[X] an exploration and recovery job--some jerk's caravan got wrecked in the Yasherits Forest, deep enough that only hardcases like us, or, you know, a military detachment, could go get the valuables from inside it.
[X] Mention your meeting with Steele. Maybe they'll be interested, or have advice for you?
[X] Plan Pawn Stars
"I can see, it just takes a sec--there we go. Thanks for the fuckin' darksight-on-delay, D--Chemosh. No way that could possibly get me killed or anything."
You've had burnt Chelqathi coffee, and also some poisons, less bitter than her voice just then. After a second more she shakes herself, feathers ruffling.
Chemosh is a God's name, although possibly not a god in this setting, and it sounds like she was about to say Dad. Is Steele a (Demi-)goddess?!
Second, our sin-scent has surprised several people who would have probably interacted with Locusts before. Is it a rare mutation or unusually strong for us compared to others?
So, just finished reading this, and I have two questions.
First.
Chemosh is a God's name, although possibly not a god in this setting, and it sounds like she was about to say Dad. Is Steele a (Demi-)goddess?!
Second, our sin-scent has surprised several people who would have probably interacted with Locusts before. Is it a rare mutation or unusually strong for us compared to others?
Welcome aboard!
No comment on the first one 🤫
And second, people, when they think about sin-scent, tend to associate it with Devils: Some people, remembering Locusts have it, is like when you find out there's a medieval English version of lasagna: it's a familiar thing in not the place you really first think of, even though it has just as much right to be there. In addition, it's like how the one vampire Watch officer in Discworld doesn't talk about how she can detect living things by their heartbeat--a functional business relationship doesn't often stray into "here let me discuss in depth my secret tactics and strengths" territory.
[X] an exploration and recovery job--some jerk's caravan got wrecked in the Yasherits Forest, deep enough that only hardcases like us, or, you know, a military detachment, could go get the valuables from inside it.
[X] No need to press further on the Augur's time and patience. Just leave.
[X] Plan Pawn Stars
-[X] SELL: Bejeweled Pectoral, Funerary Flail, Little Jar Of Coins, Nashaxi Cylinder Jezail, Yasaali Kheferu Saber
-[X] KEEP: Nashaxi Beastspear, Blade Of Uncertain Origin, "Incomplete Mountebank's Raiment," "DHALLROSE," Cartographer Bees' Nest
-[X] SACRIFICE: Set of Knives, Net of Chains
First things first, unfortunately. You're already here, in 'Little Vespergren,' where it stands to reason that there's a shrine to make offering at. The Tribulations let you live through this mission--that's not likely to happen again if you don't show them how you appreciate it. You head for the Embassy.
That Seventh, Clatterer, is at the front desk, the ropes of charms and trophies, combined with the strange typewriter-like engines spewing strips of paper that they wear strapped around their body, giving clear rise to the name. They look up from their ledgers as you approach, face unreadable beyond the bird-skull mask they wear.
"The Grail! So soon your return. The city seems well to agree with you, you have gained clearly in goods and in wisdom as well. Seek you employment?"
"Not this time, boss," you reply, clasping a hand to the seam of reattachment on your upper arm. "I'm looking for the nearest shrine."
They nod sagely. "Of course. Directly down this hall at the end it will be," they point with a quill-pen.
You nod briefly in acknowledgement, before setting down the hall towards the shrine.
All shrines to the Tribulations have similar energies, and this one is no different. A tall, cylindrical room with a conical ceiling, the floor staggers down in uneven, jagged steps to the three altars of your three gods. The walls are covered in stone carvings showing the bloody triumph of the Tribulations, interspersed with cubbies for bones, trophies and artifacts, and the carvings and floor are randomly studded with candles, providing flickering light and a reason to watch your step, lest you incur a particularly persistent wound out of your own foolishness.
Each altar is a squat stone plinth covered in shelves, surrounded by cubbies and bearing a statue, and before each plinth is a large round pit in the ground with no visible bottom.
Xhaal's statue rises up proud, half a corpse in each of his six claws, howling defiance at the ceiling, which bears a statue of him upside down and snarling as if at his own self, and a low grinding growl rises from his pit, the sides of which are slick and red, perpetually bloodsoaked.
Damalu's statue rises up and hunches over, defending the intricate device in two of her arms, the other four bearing a compass, a bowl of cold yellow fire, a chatelaine and a head held by the hair. Gemstone eyes glitter under her hood, and her pit has constantly rotating rusty metallic walls, emitting a constant ticking.
Rhakui's statue emerges, gaunt and disemboweled and with massive, moony eyes, from a stylized pile that could be corpses and could be a forested mountain. A distant, windy howl rises from its pit, which has frosted-over sides and a rim of icicles resembling teeth, despite the warmth of the room.
