"Mother, may I borrow a kite?"
"Mother, could I use the aerie for a little while?"
"Mother, are the flight suits in good condition?"
"Motherrrr-"
This the constant refrain of your day, among the clash of training sabers and the slow, dutiful opening of birthday presents. You itch from top to bottom about popping open lids and diving headfirst into the contents of manifold wondrous wooden cases, but there is protocol to follow, and Jeanne told you to wait a bit more. To savor the gifts.
Between a trial flight and another you manage to acquaint yourself with Master Clavian's gifts. A beautiful trio they are: A saber crafted by the man himself, offered on the steps of the chapel, as is proper, a trove focused on songs and arts of the people of Vandermeer IV, and a reinforced kite. All accompanied by a wry smile. He sure does know you well, does he? Mother beauteously grins when she sees the two of you stroll through the garden, talking about this and that fact of industry, of history. Of song. There's a reflection of how the worlds work in the melodies he teaches you. There's always an Emperor or an Empress, mad r just, alien or fellow, there's always a Company and pirates and things dwelling deep below, whether it be under strata after geological strata, aether or wet-waves, or even darker still places. There's always love, and loss.
And a lot of instructions about how to operate machinery on-tempo. How quaint! Pull-a th'lever, remove the skewer, drop the ingot down-n-n, all set to a fairly catchy melody one can play with footstomps and hhm-hmm-hmms. Mother is fond of them, you realize, often humming a few bars as she works the orrery. You wonder if there is more to the melodies for her than just a rhythm to keep. Some mnemonic element, perhaps.
Still, it's not all fun and games. Master Claivan says as much the day after your birthday as he kneels in front of you, offering you a sabertache. "Made it myself, m'sovereign." Maybe it's the chilly air of the chapel, maybe it's being called with Mother's sobriquet, but a chill ripples down your spine as you reach for the wooden hilt, with its black leather handle.
It's far heavier than the ones you are familiar with, and the blade is Khanate steel. Or at least, that's the look. Swirls and stripes of subtly different hues, glinting in the soft light. The wood feels...Ancient, carefully laced together after being reworked. Claivan stood up up with ease. "The blade is prize steel from the Company's gendarmes, trophy from the last ten years." You remember your reflection in the blade, distorted yet so very harmonious. Was Mother, was Jeanne given something like this? A customary gift, a reminder of pacts made.
Claivan answers your questions, but not directly. The day after he takes you by carriage to Drakenfell, or rather, to one of the nearby fields. All while explaining to you this whole democracy thing.
"So, you were elected, but the old mayor vouched for you?"
"Mhh-mhh."
Master Claivan furrows his greying brows as the carriage bumps slightly upwards, making you jolt slightly in your seat. The whole machine has this bad habit of vibrating, purring, rumbling and worst of all, smelling, like some sort of metalic war-beast from one of Mother's troves. "It's how it goes. And for what it's worth, my opponent was endorsed by the Company."
Soon you reach an expanse of salt pillars and dunes that were once shaped by oceans. Here, the junks of some of the greatest pirate ships lay, chained and stapled to the ground. Or, well, what remains of them after decades of strip-salvaging. Really, it's just several overturned if beautiful hulls, their multicolored paintjobs flaking under aetherial winds. In a way the whole place looks like a flock of plum drunk parrots gone belly-up, with the occasional flash of landing gear and maneuvering fins acting as stand-ins for curled talons. "That's the Cleave, Autumnal Skies In Waiting'', says your guide, gesturing to an Auroran Golden Eagle that's still nestled within a wooden launch pod, itself attached to the rails of a hangar. You wonder how a machine from Ophelia's people found its way here, but then again, pirates are masters of making-do. "'s pilot was Clairvoyant Coppelius of Spring Court. Was a right hellion, up until he raided the wrong settlement." You lift the saber. There is a small thread of gold woven into the hilt, probably coming from the leaf-like gilding on the backwards-swept wings of the interceptor. Which was salvaged, alongside the rest of the crystals and gold.
