doesn't know about the plot to stop her from delivering the accords by any means necessary being hatched in a Chelqathi coffee-shop, about the fears that run through the revolutionaries' minds, about the cold-blooded schemes to stop her that would have ended in her death, about the long arguments on the subject of whether or not to keep said lethal schemes, about how those still remain as backup plans. The revolutionaries don't hate her, don't care about her as a person at all, but as a symbol of a strong Yasaal and a materiel union with the Confederacy, she's a threat they don't necessarily want to eliminate permanently but absolutely will.
She doesn't know about the maps in Duke Mazarin's fortress plotting eventual war with the Locust territories, the schemes that rely on Ylimari's materiel for their completion, the ranks of weapons and soldiers preparing in the garrisons and parade grounds of Bassault. Mazarin's call for aid was legitimate, as food production was down and other vital Yasaali resources were in desperate high demand, but the canny, hawkish noble desired more--a solid base from which to launch a war upon the Locusts, which will proceed whether or not the silly girl sitting upon Ylimari's too-soft throne wants it to or not.
She doesn't know about the ancient cities in the heart of the Carrock Flats where a disgraced General of the Confederacy sits and waits patiently for Yasaali materiel accompanied by a note from one of his few remaining allies. About how he's planned to return to glory and grace by draining her coffers dry, aided by cutting, vicious legalese embedded in the documents Mazarin plans to maze her into being happy enough to sign, weeks and months and years into their business relationship.
She doesn't know about the hordes of Locusts that sweep out of Shallow Graves even as she rides, raiding into Confederate territories, burning villages and plundering towns, increasingly bold sorties that will end in proper Rades thousands strong scything the southern Continent like sandstorms, unless a unified military response is presented to them, and neither does the conspiracy of the Red Heron.
No, for now Moza III slowly drifts off to sleep, tired despite the excitement of her near future. She will not likely be able to seize much sleep amid the events to come.
DocMatoi
Theoretical Lover of Girls
- Location
- within 2 hours of the White House
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Oh man, the confluence of interests here is amazing. The raishe wants glory, the Duke wants materiel, the general wants dosh, and the conspiracy wants justice.
Of the four, I think the princess and the conspiracy could align their interests... If they communicate.
So it'll never happen D:<
Of the four, I think the princess and the conspiracy could align their interests... If they communicate.
So it'll never happen D:<
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
Have a second poll!
[ ] Nostrian necrochemists making unscrupulous business decisions.
[ ] Excerpts from Orizan and Erzan holy books.
[ ] Ch2 of The Stars Are Right
[ ] Ch2 of Another Day Older
[ ] Journal of a Yasaali businesswoman visiting Navath-Qor and the Grandest Maze, home of the Rem, on a sightseeing and trade expedition.
[ ] None of any of that
[ ] Nostrian necrochemists making unscrupulous business decisions.
[ ] Excerpts from Orizan and Erzan holy books.
[ ] Ch2 of The Stars Are Right
[ ] Ch2 of Another Day Older
[ ] Journal of a Yasaali businesswoman visiting Navath-Qor and the Grandest Maze, home of the Rem, on a sightseeing and trade expedition.
[ ] None of any of that
Battle of Splinter Ford 2
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
Somewhere outside Splinter Ford, along the banks of the Coal River, in the southeastern reaches of the Obsidian Confederacy of Azharach. A few weeks' ride out from the marchlands of the Locust Territory of Shallow Graves.
Arc Fang took the spyglass down from her eye, wishing, as she always did when she used the damn device, that she just had Gargoyle Eyes and could do this herself. She was no radical Rhakuan, but relying on an Unchosen device to extend her senses just felt... equal parts unwholesome and embarrassing. Mad Rift shoved her in the shoulder.
<Well? What's the damn news?> she growled in Ashvakrev. Arc Fang shoved her back, snarling in response.
<Watch them meathooks, chewer. The fort's where we thought it was. Something's wrong with the damn thing though. Here, you slap your eyes down on it.>
Mad Rift snatched the spyglass from her crewmate's claw and sighted in herself. Across the river stood the walls of the fortified town of Splinter Ford, guarding the only way across the Coal for wheels in either direction. Thin trails of smoke rise from the chimneys and stacks, recognizable to both Mad Rift and Arc Fang as, not ordinary smoke from hearths and engines, but the smoke of burning timber and clay. The smoke of disaster, not of industry.