Rhakui did not save you, not this time. You made it through thanks to manipulation (friendship, a voice you can't afford to listen to in the presence of gods insists) and strength of arms, and so you owe only two sacrifices, to Damalu and Xhaal. The chains go into her pit, so beautiful and intricate yet cruel, flashing in the half-light before vanishing, and the knives, in all their wonderful selection of materials and styles, disappear into his, breaking apart as if gripped in a terrible hand about halfway down. The growl and ticking change, subtly, while the howl becomes petulant--they haven't found your offering wanting, it seems.
You murmur your prayer before leaving, the words taught to you since you could understand speech:
"I am Chosen, Elect, Vesakh.
The world belongs to me, if I hold the will in my liver to reach out and take it.
I am not satisfied. Satisfaction is for my prey.
I am not kind. Kindness is for the victims.
I do not falter. Hesitation is for the dead.
The only thing I give without strings is death.
I do unto others before I am done unto.
My hunger owns me, and I own everything I can take.
I will die standing."
It takes a while for you to leave the shrine, overtaken by the sheer swell of feeling that comes from being, however briefly, in the presence of your gods. When you do, Clatterer tips you a salute on your way out. It takes the air of outside to clear your head and turn your thought towards selling your goods.
Six-Coin Choi strikes you as the best place to sell your well-gotten gains, but you won't be asking it for work--after the Palace, you think a break from Mimics and their business is just what the sawbones ordered. You spend a couple crescents on a train ride down to the Prawn, wanting to get things done as quick as you can so you might do a little shopping with the time you have left.
Choi is enthusiastic to see you, though it seems to register how tired you are: the patter is kept to a minimum, and instead you just engage in business, brisk and efficient. -Bejeweled Pectoral
-Funerary Flail
-Jar of Coins
-Cylinder Jezail
-Kheferu Saber
-Assorted Trinkets
-Old Coat
It hurts a little to let go of the rifle and saber, but Choi assures you it'll find a good buyer and a good deal for you on other items. +765 Astrels
You consider buying another rifle--the gargoyle lifestyle appeals, after all, and it might come in handy for further adventures, but that might need to wait a little while. For now, your Fernali's a perfectly serviceable shooting-iron, and the beastspear, while lacking the fetching hook and collapsing haft of your old bill, works as a polearm. You'll keep them.
You spend some of your newfound wealth-- -5 Astrels
--on restocking food, water and supplies, before stepping out of the Vile Prawn. As the sooty air of Irontown strikes you again, you stop with a sudden realization, your eye going wide.
I forgot my damn bat!
You left your riding-bat all the way back near the Plaza of Giants. You can't go too near, for fear of getting embroiled back in the mess you left, but by traveling there quickly by ferry-- -2 Astrels
--to the edge of the island, then giving your best whistle, you may just...
"Keeee!" whump
The bat lands in the prow of the boat, prompting a curse from the ferryman, and you feed it a couple gyurma out of apology as it chirps reproachfully. A few scratches around its chin and ruff, and it lets you climb aboard. You flip the coins to the ferryman, who tips his hat at you as you take off from the deck.
The rush of flight takes ahold of you again, by now becoming familiar but still nowhere near boring as the wind whistles around your ears, and you allow yourself a laugh as you spiral into the sky.
Your next stop is your apartment, stopping your bat on the windowsill and wriggling in that way, past your traps, where you remain only long enough to stow the cattle-parts you bought from Big Yan that the Factor let you take, and the cartographers'-nest you raided from Mock Vey's gardens. You're not sure why you kept this, but you'll probably find a use for this. The bloody meat's smell makes your mouth water as you tuck it into the stop-chest, but you resist--you'll find food when you go to meet Steele, you assume.
Returning to the bat, you sail off, heading towards the intersection of Balaam and Rio Nieves, as requested. It's higher up on the actual pillar than Little Vespergren, your apartment or even the train station are, with a more vertiginous arrangement for its streets. They have ledges, with low fences, switchbacking and spiraling up the titanic stalagmite's natural slope. It feels nice and familiar as you bank your bat towards the intersection--that familiarity helps combat the nervousness that rises in you as you see where Steele's asked you to meet.
The intersection is a tall building, maybe six stories, the corner of a joint of structure that blockily hugs the rise of the stalagmite. Magenta and blue neon tubing proclaims it to be the Fourteenth Scale. A gargoyle hangs on the outside, wearing a white-and-red poncho rather than the leather coat you'd usually expect, but still with the massive rifle, and a few child-sized bats with the eyes and tentacles of squid--desondu, you remember from the taxi service topside--circle the upper floors, perching on little wooden spars every so often. Lively, exciting music spills out from the open doors--strings and horns and a keyboard producing a swinging beat that has you tarsal-tapping in your stirrups. To the left appears to be some kind of stable, and you land near it. A human in a red vest approaches you, holding a lead.
"Stable your bat? 5 bits an hour."
