The Dream that is Dying (Exalted)

[Maugan Ra]

The Dream that is Dying
An Exalted: Sidereals quest

WE are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.


With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.


We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Ode​

-/-

The Season of Fire has come, and all of Taira gives praise.

In Zamash, ancient capital of the realm, young men and unwed girls open their arms and spill fresh blood across plates of copper heated in the midday sun. Most shed only a few drops, but for the devout this is a time of great shriving, and the wounds they gather from branch and lash will be many weeks in healing. Their offerings smoke and bubble on the plates, swiftly claimed by the Incarnate Sun and drawn up to his palace in the sky on whispering streams of darkened smoke.

The shapes such smoke forms in the air are studied by priests in saffron robes, and as each supplicant kneels they are blessed with word of the year to come. Good fortunes are predicted for the righteous, much atonement demanded from the wicked, and on this day even the most cynical of men will pay heed to the words of the wise.

In the markets, the first traders are already hawking their wares, sallow skinned men from Nexus bickering with dusky nomads in silk of rainbow hues. They bargain on the steps of great pyramids and in the shade of verdant flowers, for the Hanging Gardens of Zamash are famed throughout the nations of the East. In shadowed salons the dynasts of Jades trade rare woods for freshly mined silver, and along the shore the strangely predatory vessels of rebellious Perswha are drawing in to dock, laden with western spice.

You watch it all from on high, safely ensconced in the highest room of the tallest tower in the Imperial Palace. The smoke from your hookah makes strange shapes in the air as it floats across the balcony, and you find your attention divided between such mysteries and the spectacle of the kingdom beyond.

"Sehzade," a voice from your chamber door calls, "there are men here to see you."

For a moment you do not respond, too lost in contemplation to spare thought for such mundane concerns, but as the moments pass the true meaning of such a comment wends its way into your mind. You sigh, setting down the wand upon the small heartwood table at your side, and rise to your feet.

Article:

Which gender are you?

[ ] Male. You are a prince, heir to the throne, expected to be of fiery temperament and inconsistent will. Your people will follow you as you blaze the charge, but expect you to rely on the quiet advice of your wiser relatives.

[ ] Female. You are a princess, heir to the throne, expected to be of clear thought and cunning insight. Your people will obey you, and clamor for the favour of being the ones entrusted to carry out your vision.

[ ] Riverborn. You are a sehzade, heir to the throne, born with sex and gender misaligned. Your people look to you as sovereign, and expect you to conform to the stereotypes of your soul.

• [ ] Choose one of the above to be your true gender.

[ ] Moontouched. You are a sehzade, heir to the throne, and your gender changes with the moon or perhaps is absent altogether. Your people regard you with wariness, perhaps fearing you touched by fearsome Luna, and expect you to be wise in ways that they are not.

What is your name? Taira has a distinctly Persian feel to it, but the lineages of the Shah trace their blood from a wide number of sources, so other naming conventions are acceptable. I reserve right of veto.
[ ] Write in

"And what is it, Al'rama, that such men want from me?" You say in an idle voice, turning and moving back inside your quarters. You do not wish to move, but even mild activity can aid in flushing the narcotics from your system, and something tells you that such focus will be required soon enough. "Could they not make appointment, or beg audience with my revered father?"

Al'rama bows low as you approach, his dark skin drinking in the reflected sunlight. He is of foreign birth, as are all your personal guards, and his coat of metal scales rustles faintly as he moves.

"Forgive me, sehzade, but their business is not with the Shah, nor with his child," he says politely, the sharp edge of a distant accent colouring the normal flowing tones of his Rivertongue, "it is with you, in your other capacity."

You blink once, clearing the last of the haze from your mind. "Oh. I suppose I had best see to them, then. Have these men escorted to one of the guest quarters, and then have my raiment prepared."

Article:

What name is it that these men know you by, what title is it that you hold, that they would seek you out in such a fashion?

[ ] The Shah's Voice. Taira is a land built on conquest and trade, an empire of many peoples brought together by force and bound by chains of ambition and greed. Such a legacy demands an eye in the world outside, and this is where you serve. You have travelled much for your age, and your face is known across the East as the representative the Shah sends when the interests of Taira as a whole must be represented. Your eyes are yellow, a sign of favour from Mercury, Maiden of Journeys.

[ ] Godspeaker. Taira is a land of many peoples and twice as many faiths, and there is no surer way to bring an empire crashing down than to disregard the faith of those who serve it. You have been trained from birth to serve as an intermediary between the empire and the Gods, and in this role have served admirably. Your eyes are a vivid blue, a hue much favored by Venus, the Maiden of Serenity.

[ ] Master of Horse. The pride of Taira are its cataphracts, the heavy cavalry against which no foe can hope to stand, and you are their leader. You have broken the back of many foes and led your soldiers to victory on many a day, and with you as heir few doubt for Taira's future security. Your eyes are the red of fresh spilled blood, and the soldiers say this marks you as one of Mars' own chosen killers.

[ ] Priest of Mysteries. Zamash is older than Taira, older than mankind itself. In its stones can be found the secret legacies of the Dragon Kings, and it is not the only place in Taira to bear such ancient heritage. You have taken an interest in such things from an early age, and now can be counted as one of the foremost experts on pre-human history in all the East. Your eyes are the green of the summer forest, and none doubt the favour shown to you by Jupiter, Maiden of Secrets.

[ ] Breaker of Chains. Taira lies upriver from the mighty hub of Nexus, and as with all nations must contend with the grasping claws of the city's Guild. You have made for yourself an expertise in denying them a hold upon your homeland's shores, and taken great pleasure in liberating others from their cold ambitions. Your violet eyes speak to the favour shown to you by Saturn, Maiden of Endings.

 

[Maugan Ra]

Taira is a mighty nation, an empire built on steel and silver alike, and such magnificence demands a level of pride. Though you go to speak with these men in an informal setting, absent all the pomp and pageantry of court, you are still sehzade, and it would be ill-taken by many were you to go about your day in the garb of a common soldier.

So you wrap yourself in robes of red and yellow, pin a half-veil of translucent scarlet silk across your face and decorate your brow with a circlet of silver set with glittering rubies. Across your back you hang an ironwood bow, and at your side you carry a heavy scimitar with a bejeweled hilt. You do these things and then turn to Al'rama, only to find your instructions have not been carried out.