<Yer right. Plus, look at all them footprints and smell all that Discipline. There's soldiers in there. What the shit?>
Arc Fang grabs the spyglass back and tucks it away.
<We can't go anywhere without something already happening, but if there's fighting we can probably get stuck in. Rally the others, break camp, get the weapons, we're gonna go stick our feelers in.>
<Yeah? You and what army?>
<Will you just fucking. Go? We'll come up with a plan together!>
<Bite me!>
<Gladly!>
The two shove at each other for a minute more, Mad Rift providing token resistance, before slinking off to the small camp with a fresh bruise from Arc Fang's fist already fading on her cheek. The Thirds were each leader of their own crew, a combined party of nine Locusts fresh out of the Graves, and there was no love lost between them. The trip from the Territory had been characterized by them sniping and pushing at each other, constant jockeying for position, too evenly matched for either to claim control over the other. If you were to stop them and ask who was in charge, they would both instantly claim "Me!" before beginning to claw at each other once more. The other seven Vesakh, three in Rift's crew and four in Fang's, have spent the trip alternately amused and annoyed. Everyone just wants them to stop fighting and start planning how to cut the Confederacy's belly and scoop up all the money and meat that spills out, and until now it didn't seem it was going to happen.
Coming upon a burning garrison tends to change things. Even young, hungry, angry Vesakh straight from the Territories tend to forget their petty concerns when faced with a legitimate crisis to take advantage of.
<Spread out and hide in the trees,> Arc Fang orders her crew. <Light them up then converge on my position if I'm attacked, otherwise join me when I signal.>
<Scatter around the edges of the wall and get ready to scramble up and breach when I signal,> Mad Rift tells her own gang.
Despite agreeing that they should approach the town and see how they can take advantage of whatever's going on, the presence of armies and burning, Mad Rift and Arc Fang could absolutely not decide which one of them should lead the charge, and they eventually were forced by their crews to just go together. A pair of Locusts approaching the gates of a Confederate town, hands empty and seemingly nonviolent, with their crews waiting in the woods to enact reprisal if they're attacked. There are those on both sides which would say this is the only way Vesakh can get anywhere in the Confederacy, and they're both often right.
Mad Rift is tall, almost five cubits, and lean, wrapped in tattered beast hides with a kettle helm, only her bony, machete-like fingers and toes and her glowing yellow eyes visible behind the rags and leather strips, rattling with strings of bullet-casings, teeth and claws, while Arc Fang is clad in patchwork armor made of pieces of war machine and scavenged enemy equipment, over a stocky, muscular body head and shoulders shorter than Rift, with tiny knobbly nail-like plates covering every inch of her visible skin and a face that's mostly a gigantic pair of huge fanged jaws poking out from a tatter-edged hood. Their weapons are stowed on their backs and their hands are open and empty as they approach the silent gates with seemingly empty watchtowers.
<Let me do the talking, Fang.>
<Do you even fucking speak Stark?>
<...No.>
<Yeah, that's what I thought. Pipe down, I'll translate for you. It's not in my interest to trick you, it'll get us both killed.>
<...Yeah, alright, fine. Go ahead, already, I'm sloughing here.>
Arc Fang walks up to the gates a few paces ahead of Mad Rift and calls out, cupping her clawed hands around her fangly jaws.
"Hoy! You up there! Vhat's going on?"
Silence in response.
"Ve're not here to cause any trouble, just to check out ze area. Are you all dead in there or vhat?"
Silence in response.
<Rift, they're not answering, get ready to breach.>
<Rrgh... alright.>
"Hoy! Ve're going to breach if ve don't get a response!"
Silence.
<One.>
Rift and Fang crack their knuckles and limber up.
<Two.>
The ramparts respond with nothing but distant piping and crunching, now barely audible thanks to the argument ceasing. The two Vesakh share a glance and nod.
<Three.>
They rush the gates as one, howling, and the lignum vitae of the gate shudders and creaks.