You hand her two crescents as you hop off, enough for four hours.
"Be careful," you reply, raising a brow. She swallows.
"Y-yes ma'am!"
You give the bat some more scratches and another fragment of gyurma. Hopefully some nice stable service will make up for leaving it alone for almost twelve hours.
Stepping inside the Fourteenth Scale, a blast of laughter, enjoyment, plotting, relief, music, liquor, smoke and food hits all your senses at once, and you almost stagger before stepping further in. The center of the floor is sunken to form a large area that several couples and individuals are dancing on, while to the left, beyond some tables and chairs, is a stage bearing a band mostly made up of Chelqathi humans and a single Oriza, to the right are multiple booths, and straight ahead is a massive bar decorated with a stuffed multicolored serpent hung from the ceiling, and dragon-scales hammered into the front of the counter. Staircases wind up to higher balconies with more people, the space going up three floors with a mural made of glowing lights and mirror tiles spread across the ceiling. Dark wood, mirrors, reptilian imagery and little lights are everywhere. It's loud, and clean, and several people are looking at you, but you're not gonna be intimidated by it.
On the way up to the bar, a beautiful Erzan-Oriza-human hybrid, dressed like a Nashaxi with bared, scarred biceps and ornate gauntlets, stumbles into you, spilling a glass of kill-devil. A pendant, a tooth or tusk carved into a four-armed representation of what looks a lot like a Vesakh woman, swings out from her shirt, catching your eye even as you dodge. Only your incredible reflexes let you pirouette out of the way, letting the fortified rum cocktail splash to the floorboards, and you continue your revolution to wheel on the fool.
"You want to watch your step, vraphik?" you half-snarl, shaking your spurs free of the cuffs. But, instead of drawing hands like you'd half expect, she looks up at you with watery eyes.
"Oh, stars, I'm sorry, I'm just--"
The fighting instinct drains as you see and smell her true state--inebriated and overemotional.
"I... it's fine," you mutter, thrown off keel. "Just... be careful."
She sniffs and nods, dithering until an unobtrusive staff member approaches. An imp of unexpected kindness has you say "Have a better day," and you turn and move towards the bar as if fleeing her quiet word of "thank you."
The bartender, a Teuthis in a purple vest over their dark brown chitin, clicks their mandibles sympathetically.
"Ah, poor Berrak. I should really cut her off, come to think of it. Thank you for staying your hand there." They lean in to whisper conspiratorially, "Lost love, I think it is. You understand."
You don--you do, actually. You've lost some people you cared for. They may or may not still be alive, but they're currently lost to you. You can give Berrak the benefit of the doubt for that alone. That pendant... definitely a story, there.
You nod, before cracking your knuckles and leaning on the bar. More scales have been hammered into the edge of the dark wood.
"I'm looking for someone I was supposed to meet here, name of Steele? Ar--"
The bartender excitedly cuts you off.
"Oh, of course! She's a regular! She's up on the second floor. You're Grail?"
You hesitantly nod.
"She told us to be expecting you! She's got your tab, and bought you this ahead of time, too."
They reach under the bar and pass you a frosty cold bottle labeled "SKULL TRICK".
"On the house."
You accept the bottle with a nod, slipping a pair of crescents across the bar before heading up. -2 crescents
SKULL TRICK turns out to be a mildly poisoned ale, brewed with ingredients that would make a human or Erzan vomit but provide a lovely herbaceous tingle for Devils or your own people, one of many extra-toxic liquors for the iron-livered customer. It doesn't smell of anything worse than delicious toxic botanicals, like eyeweed tea, so you take a swig as you ascend the stairs, casting your gaze around for Steele. The second balcony is full of booths, tables, and a few game tables, half-full of people chatting, playing and looking down at the dance floor, and you quickly find your prospective partner.
She's sat in a cozy, spacious corner booth, taking up a good third of it, and spread out on the table is a map, a bottle of wine, and several plates of food. A plate of mussels in spicy sauce, a basket of crispy fried bird, a platter of bright vinegar-drizzled vegetables and cheeses, and an entire cured pork sausage. Your eyes widen and your mouth waters, and a second later you've slid into the booth opposite her. She laughs at the sight of you, spreading a hand in a gesture of welcome.
"Hey, glad you made it early, this stuff just got here! Help yourself."
You don't have to be told twice. Your hands flash out, quickly grabbing pieces of food and stacking them on your plate rather than just stuffing your face. You can't just be an animal here, in this place, in front of her. For professional reasons. Yes.
Steele grabs herself some food, and the two of you eat in companionable silence, only commenting on the goodness of the food or saving a morsel for the other.
Eventually, what's left is bones and smears, swiftly whisked away by a passing waiter. The howling animal in your belly is as quiet and content as it can be. Steele belches, stretches and grins, before leaning forward over the table. She spreads out the map over the cleared table, pours herself a glass of wine, and salts it heavily before taking a swig. The map is of Iash Qoma and its immediate environs, and to the west of the crater is the great dark smear of the Yasherits Forest.