Another thread, another ship. "The Blackwake, by...Some necromant from the Moire. Crossed paths with one 'f Madame's ancestors." Hah. Mother and Jeanne may not brag about it, but you are sure Greykaisch's batteries can and still will nail some uppity sky-scoundrel out of the ather, damaged or not.
Still, what a melting pot of piratical influences. A literal one, at that. Claivan goes on to routinely take you on walks throughout this trophy field, each ribbon of steel in your blade yet another reminder that his people will rise up against the worst the sky has to offer. Hardship seems to be in their nature, after all.
Carving crystals and dredging metal out of ol' gassy aren't easy tasks, and while Claivan carries himself with the languid long stride of a seasoned aetherfarer he's got manifold scars. Some of them he's proud of, it seems- Including one he got from tangling with a bigger, nastier version of one of the eels you saw in the lake- Others… Well.
"Always double check yer knots, kiddo. Especially if they're iron-fiber rope." He tells you, one day while strolling through the inner gardens. Master Claivan massages his elbow as he does so, an ugly ring of mottled flesh around it. "Stupidity an' pride can cost you as much as a well-prepared pirate lord or a dragon."
Speaking of the latter, he finally shows you around Drakenfell one misty morning, two months or so past your first birthday. Your limbs still aching from an intense saber training session, the two of you embark on the spiral path to the hamlet.
Its wooden cottages rising multiple floors above grey dunes and curling smooth stone formations, eerily similar to the ones you've glimpsed below-water. And speaking of water, it's a constant presence. From the collector basins carved into the hills to the snaking paths used by small barges, to the drip-drip of the gutters bolted below black-shingle roofs. "Supposedly, it keeps dragons at bay. "
You've seen dragons before, even in the lack-of-flesh. The bones that adorn the bottom levels of the castle, tastefully built into the schist murals, the skulls gilded. But what you've never seen is a whole specimen, and a middling one at that. Well, most of a whole specimen. You can recognize its six limbs under all the steel struts and outflow pumps and water silos, the grey bone so similar to tuff. They've been caged in a blackiron armature. "We made it", proudly declares Master Claivan. Then he corrects himself as he leads you down rickety wooden steps. "At least, my ancestors did." He gestures to some of the empty wooden platforms around the crater, their sequoia lamp posts covered in fine carvings. So fine, in fact, that you can't even pick them out. "Brought the beastie down with half a hour of flakfire, and then worked it over with the pneums." Indeed they did, and you even heard a few songs about it. You didn't know one could come up with so many appellatives and expletives for a dragon, and slaying these is supposed to be your job. Interesting!
You don't doubt how they managed it, for you see see youths half your age playing in the courtyards and gardens and catwalks, chasing each other with wooden swords, pikes made out of branches, stone clubs and quainter still weapons, such as air rifles and even the occasionally blinding fusill. Often they tumble and fall and get up laughing under the watchful eyes of scarred matrons in leather aprons. Soon, you'll join them. Soon.
But! Not before coming up with a less.. Openly flashy outfit. Something more navy blue and rough-looking, like Jeanne's saloupettes. You spend a few days perfecting the feel of the fabric and its padding, for you know the rocks are not forgiving like those of the Kaisch. And to get that perfect scent of industry going, you trial-run the design by visiting the fabled lower levels. Finally you can visit them, now that you are ten.
"Urgh, really. You want to smell?"
Jeanne is almost incredolous, but acquiesces to taking you downstairs. She frowns as she stalks down smooth limestone steps, the light shining forth from your panopoly illuminating her heels. Every now and then she hhms to some castle-query, waving it away piquedly, the two of you slinking deeper and deeper into some sort of dusk-like atmosphere. It is odd, seeing furniture covered in thick drapes treated with some alchemical oils to prevent spillage. That is, on top of a whole host of other measures to preserve their beauty. You aren't sure you want to smell like mothballs, but c'est la vie.