"And why, precisely, were these men permitted to remain in the courtyard instead of being escorted inside?" You say in clipped tones, moving along the corridors of your tower at a brisk pace, silk swirling around your legs with every step. The heat of the day beads your skin with sweat, but the heat of your anger is a greater thing still. "Must I go to them, as some kind of common merchant?"

"Your forgiveness, sehzade," Al'rama says from behind you, his deep tones hiding all traces of the wince you know must be marring his features even now, "The men are of the Vakot, you see, and so…"

"Ah," you sigh, taking a sharp right turn and marching towards the core of your tower instead. You are used to the sharp rap of boots upon these tiled floors, but father decided it was inappropriate to go about in such inelegant footwear less than a week ago, and so now you wear soft slippers instead. You have hopes of changing his mind, or at least waiting until he forgets, but until that happens he is still the Shah and must be obeyed, even (no, especially) by his heir. "I suppose they refused to give up their weapons, then?"

"To common guards, yes," Al'rama replies, and you smile at the hint of offended pride behind his words. The guards on duty today must be drawn from his company, and so an insult to them is an insult to him. "They claim some strange rite of hospitality prevents them…"

"Yes, that does not surprise me," you chuckle, "more than one Vakotan tribe has been lost to ambush at times of what should be peace and celebration. They will set aside weapons in their own wagons, and nowhere else - unless, of course, their host does likewise as show of good faith."

The chamber at the end of the corridor stands in sharp contrast to the rest of your chambers; a place of harsh lines and shimmering crystalline gems set in careful perimeter around the maw of a great pit. You step forwards and let the empty air take you, feeling that same familiar heart-sting of fear before the magic of the ancients catches you once more.

"Insolent dogs," Al'rama growls, the multi-hued silk of his uniform fluttering in the captive breeze as he descends gracefully in your wake, "That they would dare imagine the palace of the Shah could be treated the same as one of their rickety wagons…"

"Mind your words carefully, my friend," you say with a laugh, scarlet eyes tracing the lines of murals on the inside of the shaft as you sink ever closer to the ground. You had wanted to tear down some of these walls and open up more floors of the palace to access through this shaft, but the sorcerer-engineers who maintain it counseled harshly against such measures; apparently the ancient architects responsible for such a marvel were insufficiently prepared for the idea of remodeling, and there is no guarantee that such changes could be made safely, if at all. "If a man of the Vakot hears you disrespect his home so, he is like to demand blood by recompense."

You land at the base of the shaft, where the patterned walls give way to a series of arches, and all around the edge of the room men in the livery of the palace guard slam their spears against the ground in recognition of your worth. You nod to them, wait a moment for Al'rama to land at your side, then set off once more.

"Hmph. It is not the men of the Vakot that concern me," Al'rama says, still grouchy and poorly mannered. You have long harbored the suspicion that he fears the shaft of air you just transversed, for while he has never hesitated to accompany you in its use such journeys always leave him in a foul mood. "Their woman, now, those are worthy of some concern…"

You silence him with a single hand, for you have found your guests and would not risk offense before the meeting has even begun. There are six of them, gathered in a small knot in the centre of the courtyard, carefully watched by three times their number in palace guard. Each is clad in the tough leather armour of their kind, and each bears the wide brimmed hat and gauzy scarf by which outsiders might know their home; among the Vakotans, you recall, it is considered offensive to the gods of the sky to ride with an uncovered head.

Your attention, however, is far more taken by the magnificent coal-black horse waiting patiently at their back.

"You are the sehzade?" One of the Vakotans says, stepping towards you with a nod, "Good. I am…"

You gesture vaguely with one hand, and all around the edge of the courtyard motionless soldiers spring abruptly into life, brandishing spears or setting arrows to their bows. At your back, Al'rama growls in low pleasure, drawing his heavy blade.

"I am Farah Esther Amestris, sehzade of Taira, yes," you say mildly, scarcely even sparing a glance for the suddenly frozen Vakotans or the glittering wall of metal now brought to bear against them. They have their own weapons, their curved swords and compound bows, but any move towards them will see the small group cut down in an instant and so you pay them no further mind. The horse, though… the beast is magnificent, well worth further consideration. You are a tall person, but you scarcely come up to its shoulders, and the strength you can see in those ebony flanks fills you with childish glee. "You will be speaking to me with respect, or you will speak to no one ever again."

One of the Vakotans growls something distinctly uncomplimentary to the fool who spoke so rashly, stepping forwards to take his place. "We beg your forgiveness, honoured sehzade; please, allow my foolish brother his indiscretions, for this is his first time beyond our homeland and he did not pay the stories of the wise as much heed as he should."

"You are forgiven," you say lightly, and with another gesture return the weapons of your sworn men to their rest. In the interests of diplomacy you choose not to hear the disappointed grumble from Al'rama's lips. "What brings you to our court?"

"A gift, sehzade," the older brother replies, stepping back and inclining his covered head towards the horse, "this mare is one of our stock, and we would gift it unto you, as a sign of respect and mutual worth between our two tribes."

You nod thoughtfully, stepping through the small knot of foreign souls and drawing closer to the horse they have seen fit to give you. She watches you approach with wary disdain, well trained enough to stay calm even in unfamiliar surroundings but clearly intent on suffering no indignity. You rather like that.

"A fine gift, and one I accept with pleasure," you say with a sharp edged smile, "yet I must wonder what it is you want from me, that you would make this gift in person and not at my father's court?"

The Vakotans shift uneasily, trading dark glances beneath the wide brims of their strange hats, but their apparent spokesperson is unruffled.

"You are a perceptive one, sehzade," he says, folding his arms across his chest, "she is a fine steed, is she not? It is our hope that you might recognize this, and so when our kin come to your father and offer pact to provide further horses for his cataphracts, he might turn to you for confirmation of their quality. The word of one's… ah, child, is a potent thing indeed."

"Our cataphracts have noble steeds already," you say absently, stretching out one hand to slowly touch the flank of your new mount. You do not want to spook the horse, of course, and… yes, she seems to have accepted your presence. "Are your steeds truly so much better as to be worth the trade?"