"Alright, bud," she begins, armored fingertip tapping the entrance of the forest. "Let's talk business."
As opposed to all those ales that aren't toxic and don't make people vomit?
Loved the chapter, the shrine scene was delightfully descriptive, and the locust creed gave me chills and also anticipation for the next time grail breaks it
"I'm looking for someone I was supposed to meet here, name of Steele? Ar--"
The bartender excitedly cuts you off.
"Oh, of course! She's a regular! She's up on the second floor. You're Grail?"
You hesitantly nod.
"She told us to be expecting you! She's got your tab, and bought you this ahead of time, too."
They reach under the bar and pass you a frosty cold bottle labeled "SKULL TRICK".
"On the house."
You accept the bottle with a nod, slipping a pair of crescents across the bar before heading up. -2 crescents
SKULL TRICK is apparently a mildly toxic ale, brewed with ingredients that would make a human or Erzan vomit but provide a lovely herbaceous tingle for you. You take a swig as you ascend the stairs, casting your gaze around for Steele.
I know if it were dangerous, the bottle would melt sooner than a Vesakh stomach, but I would expect poisonous concoctions to be one of the more effective ways to kill off Locusts. It is unwise to accept gifts from strangers without confirming that Steele is present, that she was the one who bought it, and that the guy who gave it to us really works here.
The sin sense would likely warn us about possible assassination attempts most of the time, but if we keep making influental enemies we best make our paranoia keep up as well.
As opposed to all those ales that aren't toxic and don't make people vomit?
Loved the chapter, the shrine scene was delightfully descriptive, and the locust creed gave me chills and also anticipation for the next time grail breaks it
i mean yeah but also it can generally be assumed that if someone goes out of their way to tell you a beer is toxic that probably means something more than a high ABV
It would have been dreadfully shortsighted of the Tribulations to grant the Vesakh the means and the hunger to devour everyone and everything, and not include poison and disease and parasite resistance. Since they weren't, it's not a problem.
It would have been dreadfully shortsighted of the Tribulations to grant the Vesakh the means and the hunger to devour everyone and everything, and not include poison and disease and parasite resistance. Since they weren't, it's not a problem.
Honestly, given Damalu's tendency towards internal mutations, and aalso that whole Goddess of Schemes thing, I could see it being a Secret Contingency 2000IQ play
Wineday 13th of Fading Sun. Two days after the Vesakh Thrice-Pierced Chalice of Eternal Regard arrived in the city of Iash Qoma.
THE WARMONGER EXILE Carrock Flats, about two hundred and twenty wheels outside Iash Qoma.
Even in exile, far from any city, far from home, discipline remains. Throughout the fortified camp in the shadow of the great sheared-off ridge, the sound of training drums can be heard, echoing off the stone and between the tents and huts. On the makeshift parade ground, soldiers, human, Oriza, and Erzan, wearing worn fatigues with black mantles overtop, drill with rifle and spear, pistol and axe and estoc, training for the battle their leader knows is inevitable. On each of their tatter-edged mantles, and on the black banners that fly above the camp, is the sign of their leader, the stylized, tooth-spiked jaws of a great shark.
Luca Vaeres rides to camp from the direction of the city, coat flapping behind them, trailing dust behind their wheels, roar of the engine cutting through the beat of the drums. They bring it to a stop at the edge of camp and hop off, raising their driving goggles to reveal a scarred face and eyepatch, and make a beeline for the second-largest tent. The guards hurry to salute.
"Captain Vaeres! You're back! The General's been expecting you!"
"I know. I have much to report."
The two part, letting the Captain into the tent.
The weapons of the Vesakh show a surprising, if bloody-minded and ominous, artistry, despite their size and brutality, and their use as decor within the tent, between braziers, tables and the sand table, adds to a sense of martial glamor. Stooped over the table, carefully moving little figurines around representations of rivers and plains with thick, pallid, clawed fingers, is Luca's superior, the man they followed into exile, the man they'd die for.
"General Orsus, sir!" they announce themselves, saluting crisply. "I've returned from Qoma, with bad news."
Khrizhan Orsus, the Shark General, looks up from the map. The dark coat over his shoulders makes him look even bigger, an unusually pallid Oriza man big even for his people, black quills framing oversized teeth and black, glossy eyes beneath a peaked cap. Despite his ferocious, scarred visage and Luca's grim announcement, his smile is genuine.
"Luca. I'm glad you're safe. Bad news from Qoma, eh? Imagine my surprise."
"I know, sir. We shouldn't have expected more. But the Factor has denied us. We'll see no support from that quarter."
Orsus's smile doesn't leave, and Luca falters.
"You don't seem surprised or disappointed, sir. Might I hazard that that means good news?"