Such a static smell fits the halls you...Trespass in? Yes, the term comes to mind. Rows and rows of silent living rooms, dining halls, a dozen or so smaller orreries to fit who-knows-what function of the castle. Between the smooth archways small stunted oaks- Barely taller than Mother- Stand, stone planters sculpted with gossamer-thin depictions of leafs. Most of them you don't recognize, but on a closer look some do match the flora of the gardens. Such a place of life, this once was. Now? Not even your footsteps seem to break the stasis. Jeanne frowns as you go deeper still, sadness slowly crevassing her features. "There is a lack, here", she mumbles unquiet. You understand.
For the castellans of times past used to hold court surrounded by the beasts that now prowl the woods of the kaisch, and stranger things still. Your Mother and Jeanne'd told you about the former, but had neglected to mention some of the weirder creatures their ancestors had surrounded themselves with, such as winged lions adorned like kings, armored beetles the size of horses, and even the odd drake from the Void, looking like a sinuous serpent of pure midnight. All these and more are represented on tapestries, on oil paintings that show hunts and fetes in some distant world. Jeanne turns her nose to them, hhmping as she leads you to a great spiral staircase sculpted in some veined grey rock. There's darkness at the bottom. The sound of dripping water.
Now you are trespassing, you realize. A chill down your spine, but sharper than when Claivan called you "Sovereign." Is this..Fear? Expectation?
...Nah. Can't be fear. You are brave. Fearless. No hypogean midnight shall go unexplored. Did you not dive deep into alien waters, to admire beauty below? Why hesitate now, when you are side by side with your sister, in your ancestral home? This too one day shall be yours.
Your fingers find the smooth surface of the panopoly, and then, darkness. It's, you don't even realize you did it. Why you did it? You take a few steps down the staircase, one hand reaching out for Jeanne's, the other for the wall. The cool, almost chilly stone is utterly bleamishless, worked away by...Aeons of erosion. Soon, descending, slowly, step by step, you realize the reason why you turned off the lights.
They wouldn't carry you far. You'd need something like the cowl you shaped back then to see, and even then, even then there is no natural sunlight, no matter how feeble, down here. No. Jeanne begins humming something the moment you reach the bottom of the staircase, but you don't recognize the melody. It's simple, three ascending bars, silence, repeat. You keep your firm grip in hers, eyes adjusting to the spaces.
Or, well, the hint of spaces. You are in a cavernous corridor, a monumental space that could easily house a whole crowd walking shoulder by shoulder, then some. Here the archways are held up by pillars carved into the very heart-rock of the moon, and indeed they are wholly columns, such as the ones you've seen in the chapel. There are no stained glass windows here, no chandeliers, though. Just the hints of massive spaces, barely even felt through the lack of light. Here and there inset quartzite lamps the size of a person cast an anemic glow, just enough to make up the barest limits of rooms you've no name for. Many of them seem wholly empty for some reason, while others house machinery and furniture of all sizes. Working spaces, you think. The scents that cling to them are alien, but parallel to these you've found in Drakenfell. Chemicals? Sharp, despite the years spent lingering. Metallic. Every now and then you feel Jeanne clear her throat or sniffle, her grip tightening. Work-rooms must be playing a mess with her nose, you think.
At least there is silence, here. Not even your footsteps break it. Slowly you cross the corridor, to emerge into a wide balcony.
Past it, there are caverns.
They are not empty. They are not still.
And they are not lifeless.
Speleothems threaded with ivy with purple leaves, colonies of glowing lichens thrumming with a cyan hue seeded between the spaces left by networks of roots so dense as to be like thread. This organic tapestry creeps like nuptial veils from the ceiling, the vines swaying slightly in a wind that maybe isn't there, their bottom lost amidst forests of waist-high fungi. A few specimen dwarf everything else there, sloughing slippery-looking things that loom over smoothened rock. Here in the dim, creatures hunt by sound and scent.
You can see centipedes languidly writhe in the nooks and crannies of the mushrooms, their segmented plates almost identical to the surrounding rocks. They're all but the length of rooms, and they are left undisturbed by the jellyfish-like things that graze over murky ponds, feeding on the fluorescent bulbs of lake-flowers.