The Vakotan laughs, a sharp sound fill of mirth. "Try her and find out, sehzade."

You cannot help but laugh in return. They certainly did their studying before making this approach, you will admit; your reputation as a hard rider and proud opponent clearly precedes you. Besides… you have time. The official ceremonies to welcome in the Season will not start until dusk, so there is more than enough room in the schedule for such a diversion.

"Mount up, Al'rama," you call back to your protector with a smile, "and let these men back to their steeds. We are going to ride."

-/-

There are few things in life as joyous as the feelings drawn from riding at the gallop. The wind in your hair, the thunder of hooves, the sheer sense of speed... Oh, you will never forsake these pleasures, no matter how old you grow. You have ridden in peace and you have ridden in war, and each has their own thrill, their own pleasure to offer.

The Vakotan mare is, you will concede, a superior specimen by far to the noble horses your cataphracts normally ride. She can run faster than any horse you have ever claimed, and her great legs can propel her in soaring leaps that carry you clear across ditches and branches and small streams with equal ease. If these foreigners can produce animals of such quality in any number then you will speak well of them to your father with nary a single shred of regret.

With an hour of hard riding at your back you guide your steed to a halt at last, coming to a stop atop a low slope adjacent to a trickling stream. The dark green line of the jungle lies not more than another mile to your right, while the blooming pyramids of Zamash lie sprawled across the landscape to your left. It is a beautiful sight, a fine reminder of the pride and joy that is your family's lands, and with a breathless laugh you sit back in the saddle and drink in the view.

"Ah, are we stopping at last, sehzade?" Al'rama says in a wry voice, guiding his own stallion in to a halt at your side. "Could we not have chosen another spot? Perhaps ten minutes ago, when our supposed escort could no longer keep us in view?"

"Oh, hush," you say with a laugh, reaching over to pat your old friend on the arm, "What do I have to fear, with you here at my side? Besides, our Vakotan friends kept up well enough, didn't they? Maybe we should swear more of them into the guard…"

Indeed, even as you speak the half-dozen Vakotan tribesmen are riding up the slope to join you, having easily kept pace with your enthusiasm and speed. Except… no, they're fanning out instead, moving to adopt a semi-circle formation instead of simply coming to a halt at your side. In fact…

"Al'rama…" you say slowly, "What is the meaning of this?"

"I am sorry, sehzade," your old friend says, his eyes cold and his hand wrapping itself around the hilt of his sword, "I was hoping it would not come to this, but your father forced my hand."

"What are you…" the words die on your lips, stolen away by the self-evident answer provided as Al'rama draws his sword. "Oh. We didn't outpace the guard at all, did we."

"I am afraid not," Al'rama says calmly, "Now, please dismount. That horse will not carry you any further, and I would not have a sehzade of Taira die with Vakotan arrows in their spine."

Article:

What do you do?

[ ] Attack Al'rama. How dare he? How dare he? You will have his treacherous, backstabbing head for this! Except… he was always a fine swordsman, and there are the Vakotans to consider…

[ ] Flee. The mare might have been trained to obey another, but you are a master rider, and no steed will ignore your commands entirely. You'll just have to… avoid the horse archers, outpace your treacherous friend, and make it back to the city. Easy.

[ ] Attempt negotiation. Al'rama has watched over you since you scarcely reached his knee, his heart cannot be truly set on this course. You just need to get through to him somehow.

 

[Maugan Ra]

Al'rama has been your guardian and confident since you were scarcely old enough to reach his knee. You thought you knew him; knew his somber adherence to duty, knew the rough pleasure he took in swordplay, knew the wicked sense of humour hiding beneath the serious mask. More than that, you thought he knew you. It seems you both were wrong, for while you never thought he would turn on you like this…

Only a fool would expect you to go quietly.

"You treacherous bastard!" you cry, and with the shout pull your scimitar free from its sheath, turning draw to attack in the span of a single motion. Al'rama frowns and moves to parry, but he is not your target, and as the sharpened edge of your blade bites deep into his mount's neck you take vindictive pleasure in the look of horrified surprise hidden in his eyes.

The horse screams and rears up, painting the air with a spray of hot crimson and dumping your treasonous retainer to the ground. He grunts in pain, and in the distance you hear the Vakotans yelling in alarm, but you have no time for either.

"You dare? After all we have done for you?" You snarl, vaulting off your steed's back and landing cat-like on the ground. Your silk robes swirl around you as you raise your scimitar high, a burning brand of folded steel in the afternoon light. "Where is your honour!"

Article:

**Maugan Ra** rolled **6** <6; 4; 9; 10; 1; 5; 7> # Farah attacks (+2 success due to prone target)

**Maugan Ra** rolled **6** <4; 10; 2; 8; 9; 10; 3> # Al'rama defends

You bring the sword hammering down, putting all your weight and fury behind the blow, but Al'rama is no green-faced novice. He rolls to the side, throwing himself clear of your descending steel, and your blow tears away only a length of silk from his livery.

"Do not speak to me of honour, child!" He roars, rolling back to his feet and brandishing his sword to prevent you from drawing near. "Your father forced me to this path! A man who would spit on so many years of loyal service is not fit to be the Shah!"

You bare your teeth, leaning forwards in preparation for a lunge… then stagger, sideways, as an impact like a horse's kick sends you reeling across the open ground.

Spoiler: Battle Group Mechanics

In the world of Exalted, individual heroes are entirely capable of standing off whole swarms of lesser foes, as befits their impressive skill. Though Farah is mortal, they are still a champion of their people, and as such do not need to oppose each enemy horseman individually. Instead, the Vakotans are rolled into a 'battle group', represented by a single stat-block with a few key traits.

For now, the only two that matter are:

Size - Rated from one (a half-dozen foes) to five (a full thousand opponents), size is an easy representation of just how many troops there are present on the battlefield. This trait provides an equal number of automatic successes to all attack and defense rolls, and increases their health track by the same amount. The Vakotans are size one.

Drill - How disciplined the unit is, and how used the constituent members are to working together. The Vakotans have average drill, and this grants them a bonus success on all defense and morale checks. They also provide two bonus dice to any command rolls made that seek to target them - more on that later.