"You know me so well, Luca. Don't worry about the Factor. I've ensured that aid will come from Dis, no matter what that washed-up little smuggler has to say about it."
Luca finds themselves smiling to match their boss.
"So the plan--"
"The plan, Luca, proceeds apace. Soon, we'll have enough to proceed."
"They're beating the war-gongs back in the Mountain, sir, I checked the news in Qoma. It seems that they're coming around to our cause."
"As I expected. Not even the Council can deny the threat of the damn scrapers for long. We'll be heroes yet, Luca."
"I'm with you to the end of the line, sir."
Khrizhan Orsus moves to the entrance of the tent, pushing the flap aside to get a sight of the night sky, ignoring the saluting of his guards. Luca follows, gazing reverently up at the General as he speaks, almost to himself:
"Every last godsdamned Locust will die. And the Continent will be free."
THE DEATH COUNTER Vespergrenite Embassy, the Rise, Iash Qoma.
March of Time Broken Upon An Endless Wheel, called Dial, looks around at her office. The contractors, thankfully, moved with the alacrity and nervousness that anyone hired by a Vesakh moves with if they want to be hired by anyone, ever again, and so the damage of the Cicada attack is invisible to the naked eye. Sin-scent, of course, lets her taste the remnant bits of broken masonry and charred wood and plaster, hidden by repairs and new construction, but it'll pass for now.
She can't procrastinate any longer. She looks down, reluctantly, at the urgent-marked, double-coded, booby-trapped file dropped off recently by one of her most elite operatives. It's simple enough to disarm, open, disarm again, and decode the thing, where she learns what she had already been hoping wasn't true. Whether in the fortified halls of the Confederacy or the corpse-strewn vaults of the Territories, the opulent parlors of Pandemonium, the stark offices of Dis, the gilded salons of Yasaal or the frigid crypts of Noster, the consensus is unanimous--the Continent is going to war. Some will be explicitly drumming up armies and marching, others will be backing their favorite ezzaldiak with under-the-table aid. But war is coming to everyone, everywhere.
Dial is not the highest-placed Vesakh in Vespergren's ever-shifting rankings, but she's not outranked by many. She's strong, at home and here, with dealings in Iash Qoma's underworld giving her the power and resources that her job as ambassador doesn't provide. War will be profitable, if she's as clever and vicious as she's proven she can be. But for some reason, this one scares her. The actual Territories, as nations, have never declared war. It threatens the homelands of her people in a way that the Rades never did, makes their very infrastructure culpable. It's a gamble that may not pay off. And she's going to need to put all her chips in play to ensure that the structures that have kept her in power either remain intact or break in an even more profitable way.
Sighing, she picks up the speaking tube.
"Clatterer? Get me on the echo with the home office. We have a war to prepare for."
THE SMILING THIEF The Aureus Club, the Cap, Iash Qoma.
The mountain that tops the central pillar of Iash Qoma is some of the city's most valuable, hotly-contested real estate. The most important palaces and hotels, the entrances for the most prestigious complexes, the highest-value mercantile pursuits--all enjoy broad daylight and the weather of the surface thanks to their position on the island in a sea of empty space. Their magnificent towers and brooding walls rise from sharply-angled slopes of stone or tiers cut into the mountain's sides. One of the airship docks is here, too, where the most urgent or prosperous vehicles stop. And, connected to that prosperous dock, is one of the most exclusive gathering-places in the entire city, an edifice of gleaming stone and gilded detailing, a sparkling solarium, magnificent statues and shining facade advertising its rarified quality to all and sundry.
The Aureus Club.
Inside a private room, wooden walls carved and enameled to depict scenes of history--the killing of Yasaal's gods, the ascension of Saint Mornvieva, the killing of Rough Beast and imprisonment of Flint--sits an absolutely beautiful person, dressed and posed as if to say "Yes, I know I'm beautiful." Light brown skin and ash-blonde hair suggest a rarified blend of ancestries, while gold-and-white horns and an eye colored like melting coins instead suggest a Devilish nature. Tailored white and gold clothing, in its turn, suggests they have money to burn and an eye for the finer things, and the electrum patch over the other eye confirms that, as well as how they might have earned that money. CL Braganza, known as the Celebrant, yawns extravagantly and takes a sip of their tea before addressing their guest across the table.
"And why should I care about some baby Locust fresh off the spire?"
The figure sitting across from CL is mostly forgettable. Forgettably grey and shabby suit, forgettably brown and calloused hands, forgettably average in height and build. Only the leafy branch hanging in front of her face, suspended, seemingly, from nothing, and obscuring her features, is at all remarkable.
"The rash of break-ins and goings-on involving significant figures just after her arrival. The Scab Palace, Archas Steele, Big Yan, the Factor, even a Crow Brother. What do they all have in common? This Locust. Grail, her use-name is."