Your first steps are hesitant. The staircases are slick, and to fall, to tumble down while so close to...All this? It would be beyond improper. Beyond awkward. So you take each step with caution, one hand fixed to the balaustre. Now that there's some light you can afford to walk faster, though. You can afford to-
Wait-
Jeanne? You realize you've let go of her rrrright when you hit the bottom of the stairs. Dang. Where is she? Quickly turning around, you witness her casually strolling down, eyes black pits. Uhm. Your sister's shoulders are tense, hands clenched. She stops a few meters before you, gesturing at the..Garden? Yes, a garden. As above, as below.
This too shall one day be yours.
...No.
This is yours. You walk forth, onto a carpet of dead moss and fungal remains, unbothered by the sharp scents. The beasts stir, but you understand that they can not harm you, monstrous as they look. They too are a transplant, a case study. They too are tame. So you walk. You walk down spiraling paths, under vaulted ceilings covered in sleeping leathery forms. You walk past the steel frames of gazebos long overrun by ivy. You walk, and your footsteps are lost amidst the distant hum and thrum of hypogean rivers. Are they tributaries of the ones above? And if so, how far does all of this reach, into the mantle, into the crust? Could you walk to the very core of this moonlet, of your whole world so far?
You think on these questions while strolling, and step by step you turn to a meadow, and in the meadow, there's something. A statue, completely hidden by creeping vines, by leaves. On a pedestal that's easily taller than you are, but not hard to climb. Your hands find purchase on the smooth stone, soon leaving you to stand head to chest. There, set within marble greyed by time and air, there is a panopoly.
Or at least, the semblance of one. You reach out to touch the gem, the diamond-shape, all for a lark.
No.
……………...Or not.
Jeanne catches up with you a few minutes later. She's nearly on the verge of tears for some reason, so you uuh, well, you keep silent. You just hug her, and don't stop until you're above the stairs, and don't let go of her hand until you're up and above and she takes a moment to wipe away the tears. Then it's, back to normal. She idly comments on the lights, on the musty scents, but you remain silent. You nod.
You don't tell Mother either. No. You think they've, well, got enough on their mind as-is. You just have dinner, as usual, make small talk about the business in Drakenfell, about the foundries, Claivan explaining to you the refining process and the way metals are shipped to the fey kingdoms for treatment. All interesting things, really. But, they are dwarfed by one thing.
So when you lay your head on your cushions, when you pull the covers up to your chin, you wait. You wait until there is total silence. Then the panopoly is in your palm, fetched from the depths of your pajamas. You stare at it, at the crystal, soft planetlight spearing through the frilly curtains of your room.
A question is in your mind.
You don't need to voice it.
Why?
Because that choice is yet to be made.
Very well, then.
The panopoly doesn't speak to you after that. You wisely decide to not prod it further, and to keep away from asking why Jeanne was crying all the same. After all, you've much to do. For starters, there's a whole new undergarden to explore, and friends to make, and things to discover! Not in that precise order.
Your days begin to blur one into another, and soon months pass. Soon, under Claivan's guidance, you are introduced to the good folks of Drakenfell. A litany of clan-names and minor Houses, some of them fey, some of them folks with the same stone-hued skin tones of Master Claivan. All of them quite hands on: It's not long before you end up in a scrap with some of the local youths, who mistook your prim and proper looks for softness. A group of older kids and a few hangers-ons surround you in one courtyard one day, heads covered by leather cowls a few sizes too big. Their leader is far too loud in calling you out. "Ey, ya got lost?", he growls at you, holding a wooden mallet. Two reedy kids stand behind him, wielding antique blinding fuisiliers. None of this can wound you, but you still can get biffed up real good.
So…[What do?}
[] Write A Plan.
GM Considerations:
-You can chain together any number of actions, such as challenging the leader and then wrecking his face, or challenging him then fleeing, or just fleeing. And then ask for a roll. Or multiple ones, but the more detailed a plan is, the more likely Abelard is to trip up at some point, esp with their current stats.
-Check Abelard's inventory for their belongings. They can help you with this situation.