<Now!> they cry in unison, and the rest of the crews charge the gates. Ves-hardened muscle, claws and shell and brutal limbs, smash into the doors, clawing at the hinges, pounding at the center, ripping at the steel bindings. The gate would ordinarily be better defended, with pike and shot and boiling oil, but without defenders, the locusts can spend all the time they need to tear the gate off its hinges and throw the pieces to the four winds. All nine of them pile into the gate, weapons being drawn--pole cleavers and hook spears, rifles and revolvers, chains and barbs, an improvised pole hammer crafted from a cenotaph lashed to a fragment of mast and wrapped in barbed wire.
Nobody is there to meet them.
The narrow entry courtyard is designed to funnel anyone who enters past a battery of weapons and barricades. Every road is a narrow bottleneck that passes through potential bastions and barricades, like every open space in just about any garrison or fortress town in the Confederacy. But there are no batteries of rifles, no rows of pikes to greet them. The heavily armed and increasingly nervous Locusts move through the narrow streets, twitching at every noise, waiting for the defenders to appear.
<Where is everyone? We should be armpit deep in corpses right now.>
<Or corpses ourselves. I've actually fought Confederates before. But yeah. This is bizarre.>
<Boss, something smells fucky. Over there at the end.>
One of Rift's crew points her pike at the far end of the town, where the smoke is rising from. The hooting and whistling of some otherworldly set of pipes is growing ever louder. The Locusts cautiously edge towards the noise, weapons raised--which lets them open fire immediately when a massive heap of white fungus studded with red spikes and orange jewel-like globules bursts from a home's door and charges the group, fluting and piping furiously.
A Erzan with her tattered coat held tightly around her, breathing mask over her face, stumbles out from behind a barricade as the panting Locusts stand in their pile of torn fungus. Arc Fang tries a bite, then spits it out.
<This is disgusting, and I've eaten rotten wood. Must be Neph.>
<Hey, that Confederate wants to talk to you,> Mad Rift nudges her.
<Oh?>
The soldier waves a white scarf at the end of her spear.
"Hey, uh, any of you speak Stark? Parley? Treaty?"
"Yyyes? Yes. Ve do. I do. Vhat happened here, Fed? Zhis is a fucking nightmare."
The soldier sighs tiredly.
"You're telling me, Locust. Listen, you can fight, and we're about to be killed. If you help us out, and don't kill us, you can loot the battlefield, no questions asked. Will you come see my Captain?"
"Vun second, ve confer."
The following conversation involves a lot of hissing, yelling, and thumping each other, and the soldier winces as what looks like an out-and-out brawl breaks out briefly before settling. Mad Rift directs a torrent of Ashvakrev at her, which Arc Fang, wincing and popping her shoulder back in place, translates.
"Ve go vith you. Your captain better have a good offer."
"She better, Locusts, because if we can't come to an agreement, we're all fucked."
Arc Fang took the spyglass down from her eye, wishing, as she always did when she used the damn device, that she just had Gargoyle Eyes and could do this herself. She was no radical Rhakuan, but relying on an Unchosen device to extend her senses just felt... equal parts unwholesome and embarrassing. Mad Rift shoved her in the shoulder.
<Well? What's the damn news?> she growled in Ashvakrev. Arc Fang shoved her back, snarling in response.
<Watch them meathooks, chewer. The fort's where we thought it was. Something's wrong with the damn thing though. Here, you slap your eyes down on it.>
Mad Rift snatched the spyglass from her crewmate's claw and sighted in herself. Across the river stood the walls of the fortified town of Splinter Ford, guarding the only way across the Coal for wheels in either direction. Thin trails of smoke rise from the chimneys and stacks, recognizable to both Mad Rift and Arc Fang as, not ordinary smoke from hearths and engines, but the smoke of burning timber and clay. The smoke of disaster, not of industry.
<Yer right. Plus, look at all them footprints and smell all that Discipline. There's soldiers in there. What the shit?>
Arc Fang grabs the spyglass back and tucks it away.
<We can't go anywhere without something already happening, but if there's fighting we can probably get stuck in. Rally the others, break camp, get the weapons, we're gonna go stick our feelers in.>
<Yeah? You and what army?>
<Will you just fucking. Go? We'll come up with a plan together!>
<Bite me!>
<Gladly!>
The two shove at each other for a minute more, Mad Rift providing token resistance, before slinking off to the small camp with a fresh bruise from Arc Fang's fist already fading on her cheek. The Thirds were each leader of their own crew, a combined party of nine Locusts fresh out of the Graves, and there was no love lost between them. The trip from the Territory had been characterized by them sniping and pushing at each other, constant jockeying for position, too evenly matched for either to claim control over the other. If you were to stop them and ask who was in charge, they would both instantly claim "Me!" before beginning to claw at each other once more. The other seven Vesakh, three in Rift's crew and four in Fang's, have spent the trip alternately amused and annoyed. Everyone just wants them to stop fighting and start planning how to cut the Confederacy's belly and scoop up all the money and meat that spills out, and until now it didn't seem it was going to happen.