"I presume you're here because you want her dealt with, or else we may need to have words. My darling Bellona isn't here right now--finishing with a previous client--but I'm sure she'd love to address your concerns."
"I had been wondering. Yes, but for a certain value of 'dealt with.' We want her followed. Eyes kept open. Movement tracked. Steele too, or whoever she chooses to travel with. Steele's presence is why we came to you--we understand you have history?"
CL smiles, a sight to make those unfamiliar swoon and flutter, and those who know them look for exits, or a particularly fine liquor to appease them.
"Indeed we do. So, keep an eye on the little baby bug and her big brawny friend."
The woman slides a Two-Way Pad, a pad of paper that replicates anything that happens to it on a twin, and an envelope thick with what CL can be fairly confident is banknotes.
"Yes, and report back regularly. Our interests intertwine closely with the kind of business a new, aggressive player can disrupt. If push comes to shove, track Steele first--but we want eyes on the Locust."
"If her business turns out to be related to yours?" CL probes.
"Recruit her."
"Adversely?" they push.
"Kill her."
CL's smile remains steady as they scoop the envelope towards themselves with a gunmetal-and-gold artificial hand. The other, flesh-and-blood but glittering with rings, extends for a shake.
"You have yourself a deal. Grail's all ours."
"Blood shall be shed in a spired place," the words of prophecy come spilling from their mouth, in a distant, resonant tone as if speaking from within a large bell. "It will flood the world and not cleanse it. The Falling Star, the Smiling Thief, the Walking Wound, the Rain-Glutton. With every friend comes an enemy. Not every enemy begets an ally. Everything you do feeds into everything else. Count the cost. Hate is meat. Greed is drink. Step carefully. Step carefully..."
Probably, or just Iash Qoma itself. "Blood will be shed" probably means General Cide up there and his goal of wiping out all locusts, and the war he wages will spread first to the other vesakh territories, and then the rest of the continent. "Flood the world, and not cleanse it."
Racing Steele to the surface, her flying under her own power and you on bat-back, is the most fun you've had flying so far, and you love flight. She wins, obviously--more experience, less burden, more agility, and she throws on that boost of speed from her magic--but chasing her between the spires and bridges as you catch thermals and soar on the currents was simply exhilarating. The two of you, riding the wind and defying gravity on your way out of the crater--that's not a moment you'll soon forget, no matter what happens on this little expedition. You catch the rays of early morning sun as you clear the Rim, coasting on Irontown's thermal to make it to the northwestern edge of the city. The titanic waterfall known as the Falling Lock takes up the westernmost edge of the crater, the River Malkoak thundering over the edge into the Unfound Sea below, the machines that help ships ascend and descend it audible and visible even from here, and beyond its curiously opaque waters stretch the dark green shadows of your destination--the Yasherits Forest.
Back in the Fourteenth Scale, Steele'd laid the whole mission out for you--or, well, as much as you needed to work together. You're certain that there's both more she didn't tell you, and more that she wasn't told--who gives a mercenary all the details? Nobody that'd survive long enough to the point where they could hire someone like you, let alone a real hardcase like Steele.
"Alright, so. The Yasherits Forest is where the city gets a lot of wood and boar," she'd began, clearing the empty gnawed-clean dishes so she could show you the map.
"Lumber, game, even bronzewood, and I think there's some kind of ruin or something that we occasionally see bits and pieces from. However, we only get that in the first place because we bargain with the Yasheritsi."
You opened your mouth, and she'd rapped the table sharply.
"Nuh, I was getting there. Hold your ezzes. So they're uh. Kinda lizard-y, and they control the forest. Not just politically, but like our 'friend' from earlier controls the Scab Palace. Controlled? Not sure what's gonna happen to it. Anyway, the point stands. We don't know a whole lot about them, but they control the forest, they demand tribute in exchange for goods, and they have some scary godsdamned heavies. 'Straszydlo,' they call 'em. I've only heard about what those are like secondhand, so we're just going to take the guides' advice and stay out of their way. If we leave a few offerings--which I'll bring, don't worry--on our way in, they should let us salvage the caravan."
"So, who left their caravan in a forest full of scary plant-controlling lizards?" you'd asked, scraping the marrow from the leftover bones, then disappointedly inspecting the shards. They always give up anything good way before you're done with them...
"Good question. From what I understand, some merchant concern based in Noster but coming here from New Moloch, tried to bypass the tollroads by cutting through the forest, in much the same manner than an idiot might. They didn't obey the forest rules and have been wrecked for their pains, which is where we get to line our pockets by fixing their idiocy. It's a profitable path for the likes of us, fixing rich morons' mistakes."
"So," you'd replied, wanting to make sure you understood, "we get in there, don't act like idiots, recover the valuables from the caravan and bring them back down?"