Article:

**Maugan Ra** rolled **4** <9; 3; 1; 3; 10; 4> # Vakotans attack
**Maugan Ra** rolled **2** <4; 7; 5; 9; 5; 4> # Farah attempts to dodge

Remaining health: [X] [X] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]

There is an arrow in your side. You stare at it for a moment, admiring the polished wooden haft and black-feather fletching, barely feeling the agony that should be coursing through your mind. Then you raise your head and look at your assailant.

The Vakotan boy, the one who spoke so dismissively to you in the palace courtyard, lowers his bow. His dark eyes glitter with satisfied malice above his colored scarf.

"But…" you say, reeling slightly, "Why… if you would quarrel with father, why…"

The grim look in Al'rama's eye confirms your suspicion. He is not here solely to kill you and leave, for that would merely leave the realm without an heir and a grieving father on the throne. No, this is bigger than just one man, bigger than just one death.

"My father…" you whisper, horrified, "My mother, my sister… you monster…"

"I am sorry, sehzade," Al'rama says, and for a moment he actually sounds genuinely remorseful. "You are too honorable a child, too loyal to that man's name. If he were to die and you were to live, you would never rest while his killers walked, never stand aside and let another take the throne. And so…"

You do not wait for him to finish. Whatever twisted logic that runs through his mind, whatever mad poison some vile conspirator has poured into his ears, they do not matter. He plans to kill your family, from the Shah himself all the way down to little Sabah, not even two years old. This, you cannot allow.

With a scream like a scalded cat you throw yourself forwards, swinging your scimitar in wide, eye-blurring arcs. Rage drives you, drowning out the pain and lending strength to your muscles, and whatever possibilities Al'rama might have been expecting this day to hold such a furious assault was not among them. He falls back, grunting in pain as you hack wildly at his chest and arms, and with a hoarse cry is forced to block a decapitating blow with the length of his right forearm.

Your blade comes away bloody, and you rejoice to see the traitor's blood fall lightly on the ground.

There is a hiss like that of a dozen serpents, and before you can finish the job your leg goes out from under you, another pair of arrows sprouting from your shin and thigh. You fall to your knees, and as the steel arrowheads grind against your bones you cannot help but cry out in pain.

Article:

Round Two:

**Maugan Ra** rolled **4** <2; 2; 8; 9; 1; 8; 9> # Farah attacks
**Maugan Ra** rolled **2** <5; 1; 7; 9; 3; 2; 6> # Al'rama defends

Two levels of damage inflicted, bonus level from scimitar (chopping weapon) cancelled out by light armor reduction.


**Maugan Ra** rolled **6** <7; 9; 2; 9; 9; 9> # Vakotan warriors fire their bows
**Maugan Ra** rolled **3** <6; 1; 2; 8; 9; 3> # Farah evades, plus one success for being locked in combat with an ally

Health levels: [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [ ] [ ]

"You have fire, sehzade," Al'rama nods gravely to you, switching his scimitar to the other hand that he might cradle his bleeding arm against his chest. "Were valour alone enough to prevail you might even have won here today. As it is…"

He lifts the blade high, the grim cast of an executioner settling across his face, and as you see your doom approaching all you can do is…

Ah… you see it now.

How foolish, to think that this day was truly a surprise. You can see it, now, can trace all the paths that lead here today, to this one frozen moment. The pride of a man squandered on watching children… the folly of a Shah to think that others felt as he did… the ambition of the rival lords, the southern Naibs with so much to gain and so little to lose…

You can see it all. And as you look upon the world, look upon all the many steps that have led you to this point, there is only one thought that finds itself a home in the forefront of your mind.

This must not be.

The blade descends, swift and terrible, aimed to sever your head in a single blow… and in an upraised hand, you catch it.

"What…" Al'rama says, in a tone of absolute confusion.

"Justice," You reply, a fierce laughter upon your tongue. Then you bring up your blade and cut the treacherous fool in twain.

Article:

**Maugan Ra** rolled **5** <9; 3; 10; 9; 2; 2; 6> # Al'rama executes his liege, +1 success for onslaught

**Maugan Ra** rolled **6** <4; 10; 9; 9; 3; 2; 3; 7> # Farah ascends, TN4


**Maugan Ra** rolled **7** <3; 4; 5; 6; 1; 10; 3; 9> # Farah enacts justice, +1 success due to Slow Blade Penetrates [ID: 55253]
**Maugan Ra** rolled **3** <1; 7; 10; 9; 5; 5> # Al'rama seeks to avoid his fate (-1 success due to Tolerant Strife)

Spoiler: New Charm: Slow Blade Penetrates

When possessing control, exploit it. When lacking control, regain it. Onslaught penalties suffered by Farah provide an equal number of automatic successes on their attack rolls.

Spoiler: New Charm: Tolerant Strife

Those struck by the gauntlet rarely forget the experience. When attacking a foe at close range, any 1s in their defense roll subtract from their total successes.

Al'rama falls, a broken carcass spilling blood and guts across the ground, and you rise to your feet once more. You look down, studying the arrows that stud you flesh, and with a single flex force them from your body. The wounds left behind seal in an instant, your body aligning itself with how things should be.

The world has turned to red. You are glowing like the evening sun. This, too, is as it should be.

The Vakotans are screaming. This is, quite clearly, not how they expected things to go. More fool them. If they were smart, they… oh, they're running.

Are you going to allow that?

Article:

Choose your path:

[ ] Pursue the Vakotans. They have raised weapon against you, and now they will bleed for it. Perhaps they might tell you more of the snakes who would see your family harmed.

[ ] Return to the City. Your family is in danger. Your place is at their side. Reclaim the horse that was to be a gift, and ride swiftly back to Zamash before the conspirator's plot can be completed.

 

[Maugan Ra]

The Vakotans are fleeing, the courage forsaking them in the face of your inexplicable rejuvenation. You watch with a slight smile on your face as they run, tugging hard on the reins of their steeds and heading for the horizon as fast as they can move. They will not stop, you know, until they are well free of Zamash and it's territory.

...how do you know that?