Coming upon a burning garrison tends to change things. Even young, hungry, angry Vesakh straight from the Territories tend to forget their petty concerns when faced with a legitimate crisis to take advantage of.
<Spread out and hide in the trees,> Arc Fang orders her crew. <Light them up then converge on my position if I'm attacked, otherwise join me when I signal.>
<Scatter around the edges of the wall and get ready to scramble up and breach when I signal,> Mad Rift tells her own gang.
Despite agreeing that they should approach the town and see how they can take advantage of whatever's going on, the presence of armies and burning, Mad Rift and Arc Fang could absolutely not decide which one of them should lead the charge, and they eventually were forced by their crews to just go together. A pair of Locusts approaching the gates of a Confederate town, hands empty and seemingly nonviolent, with their crews waiting in the woods to enact reprisal if they're attacked. There are those on both sides which would say this is the only way Vesakh can get anywhere in the Confederacy, and they're both often right.
Mad Rift is tall, almost five cubits, and lean, wrapped in tattered beast hides with a kettle helm, only her bony, machete-like fingers and toes and her glowing yellow eyes visible behind the rags and leather strips, rattling with strings of bullet-casings, teeth and claws, while Arc Fang is clad in patchwork armor made of pieces of war machine and scavenged enemy equipment, over a stocky, muscular body head and shoulders shorter than Rift, with tiny knobbly nail-like plates covering every inch of her visible skin and a face that's mostly a gigantic pair of huge fanged jaws poking out from a tatter-edged hood. Their weapons are stowed on their backs and their hands are open and empty as they approach the silent gates with seemingly empty watchtowers.
<Let me do the talking, Fang.>
<Do you even fucking speak Stark?>
<...No.>
<Yeah, that's what I thought. Pipe down, I'll translate for you. It's not in my interest to trick you, it'll get us both killed.>
<...Yeah, alright, fine. Go ahead, already, I'm sloughing here.>
Arc Fang walks up to the gates a few paces ahead of Mad Rift and calls out, cupping her clawed hands around her fangly jaws.
"Hoy! You up there! Vhat's going on?"
Silence in response.
"Ve're not here to cause any trouble, just to check out ze area. Are you all dead in there or vhat?"
Silence in response.
<Rift, they're not answering, get ready to breach.>
<Rrgh... alright.>
"Hoy! Ve're going to breach if ve don't get a response!"
Silence.
<One.>
Rift and Fang crack their knuckles and limber up.
<Two.>
The ramparts respond with nothing but distant piping and crunching, now barely audible thanks to the argument ceasing. The two Vesakh share a glance and nod.
<Three.>
They rush the gates as one, howling, and the lignum vitae of the gate shudders and creaks.
<Now!> they cry in unison, and the rest of the crews charge the gates. Ves-hardened muscle, claws and shell and brutal limbs, smash into the doors, clawing at the hinges, pounding at the center, ripping at the steel bindings. The gate would ordinarily be better defended, with pike and shot and boiling oil, but without defenders, the locusts can spend all the time they need to tear the gate off its hinges and throw the pieces to the four winds. All nine of them pile into the gate, weapons being drawn--pole cleavers and hook spears, rifles and revolvers, chains and barbs, an improvised pole hammer crafted from a cenotaph lashed to a fragment of mast and wrapped in barbed wire.
Nobody is there to meet them.
The narrow entry courtyard is designed to funnel anyone who enters past a battery of weapons and barricades. Every road is a narrow bottleneck that passes through potential bastions and barricades, like every open space in just about any garrison or fortress town in the Confederacy. But there are no batteries of rifles, no rows of pikes to greet them. The heavily armed and increasingly nervous Locusts move through the narrow streets, twitching at every noise, waiting for the defenders to appear.