"Got it in one, bud. We're gonna bring as much as we can, they mentioned a couple specific things but I know what they are. We play our cards right, we get some nice salvage, too. It's not as much of a treasurebox-trip as some retrieval jobs I've taken, but it's definitely gonna pay us well. And I'm all ready to go if you are."
"Ready," you'd confirmed.
She grinned, you grinned back, and you shook hands, while trying not to think about how much smaller your hand was in hers. The bargain was struck. Partners... at least for now.
In the present, you follow Steele's gold magic trail--a helpful beacon for when she's too far to register to sin-scent--to a compound of buildings, warehouses and low barracks and a few round, squat towers, defended with fence and spiked wall, on the north bank of the river, connected by ferry to the Lock's canals and by rail to the other little satellite suburbs surrounding the rim of the crater. Logs are piled here and there, and corrals and cages squeal and roar with their cargo of disgruntled boar. Big, vicious-looking brutes too, dark blue, grey or purple, with black or white brindling and excitingly brutal-looking tusks. Magicians with indigo shawls or sashes are casting some kind of calmness or sleepiness auras over the pens in shifts, keeping the things from busting through the fencing. The logs are shifted by magic, a crane, or the brute force of a few Rem, Caprid and Vesakh dockworkers onto barges or train-cars. Steele guides you down to a pair of big gates, guarded by armored riflemen, and some kind of giant rifled cannon mounted on a razorwire-topped tower.
You land the bat and jump off, after giving it some chin scratches, joining Steele, who's begun a conversation with a short, stern-looking woman in an oversized coat and peaked cap. It's chilly up here, even with direct sunlight, but a Vespergrenite childhood and this Incomplete Raiment keep you comfortable.
"...And here's my license, and she's with me," Steele's saying to her as you approach, using a wing to point at you. You sidestep--you like Steele, but you've seen those wings turn into magic-edged guillotines. Having the pinions brush at you is like having a loaded gun point in your direction.
"Hi, I'm with her," you confirm.
"Oy," the woman sighs, "I guess I don't have any reason not to let you go into the forest. Just be careful, alright? Lot of paperwork if you never come out again. Read the rules, and don't break them. Lot worse'll happen to you than the Law, up here in the woods."
Steele nods and reassures her while you drift over to where the rules are posted on a big four-sided sign, planks of wood nailed to a post sticking out of a short cairn.
CUT NO TREES WITHOUT TRIBUTE
BURN NO GREEN WOOD WITHOUT TRIBUTE
HUNT NO GAME WITHOUT TRIBUTE
EAT NO FRUIT WITHOUT TRIBUTE
DRINK NO UNBOILED WATER
FOLLOW NO LANTERN
HARM NO REPTILE
IF YOU HEAR SOMEONE YOU KNOW FROM BEHIND YOU, DON'T TURN AROUND.
FOLLOW NO NOISE OR SIGHT AFTER DARK
IF YOU WAKE UP AND IT IS BRIGHT WITHOUT MOON, RETRACE YOUR STEPS OUT AND DON'T TURN AROUND
IF YOU LOSE SOMEONE, LEAVE THEM, AND DON'T TURN AROUND
WHEN LEAVING, NEVER LOOK BACK
The rules are repeated in multiple languages and scripts, really covering the bases. Werelights orbiting the cairn ensure it's obvious and readable no matter the light conditions. You commit them to memory. A little stringent, sure, but some neighborhoods in Vespergren are just about the same. It shouldn't be hard at all to follow them.
Steele joins you at the cairn.
"All read up?" she asks. You nod.
"Ready," you confirm.
"Go ahead and bring the bat, we might need extra luggin' power," she says, and you whistle, excited to keep it around. It clambers on over on all fours, gently headbutting you in the small of the back. Steele laughs as the three of you proceed across the well-trod land at the edge of the forest, right up to the unmistakable delineation.
The trees rise up high and ominous, pines lightly dusted with snow, the shadows thick and green beyond. They seem almost like a solid wall, the darkness having a wholly different character than anything you've ever seen before. A few straggle out to the edges, but they have a different character entirely to the ones that form solid barriers around the few trails in.
"Maps won't work here," Steele murmurs, looking up at the trees. "We'll be going by instinct, like back in the Palace. So... sniff us a direction, Grail."
You proceed down
[ ] the middle path, the broadest and straightest. It bears the marks of footprints, wheels and skittercycles' legs--clearly, the loggers have recently made use of this one, and it continues deep into the forest.
[ ] the leftmost path, which immediately dips down a hill, continuing to lower ground amid the bases of the trees before curving out of sight. A chill breeze blows down this one.