Your smile becomes a frown, and you look down at yourself in confusion. You feel strange, for there is a strength in your limbs that was not there previously, and the wounds you have taken are gone as though they never were. None of this feels remarkable, and yet you know it is, just as you know the strange crimson glow surrounding your body is something worthy of note. Already the streaks of yellow in your robes are losing their hue, stained by the light, and around your feet the individual blades of grass are turning slowly to blood-stained steel.

You turn your gaze and look upon Al'rama, who you should not have been able to best with such ease, not wounded and outnumbered as you were. He lines dead at your feet, split almost entirely in twain by a single blow from your sword, and the scarlet tint to his robes cannot be entirely explained by the slowly spreading pool of gore. In fact, now that you look closer…

You kneel, and study your reflection in the pool of traitor's blood.

Your face has always been a lean one; a sharp, imposing countenance with prominent cheekbones and no excess fat to soften it, but now it seems almost… sculpted. The tiniest of changes have been made from what you recall, just enough to lend your face a harsh, almost inhuman air, and where once your eyes were plain disks the colour of rust now they sparkle with hidden lights, as though a constellation of stars dances just beyond the iris. You look like a painting come to life, a stylized representation of who and what you are, and the thought shakes something in your heart you lack the words to truly describe.

Most notable of all, of course, is the rune of burning red upon your brow; a circle, crowned with an arrow, identical to the signs marked on the pillars of your most sacred of temples.

"The sign of Mars…" you say softly, studying your own reflection for a moment longer, "Why is…"

No. You have no time for such frivolous speculation. Al'rama spoke of a plot made to harm your family, to butcher them in the safety of their own palace, and this you must not allow. Rising to your feet you turn and face the black-flanked mare, watching it skitter and snort with nervous energy as you approach.

"I must ride with speed, lest my duty come undone," you say in a somber voice, and in your tone is an echo of every order ever given, "and so I must have a steed."

You raise your hand and trace a symbol on the horse's flank, fingers gliding through the shape of a familiar pattern you have yet to dream of seeing, and as the shape completes the mare's nervous disposition falls away. She stands still and silent, then bows her head in acknowledgement of your command, ready to serve as you would have it.

Spoiler: New Charm: Ordained Bridle of Mercury

A rider must have a mount. By tracing the sign of the Messenger on the flank of a potential steed, the Sidereal May claim it for their own. Animals marked as such become instantly loyal and obedient to their ordained rider, and gain all the knowledge and benefits of being fully trained as a potential mount. A Sidereal may have up to (Ride) mounts bound to themselves at any one time, and can summon them with a whistle.

You sling yourself up into the saddle once more, and with a cluck of the tongue spur your new steed into motion. The mare leaps forwards, and without a backwards glance the two of you race towards Zamash and your family. You leave Al'rama's body in the dirt, that the beasts of the jungle might know him for their own, and give to him all the honours a traitor deserves.

It takes you perhaps ten minutes of hard riding to reach Zamash, the journey passing in a blur of motion and half-held recollections. Knowledge fills your mind and enlightenment teases at your soul with every passing heartbeat, and you have time to spare on none of it. When the echoes of lost trade ships dance across the salty waters of the Alisian Sea before your eyes, you banish them with a blink. When glimpses of the stepped pyramids of home come with fragmented recollections of reptilian priests and bloody hearts raised up high, you dismiss them with a snarl. When the endless rhythm of cause and effect dances across the sky, promising wisdom and beauty if only you could understand, you turn your face away.

Your family is in danger. All other concerns can wait.

The walls of Zamash are tall and strong, studded with towers and patrolled by soldiers in livery of green and silver. There are only a limited number of gates, and as you draw close to the nearest you see with a sinking heart that it seems to be blocked; not by enemy soldiers or deliberate sabotage, but by sheer weight of traffic. Carts of merchandise fill the paved road and throngs of merchants and visiting pilgrims throng the gaps between, all waiting patiently in line for their chance to pass through the narrow portal up ahead.

"Clear the road!" You scream, but it is a hopeless command; there are too many people, and not nearly enough room for them all to get clear of your path before you reach them. Even if there were, they do not seem inclined to obey - already you can see guards hurrying to level spears in your direction and archers on the walls stringing arrows to their bows. More traitors, or loyal servants who cannot recognize their sehzade when they are wreathed in crimson starlight? It doesn't matter either way, the result is the same.

You will not be stopped.

Spoiler: New Charm: Inexorable Advance

No matter how fast you run, you cannot escape the end. Farah disregards all wound and mobility penalties on her movement rolls, whether they come from internal sources (such as manacles or restrictive clothing) or external ones (such as a crowded road).

A light touch on the mare's flanks sees her powerful legs gather beneath her, and a heartbeat later you are in the air as she leaps at your command. Well-shod hooves come down on the back of merchant's cart, and then you are off, pushing forwards through the crush without the slightest loss of speed. You lean to and fro as instinct demands, and the mare navigates the broken terrain with skill and fortune more appropriate to that of a mountain goat. It should not be possible to ride through the crowd this way, to force your way through without ever once choosing poor footing or making contact with the panicking mass of humanity all around, but somehow you do, and before the shouting guards can even comprehend what is happening you are past them and through the gate beyond.

The streets of Zamash are wide and spacious, laid out with exacting precision in long lines that radiate out from the central pyramid-palace complex. You have heard it said that the strength and quality of their construction is a legacy of the ancestors, those golden titans of yore who first built this place and imbued it with promise undimmed for millennia to come, but to be quite frank you've never really cared. Zamash has wide streets and functional waterworks and is therefore one of the finest places in Taira to live, and that was all you ever needed to know. Now, your only concern is that they are wide enough to make your passage easy, and that the citizens within know better than to stand in the way of a starborn rider moving at the gallop.

Ahead you can see the jagged bulk of the palace, looming high in the sights and minds of all who live beneath its shadow. The torches are lit and the walls still whole, but the garrison… you cannot see soldiers on the walls, and from somewhere within faint tendrils of smoke already rise to brush against the azure sky. Are you too late? No. That cannot be permitted.

You look once more at the trails of smoke rising to the sky, and with a thought you take their quality for your own.