<Where is everyone? We should be armpit deep in corpses right now.>
<Or corpses ourselves. I've actually fought Confederates before. But yeah. This is bizarre.>
<Boss, something smells fucky. Over there at the end.>
One of Rift's crew points her pike at the far end of the town, where the smoke is rising from. The hooting and whistling of some otherworldly set of pipes is growing ever louder. The Locusts cautiously edge towards the noise, weapons raised--which lets them open fire immediately when a massive heap of white fungus studded with red spikes and orange jewel-like globules bursts from a home's door and charges the group, fluting and piping furiously.
A Erzan with her tattered coat held tightly around her, breathing mask over her face, stumbles out from behind a barricade as the panting Locusts stand in their pile of torn fungus. Arc Fang tries a bite, then spits it out.
<This is disgusting, and I've eaten rotten wood. Must be Neph.>
<Hey, that Confederate wants to talk to you,> Mad Rift nudges her.
<Oh?>
The soldier waves a white scarf at the end of her spear.
"Hey, uh, any of you speak Stark? Parley? Treaty?"
"Yyyes? Yes. Ve do. I do. Vhat happened here, Fed? Zhis is a fucking nightmare."
The soldier sighs tiredly.
"You're telling me, Locust. Listen, you can fight, and we're about to be killed. If you help us out, and don't kill us, you can loot the battlefield, no questions asked. Will you come see my Captain?"
"Vun second, ve confer."
The following conversation involves a lot of hissing, yelling, and thumping each other, and the soldier winces as what looks like an out-and-out brawl breaks out briefly before settling. Mad Rift directs a torrent of Ashvakrev at her, which Arc Fang, wincing and popping her shoulder back in place, translates.
"Ve go vith you. Your captain better have a good offer."
"She better, Locusts, because if we can't come to an agreement, we're all fucked."
And If You Believe Me This Far, We're Gonna Get Along Just Fine
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
Outskirts of Jargalant Town, Sky Castle Oblast, Deathless Empire of Noster
Like most of the days out of the year in the Oblast of the Sky Castle, this day is a fine, brisk, bright one, the sun shining steadfastly out of a clear blue sky with only a scant handful of white clouds scattered around the edges. The air is crisp and cool, the deep forest rising to the northeast, the dry and rock-ridged lowlands stretching out to the south easts, brief but sharp ranges of mountains and ridts splitting the land here and there like the cracks in a dropped plate. Jargalant, like most settlements of any significance or import, is built around and atop a hill, sturdy structures of clay, weathered logs and stone brick standing within the walls and atop the crown of the hill, lighter ones of reinforced paper and thinner planks spilling out from the walls to surround the town. When compared to the oblast capitals or the Ten Thousand Year City, the effect is mild, only a few temporary buildings, a simple wall and a modest fortress, rather than wheels upon wheels of fortification and defensive structures and a massive sprawl of lighter construction beyond. Bigger than the small villages, well-defended and prosperous enough to be allowed a little light industry, Jargalant is a strong, picturesque but lonely town in a strong, picturesque but lonely province. Out here in the rocky, forested reaches of Sky Castle Oblast, there is little trade, most of it coming in dribs and drabs and the occasional big caravan or ship every few seasons, and other than that just the logging, farming, quarrying, and other businesses that keep a community together. Important to the country as a whole but isolated despite it all, the townsfolk of Jargalant are always looking for entertainment, excitement, something from outside the prosperous but fixed rings they move in to remind them of the outside world, refill their hearts with excitement, bring new and shining glow to the daily face of life.
To an operation like Sortaq and Baatuman's Caravan of Wonders, the towns like this are a bright opportunity. Higher-risk than the villages but richer by far, still likely to fall for what the cities would see through in a heartbeat. Perfect fodder for a pair of ambitious, unscrupulous and not-untalented necrochemists to rake it in in the off season.
The life of a necrochemist is one of constant stress. You have learned to defy death and harness many beneficial and deleterious properties into potions and pills, powder, charms, nostrums and philters of all descriptions. You have learned that fundamental aspects of the world you live in and the world beyond are malleable and weak enough to be controlled by one with the right training, the right reagents, the right patience and the right layering of protective scarring and abrasion on your lungs, fingertips and forearms. And the nobility of your country will pay through the nose for the Rites of Return, the potions and rituals which are used to take someone who can pay and has died, and bring them back as the eternal Deathless, the Returned, the undying aristocracy of Noster.