[ ] the rightmost path, which skews off almost horizontally right before curving over a ridge and out of sight. The wind carries the scent of running water to you down this path.
with
[ ] Steele in lead, bat behind, Grail rearguard
[ ] Grail in lead, bat behind, Steele rearguard
[ ] Steele and Grail in lead, bat behind
Today, 2/20/21, is the 1-year anniversary of Never Full!! I'm so excited to have made it this far, and I'm so glad y'all have come with me! Here's to much longer with our girl, and the many trials she's yet to face. You and I, we'll be following Grail for a while to come. Thank you for your votes and comments, your works, support, speculation and theories! If you feel so moved, toss me something on Ko-Fi, SubStar or Patreon, or just leave a comment! I'm glad you're all with me. Thank you, and stay hungry!
[X] the rightmost path, which skews off almost horizontally right before curving over a ridge and out of sight. The wind carries the scent of running water to you down this path.
[X] Steele and Grail in lead, bat behind
Congrats on one year! Let's hope for one more!
You proceed down
[✅] the middle path, the broadest and straightest. It bears the marks of footprints, wheels and skittercycles' legs--clearly, the loggers have recently made use of this one, and it continues deep into the forest.
with
[✅] Steele and Grail in lead, bat behind
'Don't turn around' seems like a pretty clear indication that maybe we don't put ourselves in a position to be behind Steele or have her behind us, also 100% I want to meet the spooky lizard ghost mans who follow directly behind you, eat the moon for Epic Spooky Nighttime Pranks, and also use the voices of your ex-wife to Prank you
if you use a mirror to look behind you, do you see a lizard man using a mirror to look behind himself (at you)? If you turn around with your eyes closed, is that okay? Will they laugh if you tell them you gave at the office?
They have some scary godsdamned heavies. 'Straszydlo,' they call 'em. I've only heard about what those are like secondhand, so we're just going to take the guides' advice and stay out of their way.
Sounds surprisingly a lot like Leshy. The rules that essentially go "do not mess with the forest without permission and an offering" only reinforce the feeling.
From what I understand, some merchant concern based in Noster but coming here from New Moloch, tried to bypass the tollroads by cutting through the forest, in much the same manner than an idiot might.
A surprisingly sound strategy, honestly. A forest toll could be cheaper than the one they take on the roads, as the forest dwellers might care about things other than the monetary value. Then again, if it were more profitable, we'd see a lot more traffic through the forest, so if someone makes use of those routes, they are keeping quiet about it.
What surprises me is that it was a merchant concern from Noster that broke the rules. Shouldn't they know better, being surrounded by forests not unlike this one? We are also allegedly paid by them to return their stuff, but whoever hired us at least knows enough to warn us about the consequences. Then again, perhaps they turned to a local specialist once the caravan failed to arrive.
Okay, that one was a surprise. Is this a reference to the fairy tale where a disobedient little brother drank from a pool (in other sources it was rainwater pooled in a hoofprint), and turned into a baby goat?
Is polymorphing water a thing?
If there was a forest where all the folktales were true I definitely wouldn't want to go there...
CUT NO TREES WITHOUT TRIBUTE
BURN NO GREEN WOOD WITHOUT TRIBUTE
HUNT NO GAME WITHOUT TRIBUTE
EAT NO FRUIT WITHOUT TRIBUTE
FOLLOW NO LANTERN
IF YOU HEAR SOMEONE YOU KNOW FROM BEHIND YOU, DON'T TURN AROUND.
FOLLOW NO NOISE OR SIGHT AFTER DARK
IF YOU WAKE UP AND IT IS BRIGHT WITHOUT MOON, RETRACE YOUR STEPS OUT AND DON'T TURN AROUND
IF YOU LOSE SOMEONE, LEAVE THEM, AND DON'T TURN AROUND
WHEN LEAVING, NEVER LOOK BACK
Standard Leshy appeasement procedures. You are a guest, be respectful, mind your own business, and don't chase that which you don't want to catch.
Although I smell some Hades undertones there with "do not turn around" stressed over and over. A "Straszydlo" may be a slightly different beast, having more in common with undead and "unholy power".
"If you lose someone" sounds somewhat jarring, but I suppose given the nature of the forest as a living maze, your best bet is to make the offering so they are returned to you instead of actively searching for them in a place where no maps apply.
Okay, that one seems to be added for the sake of the Yasheritsi, as it doesn't correspond to any tales I know.
Does it matter which path you choose if you aren't going to arrive anywhere without the forest inhabitants' tacit or explicit approval?
[x] the rightmost path, which skews off almost horizontally right before curving over a ridge and out of sight. The wind carries the scent of running water to you down this path.
[x] Grail in lead, bat behind, Steele rearguard
Don't lose sight of the bat. A person can deal with whatever spirits are there, and we can still communicate verbally with each other. A bat can be easily taken as an offering.
The person in the back has the most chance to be messed with, which is why they should also be the more experienced one who would be unlikely to panic and more inclined to negotiate with... whatever dwells here. I can be persuaded to keep Grail as the rearguard as we'd have more control over what happens if we are "lost".