Spoiler: New Charm: Forgotten Earth

Adopting the destiny of a burnt offering, the Sidereal leaps into the sky. They forget to fall, and the world is too rude to remind them. Farah gains perfect balance and exerts as much weight on any surface as smoke; additionally, they can leap one range band in any direction without the need for a test.

You reign in your horse, bringing her to a halt in the shadow of the palace walls, and with a single flex of your legs throw yourself into the sky. You rise as smoke does, and when you touch down on the edge of a stone protruding roughly from the wall you exert no greater weight. With long, bounding leaps you scale the palace walls, moving from window to balcony to arrow slit with equal ease. Eventually you rise to the level of your family's own quarters, and with an acrobatic flex you throw yourself inside.

Within, the palace is a charnel house. Servants lie in pools of gore, throats cut and bellies open, while at junctions and doorways men of the palace guard lie equally dead. Your blood boils to see such desecration, but you cannot stop now, for along the corridors and up the stairs rings the song of steel on steel; combat is yet ongoing, and you might yet intervene to stop this day's carnage before it can grow any worse. With a growl you pluck the curved bow from your back, claiming a handful of arrows from a fallen guard as you proceed. The family quarters are up ahead, you still have time!

Five second later, you find your father's corpse.

The sound you make should not come from human lips, and as you fall to your knees you are helpless to stop the flow of images racing across your mind.

The assassins came less than a minute after you left on your ride, dressed in the livery of palace guards and bearing curved daggers of rune-wrought make. You watch as they cast off their disguises throughout the palace, witness them open throats and stomachs with equal ease, can only listen to the screams as their victims fall before them.

They caught your father off guard, but not unprepared. It had been many years since the Shah last led his troops into battle, but some skills never fade, and you watch with bitter satisfaction as he crushes the skull of the first man to slice at him with their cursed dagger. You watch as he seizes the weapons of the fallen and rushes to his family's side, hacking his way through smiling murderers with great sweeps of his bloody blade. You watch as he gathers them up, one by one, your immediate kin and your relatives visiting from beyond the city walls, watch as he leads them to this hardened redoubt at the heart of his palace.

You watch them die.

Your mother falls beneath a flurry of poisoned blades. Your cousins are drowned in emerald flame and plunge screaming from the palace walls. Your uncles swear oaths of blood and stay behind to guard the doors, to catch arrows with their bodies within the span of moments. Your aunt moves too close to the shadows in the corner and is torn apart by ivory fangs.

Your father stands alone, cutting down men and monsters by the score, and falls to a hundred bloody wounds with blade yet in hand.

You watch them die, one by one. Then you raise your head and look upon the sole survivor.

Sabah, little Sabah, peers at you with horror and grief from her refuge in the corner. Her soft black hair is streaked with gore, and her dark eyes wide with sights no girl of such age should ever have to see.

"Who're you?" She says, and for a moment you can only blink in mute surprise.

"Sabah, it's me," you say, setting your bow carefully aside and spreading your hands open in a gesture of peace. "It's Farah. Don't you recognize me?"

Sabah blinks slowly at you, and you find yourself examining her with thinly veiled fear. Her hair is matted with gore, her skin streaked with soot, but... you can't see any injuries. Did she knock her head, perhaps? Is that why she doesn't seem to recognize you?

"Who Farah?" Your sister says, and the words break your heart into hundred shining pieces.

Article:

The Sign of the Mask was broken, and to this day the Fellowship pays the price.

Every member of the Sidereal Exalted is afflicted by curse known as 'arcane fate'. Their names and faces are clouded in the eyes of the world, and as time passes Creation will simply… forget. Records mentioning them will be lost, stories of their exploits will change to credit them to another, friends and relatives will look at them with ignorance in their eyes. This curse affects all beings within the dominion of the loom of fate, save for other Sidereals and the gods of the Bureau of Destiny.

"I'm… it doesn't matter," you say in a voice made hoarse by grief, "I wasn't quick enough. We… we need to get you out of here, alright?"

You expect Sabah to object, to make reference to father or her friends within the palace, but she simply nods in silent acceptance and steps away from the wall. You don't know what she has seen, that all innocence has been so thoroughly burned away. You don't want to know.

"Where we go?" Your sister asks, and you are glad to have an answer.

Article:

Your family is dead, save for Sabah, the youngest of them all. Your name has been forgotten, your authority as sehzade vanished with the morning dew. Where, then, do you go?

[ ] To Family. You yet have relatives beyond the walls of Zamash - distant kin, for the most part, but family all the same. Take Sabah to them, and know that they will care for her as best they can, for bonds of blood are sacred and only the worst kind of villain would seek to sunder them.

[ ] To the Temple. Mortal guards could not protect your father, and you cannot trust them with your sister's life. Head to the temples and seek the aid of the gods. Your family have always been pious and true; surely the divine will not forsake you now, in this time of need?

[ ] To the River. Taira is not safe, and above all else you must protect your sister from those who would seek to do her harm. Head for the docks and sneak aboard a boat, take the river out beyond your nation's borders. You will stay at her side, and see that she is safe.

 

[Maugan Ra]

You need to leave. The palace is not safe; you have yet to encounter any further threats within its walls, but you are not such a fool as to imagine they are gone entirely. You can still hear the clash of steel ringing faintly in the background, along with strange roars and the hissing of what sounds vaguely like an oversized serpent. Sabah will not be safe here, no matter how well she hides, and that means you must take her elsewhere. You cannot fail, not at this, not on top of everything else.

With a frown, you consider your options. A relative? Possible, and on any other day an option you would have taken without hesitation, but today… Al'rama was as close to you as any man has ever been, and he hide treachery behind a loyal smile for longer than you dare imagine. Besides, one would not launch an attack like this unless there was something to be gained in the aftermath, and it will be one of your more distant kin who likely takes your place upon the throne. You cannot trust them to have Sabah's best interests in mind, nor can you trust your own judgement on whether they can be held worthy of trust.

The temple, then? A tempting option, but your understanding of the gods and spirits of Taira has always been somewhat… lacking. You know of Farisi, who has watched over your people since you were just another tribe of nomad-warriors and who now represents Taira in the halls of Heaven, but you have never met her, never really spoken with her priests outside of formal ceremony. Will the gods protect your family, or have they withdrawn their blessing and in so doing permitted this attack to occur in the first place? You do not know, and until this is corrected you dare not trust Sabah's safety to the mercy of the divine.