But the Potion Of Death's Grasp Eluded and the Rites of Return are difficult to brew, risky to procure the ingredients for, and carry the risk of having every other necrochemist who feels skilled enough to brew competing with you for the attention of the noble houses. Few are lucky enough to become contracted to a House to prepare them their necrochemical preparations and rites, and even these fortunates tend to die of chemical accidents or eventually fall short of their patrons' demands, risking destitution, disgrace or death.
So, if you can't or won't get contracted to a noble house, and you don't want to be pressed into risky, demanding military service, and you can't dream of letting go of that power you've learned to brew and bottle, then you may just take to the road, selling your products to towns and villages all across Noster. Those with ideals, a strong conscience, or full respect for the law, sell honest goods or find areas that have consistent necrochemical needs they can meet on a regular basis, offering honest, principled goods to honest, principled people for honest, principled prices. Those like Sortaq and Baatuman, on the other hand...
Sortaq Aje and Baatuman Ledya came to necrochemistry through different paths and led very different lives before their fortuitous meeting and partnership. Sortaq, Aje only to her closest friends, grew up in a big city, went to a prestigious college, and worked her ass off 24/6, narrowly eking out a degree with distinction and a proper gilt license to practice before having a minor nervous breakdown, one that left a shock of premature and ghostly white forever etched into her luxurious dark fall of hair. Wanting out of the urban lifestyle and the demands of big, strong concerns and families, she decided to go traveling, wandering the length and breadth of Noster, living a life of small jobs and individual challenges and a new sky every week. But that's not a job you can live alone, and a student with a fresh degree doesn't have the loose cash to hire mercenaries or guards. So she went looking for a business partner, someone of similar disposition and resources willing to travel by her side and share in the risks and the profits of life on the road.
Baatuman Ledya, on the other hand, came from poor village stock, a tiny logging community chipping away at the edges of the forest. Cut the trees, strip the bark, fight the occasional ravener from the wastes or make a sacrifice to the yascheritsi, knocking a healthy cow, goat, or, if they were particularly angry, a person, on the head with a rock and leaving them for the strazsydlo to drag away. It's a life that a bright, clever and acquisitive child like Ledya could not bear to live, not for long after she learned she didn't have to to survive. She ran away on an absolutely terrible night to run away, cold and windy, her red hair a bright spark against the burgeoning blizzard, surviving only by being taken in by a traveling necrochemist's wagon. Her rescuer was a little disappointed to learn the child was alive, but rallied to the sudden burden and made sure Ledya survived, teaching her a little of what they knew. She was grateful, but too curious about the world to stay for long. She left at the earliest opportunity, and spent the next few years hitching from town to town, learning bits and pieces, tips and tricks, of the ways of the sneak, the bawd, the charlatan, the pilgrim, the mercenary, the agitator, the ratcatcher, the huntress, the tinker, the smith. Eventually, an ambition she'd been nurturing in her heart flaring from ember to flame at last, she returned to necrochemistry, learning enough to trick a tired and easily bribable official into issuing her a slightly-counterfeit license. A jack of all trades and master of very little, she began casting about for anyone to team up with, a partner to aid her, for her new goals and interests would make a solo career short and dangerous.
They met in front of a signboard at the edge of the market square. Started their pitch at the same time, interrupting each other. Realized this, started laughing, got a drink together. Began planning what they would do, traveling the nation and maybe even the world beyond. Pooled their savings, bought a rickety wagon and a terror bird one step from the stewpot to pull it. Began traveling together, learning the ins and outs of the business and of each other. Started a romance, realized it wouldn't work, broke it off, remained good friends and partners even closer for having made the experiment. Sortaq and Baatuman's Necrochemical Solutions became Sortaq and Baatuman's Caravan of Wonders, as they began mixing in elements of sideshow to their merchant business. The bezants and stavrata rolled in, the potions, cures and treated items rolled out. Their wagon became bigger, fancier, more loaded with magical and chemical conveniences and favors. A pair of beautiful and sturdy yzobu were purchased to pull the wagon, teeth and horns sharp, manes luxurious, coats glossy. But neither ever considered retiring. The love of the road was too strong, the poison wrapped deep around the spine.
The Caravan of Wonders rolled down the main street of Jargalant with bells ringing and horn blowing, the beasts tossing their heads proudly. Inside, Sortaq double-checked inventory, making sure everything was perfect. Above, Baatuman cracked her whip briskly above her head, calling out cheerfully to the crowd.
"Gather around, distinguished guests, friends of all descriptions and paths! My name is Baatuman! My skills are undeniable! And my lovely partner and I have wonders! Terrors! Cures! Solutions! All manner of delights and experiences for you! So gather around, gather around! With Sortaq and Baatuman, you can see the world, defy the spirits, and reach your few potential, and all for extremely reasonable prices. We guarantee it."
Like most of the days out of the year in the Oblast of the Sky Castle, this day is a fine, brisk, bright one, the sun shining steadfastly out of a clear blue sky with only a scant handful of white clouds scattered around the edges. The air is crisp and cool, the deep forest rising to the northeast, the dry and rock-ridged lowlands stretching out to the south easts, brief but sharp ranges of mountains and ridts splitting the land here and there like the cracks in a dropped plate. Jargalant, like most settlements of any significance or import, is built around and atop a hill, sturdy structures of clay, weathered logs and stone brick standing within the walls and atop the crown of the hill, lighter ones of reinforced paper and thinner planks spilling out from the walls to surround the town. When compared to the oblast capitals or the Ten Thousand Year City, the effect is mild, only a few temporary buildings, a simple wall and a modest fortress, rather than wheels upon wheels of fortification and defensive structures and a massive sprawl of lighter construction beyond. Bigger than the small villages, well-defended and prosperous enough to be allowed a little light industry, Jargalant is a strong, picturesque but lonely town in a strong, picturesque but lonely province. Out here in the rocky, forested reaches of Sky Castle Oblast, there is little trade, most of it coming in dribs and drabs and the occasional big caravan or ship every few seasons, and other than that just the logging, farming, quarrying, and other businesses that keep a community together. Important to the country as a whole but isolated despite it all, the townsfolk of Jargalant are always looking for entertainment, excitement, something from outside the prosperous but fixed rings they move in to remind them of the outside world, refill their hearts with excitement, bring new and shining glow to the daily face of life.
To an operation like Sortaq and Baatuman's Caravan of Wonders, the towns like this are a bright opportunity. Higher-risk than the villages but richer by far, still likely to fall for what the cities would see through in a heartbeat. Perfect fodder for a pair of ambitious, unscrupulous and not-untalented necrochemists to rake it in in the off season.
The life of a necrochemist is one of constant stress. You have learned to defy death and harness many beneficial and deleterious properties into potions and pills, powder, charms, nostrums and philters of all descriptions. You have learned that fundamental aspects of the world you live in and the world beyond are malleable and weak enough to be controlled by one with the right training, the right reagents, the right patience and the right layering of protective scarring and abrasion on your lungs, fingertips and forearms. And the nobility of your country will pay through the nose for the Rites of Return, the potions and rituals which are used to take someone who can pay and has died, and bring them back as the eternal Deathless, the Returned, the undying aristocracy of Noster.
But the Potion Of Death's Grasp Eluded and the Rites of Return are difficult to brew, risky to procure the ingredients for, and carry the risk of having every other necrochemist who feels skilled enough to brew competing with you for the attention of the noble houses. Few are lucky enough to become contracted to a House to prepare them their necrochemical preparations and rites, and even these fortunates tend to die of chemical accidents or eventually fall short of their patrons' demands, risking destitution, disgrace or death.
So, if you can't or won't get contracted to a noble house, and you don't want to be pressed into risky, demanding military service, and you can't dream of letting go of that power you've learned to brew and bottle, then you may just take to the road, selling your products to towns and villages all across Noster. Those with ideals, a strong conscience, or full respect for the law, sell honest goods or find areas that have consistent necrochemical needs they can meet on a regular basis, offering honest, principled goods to honest, principled people for honest, principled prices. Those like Sortaq and Baatuman, on the other hand...
Sortaq Aje and Baatuman Ledya came to necrochemistry through different paths and led very different lives before their fortuitous meeting and partnership. Sortaq, Aje only to her closest friends, grew up in a big city, went to a prestigious college, and worked her ass off 24/6, narrowly eking out a degree with distinction and a proper gilt license to practice before having a minor nervous breakdown, one that left a shock of premature and ghostly white forever etched into her luxurious dark fall of hair. Wanting out of the urban lifestyle and the demands of big, strong concerns and families, she decided to go traveling, wandering the length and breadth of Noster, living a life of small jobs and individual challenges and a new sky every week. But that's not a job you can live alone, and a student with a fresh degree doesn't have the loose cash to hire mercenaries or guards. So she went looking for a business partner, someone of similar disposition and resources willing to travel by her side and share in the risks and the profits of life on the road.