"We've got to leave Taira," you say, as much to yourself as the little girl who even now looks at your with eyes dark with mourning, "Come on, let's get some supplies…"

You cannot spare the time to go down to the kitchens and secure some travel rations, but you knows where your mother kept her jewels, and in a pinch those will do well enough. It fills you with disgust to go pawing through the wreckage of your family apartments in search of valuables, but if you are to take Sabah to safety you must have something to pay your way and a sword will only get you so far. So you make a sack out of robes tied roughly together and fill it with pendants and necklaces and bracers of polished gold, and only when the weight is enough to be worthy of concern do you sling it over your back and return to your sister's side.

You find Sabah standing over your father's corpse, staring down at his broken frame with soft, lifeless eyes.

"Papa…" she murmurs, and you force yourself to look away. You don't want to remember your father this way, broken and bleeding on the ground. Better to fix him in your mind as he was near the end, with sword in hand and family at his back. He would want it that way.

"Come on, Sabah," you say, gentle as the circumstances allow, "we need to go."

The girl's weight is almost nothing once properly positioned on your back, and you make sure to loop a rope of shredded silk around her chest to hold her in place as best you can. Only then, once you are sure she is safely in place, do you return to the window and the city beyond.

The fires have grown since you entered, and now large sections of the palace are engulfed by the hungry blaze. You can hear the alarm bells from beyond the walls, see the panicking motion of the crowds that line the streets, but you have little enough time for either. You need to get to the docks, and that means making your way down to the streets on the far side of the palace grounds.

Sabah makes no noise or sign of interest as you scale your way across the outer wall, utterly silent as you drift from one ledge to another like just another cloud of smoke. It is concerning that she should be so silent, but you cannot afford to spend time fussing over her own. Her safety comes first, and only once you are out of the city will you be free to comfort her in what meager way you can.

Far below, you can see the hurrying forms of guards and citizens alike, all rushing to contain the blaze or seek out those who might have been harmed by it. None of them look up and see you, a fact which confuses you for a moment… but no, it seems that the burning scarlet light that surrounded you during your duel with Al'rama has already begun to fade. You are still outlined by an aura of crimson light, but it has grown dimmer by far, and you suspect most cannot make it out past the clouds of smoke and the glow of flames. A fortunate blessing, and one you will take advantage of, though with the dwindling light comes the first tug of fatigue to hang against your bones.

Well, you will just have to persevere. You cannot rest until Sabah is safe.

One last leap finds you perched atop the outer wall of the palace compound, hidden at least in part behind the crenellated decorations and pots overflowing with flowers. Acting on instinct you raise one hand to your lips and blow a shrill whistle, swiftly lost amid the crackling of the distant flames.

With a happy winnie, the coal-black mare you bound to your service comes trotting around the corner of a nearby building, stopping just below your hidden perch. You blink in surprise, then file the oddity of the coincidence away with all the other questions this day has conspired to raise so far. Another floating jump takes you down to land upon the horse's back, and with a cluck of the tongue your new steed is moving once again.

Zamash is a coastal city, built by alien hands in a forgotten age along the coast of the great Alisian Sea. Half a dozen other cities can be found across those salty waters, from subjugated Perswha to Dead Khamor, and even absent other concerns the trade between such great settlements would be enough to form the backbone of Taira's internal economy, but it is not to these lands that your mind inevitably turns. No, you think of the Alisian River, which leads from the sea of identical name all the way up to the hybrid town of Temera, and from there the Grey River itself. It is along that waterway that the bulk of all trade for the south-east of Creation flows, and the ships that ply its length can take you to virtually anywhere you might ever dream of going.

If ever there is a place where Sabah can live safely, the Grey River can take you there. All you need to do is reach it, and for that reason you set your course for the docks.

You draw some attention, of course; a veiled rider on a beautiful horse, limmed in ruby starlight, could hardly fail to draw the eye of anyone curious or less than entirely blind. This does not please you, but your fumbling thoughts and attempts to secure some manner of concealment from the power Mars has granted meet with little success. You can feel it, somehow, sense the existence of the possibility in the same way you know the location of your own leg, but without more extensive practice you cannot simply claim it for your own.

Even without such supernatural concealment, however, you make it to the docks without being stopped or questioned. Everyone who looks like they might be about to take issue with your presence meets your gaze and promptly decides that someone else can handle such things, a fact which brings you some small helping of grim amusement.

You will not think of the dead at your back. You must not.

The docks of Zamash are built of stone and wood in equal measure, with great platforms of rock laid down by unknown hands serving as the foundation for the later works of mortal man. Bridges decorated with sun-burst signs span the water are even lengths, while spindly cranes lift cargo from ragged piles and place it on the decks of a wide assortment of junks and barges, all waiting their turn at the docks. You choose one that seems almost entirely loaded yet large enough to bear passengers, and with a relieved sigh spur your horse into motion, aiming to catch it before the captain can depart and force you to look elsewhere for potential escape.

This, of course, is when your luck runs out.

It begins with subtlety, a stench of fur and blood all but lost beneath the general sensory clamor of the docks. A low, scraping footstep echoes against the wooden floor, masked from your ears by the shouting of dockworkers and the grunting of laborers working to shift the cargo. It is only when Sabah curls into a tight ball on your back and gives a wordless sob that you realize the impending threat, and even that comes within a hair's breadth of being too late.

The demon lands ten feet in front of you.

In form it resembles a massive, red-furred ape, not unlike the beasts of the southern jungles, half again as tall as a man and almost thrice as broad. Great horns of curling bone sprout from its temples, while great claws of sharpened obsidian draw sparks from the stone beneath its paws. Its eyes burn a virulent green, and the stench of blood and death that surrounds its stocky form is an almost physical thing. Your horse screams, rearing back on two legs, and before you can bring her under control the spirit is upon you.

Arms as thick as tree trunks wrap around your horse's neck in a cruel parody of a hug, and with a frantic yell you twist your legs back under you and throw yourself into a backwards leap. Sabah screams as your jump carries the two of you clear, and with a horrible crack your horse dies of a broken neck. Her corpse is airborne a moment later, flung casually through the air by a strength no mortal being could possess, and before you can even process the motion it slams headlong into the wall of a nearby building and bursts like overripe fruit.