Baatuman Ledya, on the other hand, came from poor village stock, a tiny logging community chipping away at the edges of the forest. Cut the trees, strip the bark, fight the occasional ravener from the wastes or make a sacrifice to the yascheritsi, knocking a healthy cow, goat, or, if they were particularly angry, a person, on the head with a rock and leaving them for the strazsydlo to drag away. It's a life that a bright, clever and acquisitive child like Ledya could not bear to live, not for long after she learned she didn't have to to survive. She ran away on an absolutely terrible night to run away, cold and windy, her red hair a bright spark against the burgeoning blizzard, surviving only by being taken in by a traveling necrochemist's wagon. Her rescuer was a little disappointed to learn the child was alive, but rallied to the sudden burden and made sure Ledya survived, teaching her a little of what they knew. She was grateful, but too curious about the world to stay for long. She left at the earliest opportunity, and spent the next few years hitching from town to town, learning bits and pieces, tips and tricks, of the ways of the sneak, the bawd, the charlatan, the pilgrim, the mercenary, the agitator, the ratcatcher, the huntress, the tinker, the smith. Eventually, an ambition she'd been nurturing in her heart flaring from ember to flame at last, she returned to necrochemistry, learning enough to trick a tired and easily bribable official into issuing her a slightly-counterfeit license. A jack of all trades and master of very little, she began casting about for anyone to team up with, a partner to aid her, for her new goals and interests would make a solo career short and dangerous.
They met in front of a signboard at the edge of the market square. Started their pitch at the same time, interrupting each other. Realized this, started laughing, got a drink together. Began planning what they would do, traveling the nation and maybe even the world beyond. Pooled their savings, bought a rickety wagon and a terror bird one step from the stewpot to pull it. Began traveling together, learning the ins and outs of the business and of each other. Started a romance, realized it wouldn't work, broke it off, remained good friends and partners even closer for having made the experiment. Sortaq and Baatuman's Necrochemical Solutions became Sortaq and Baatuman's Caravan of Wonders, as they began mixing in elements of sideshow to their merchant business. The bezants and stavrata rolled in, the potions, cures and treated items rolled out. Their wagon became bigger, fancier, more loaded with magical and chemical conveniences and favors. A pair of beautiful and sturdy yzobu were purchased to pull the wagon, teeth and horns sharp, manes luxurious, coats glossy. But neither ever considered retiring. The love of the road was too strong, the poison wrapped deep around the spine.
The Caravan of Wonders rolled down the main street of Jargalant with bells ringing and horn blowing, the beasts tossing their heads proudly. Inside, Sortaq double-checked inventory, making sure everything was perfect. Above, Baatuman cracked her whip briskly above her head, calling out cheerfully to the crowd.
"Gather around, distinguished guests, friends of all descriptions and paths! My name is Baatuman! My skills are undeniable! And my lovely partner and I have wonders! Terrors! Cures! Solutions! All manner of delights and experiences for you! So gather around, gather around! With Sortaq and Baatuman, you can see the world, defy the spirits, and reach your few potential, and all for extremely reasonable prices. We guarantee it."
DocMatoi
Theoretical Lover of Girls
- Location
- within 2 hours of the White House
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Wicked Sanguine
All I Want Is Everything
- Location
- The High Desert
- Location
- St. Petersburg
...this may or may not have come up before, but what's a Rade? Ashvakrev for a raid/ride?
My imagination runs wild trying to imagine what this could be. The Slavic etymology is undeniable, but the exact word... Is it a variant of a Czech's word "strašidlo", i.e. a ghost? I suppose it could be some kind of forest spirit/unclean force, like leshy.
...is that vote still open? I'd love to read more about the necrochemists (a good scam is a good read in itself!), but if we had to choose from what else was on offer, let's see...
[x] Journal of a Yasaali businesswoman visiting Navath-Qor and the Grandest Maze, home of the Rem, on a sightseeing and trade expedition.