The demon laughs, it's voice a rumbling chuckle that fills the air, and as the people scream and begin to flee it shifts its attention back to you.

No. To the child on your back.

You breath in. You breath out. You lift Sabah from your back, and place her down behind the nearest of the packing crates. It is a poor kind of refuge, but right now it is all you have.

Then you turn back to the demon, and surrender to the memories tugging at your mind. Your hands come up, moving in familiar patterns you never learned, and you settle into your stance.

The demon pauses, perhaps recognizing what you are. Then it shrugs its shoulders and roars.

Article:

As one of the Sidereal Exalted, Farah possesses an unparalleled instinct for and familiarity with the martial arts. Untrained and new to their power, they still find the techniques and abilities of one such art coming readily to mind. Which one is it?

[ ] Golden Janissary Style. Heroes have always stood against the darkness, and the monsters born within have learned to fear their burning touch. The graceful, almost dance-like motions of this spear-fighting style are as much meditative exercise as they are combat techniques.

[ ] Violet Bier of Sorrow Style. There is always an ending, and all things die. Demons are not exception. This style was first taught to the Sidereals by Saturn herself, and contains within its merciless katas the secret arts of the inevitable end. Even the lightest scratch from a master of this style can bring agonizing death.

[ ] Water Dragon Style. Designed in emulation of Immaculate Daana'd, this style focuses on embodying water in all its forms. Practitioners flow like the tide, absorb blows like the ocean, and crush their foes with the full force of a tsunami.

 

[Maugan Ra]

The demon roars, preparing to charge. The civilians scream, fleeing for their lives. Sabah cries, hunched over in her meager cover and desperately sure she is about to see another defender struck down before her eyes.

The river flows.

It should not be enough to draw your attention, should in truth be so far down the list of your priorities as to scarcely merit a note, and yet… the river flows. You can hear it, gurgling along in peaceful symphony. You can see it, shimmering brightly in the afternoon light. You can feel it, rippling and flowing in beautiful microcosm of the grand rhythms of Creation itself. Your blood flows in time with its unhurried rush, and as you contemplate this the memories of lessons you have never had come seeping back into your mind, stolen from beyond the veil of death. You know what to do.

Leaving your sword belted firmly to your waist, you sink slowly into a deceptively gentle looking stance. Your arms come up of their own accord, tracing soft arcs in the air, caressing the invisible flow of essence all around you. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears, but gone is the violent clamor that preceded all previous battles in your short yet bloody life. Now you feel only the rhythm, sense only the greater pattern that lies behind all things. It is beautiful, and if the rough beast before you somehow fails to see that…

Then you will tear out his heart and show it to him.

Spoiler: New Charm: Water Dragon Form

Farah adopts a fighting stance where attack and defense are all part of the same graceful whole. She gains bonus dice on his attack rolls equal to the target's wound penalty, and doubles stamina for the purposes of soak.

Article:

When you successfully roll over the enemy's defense with your attack, you should compare your strength with their stamina. Should you have an advantage you add automatic levels of damage equal to the difference; should their stamina exceed your strength, then you lose an equal number of levels in turn.

Source: Combat Update: Strength, Stamina and Soak

If your stance concerns the demon ape, there is no sign of such in the creature's burning yellow eyes. It simply snorts, then throws itself into a lumbering run, closing the distance with shocking speed and agility for something so visibly deformed. There is none of a true ape's natural grace in the demon's shambling movements, but it covers the ground between you all the same, and with a bellowing roar lashes out with a red-furred arm the size of tree trunk. The air screams around the demon's strike, but you are blessed by the heavens, and you need no great skill to follow their directions - a half step back and you are all but falling out of range, letting the obsidian claws that tip each furry digit slash fruitlessly at the air instead of your vulnerable flesh.

Mid-fall, you reach out behind you and catch yourself on two outstretched hands. The wood of the pier is rough and warm beneath your palms, and the demon's leathery flesh is hot beneath your feet; in lunging so aggressively it left itself open for your counter-attack, and now your feet catch it in the gut with bone-crushing force.

Spoiler: New Charm: Flowing Water Defense

The martial artist flows seamlessly between attack and defense, each benefitting the other. Farah possesses a pool of (essence +1) automatic success that they may either apply to Water Dragon attack rolls or their defense rolls on any given turn - successes may not be split between the two, but may be reallocated at the end of the turn.

You aren't sure what exactly it is that flows through the veins of a demon, for it most assuredly is not blood… but flow it does, and that is all that matters. You will it so, and with a pained roar the demon stumbles, the fluid in its veins rushing towards your heart like the sea pulled towards the moon.

A brachial leap carries the demon on past your reclining form, and though it stumbles heavily on landing you know better than to think it out of action. On this much the stories are clear; the beasts of the demon realm are far more resilient than any mortal animal, and in truth the sheer fact that it still stands despite your blow stands testimony to that fact.

You roll to your feet, neither fast nor slow, and await the creature's next move.

Spoiler: New Charm: Drowning in Blood Technique

With a clean strike to her opponent's torso, Farah seizes control of their blood, turning it against them. Upon delivering a hit that generates at least three net successes, Farah may increase the opponent's wound penalty by one for the scene; against spirits this technique can stack up to a maximum penalty of -(essence).

Spoiler: Rippling Water Strike

Farah's blows break the enemy's guard like a pebble thrown into a still lake. They increase the minimum damage of their successful attack rolls by two, and may substitute their dexterity for their strength when calculating damage. Should they successfully strike a foe, all other targets within close range suffer a -1 onslaught penalty to their defense.

The demon chooses not to attack immediately; instead it begins to pace, circling around you with long, loping strides that makes the wooden pier creak beneath its weight. It shakes its head, swinging it back and forth in the manner of a creature harassed by some kind of buzzing insects, and growls something that sounds disturbingly like words.

You do not speak the language of the demon realm, but you would hazard a guess that the creature's comment was not complimentary. Your assessment is supported by the way the creature's lip curls back in evident disgust, revealing a mouthful of yellowing fangs. Deprived of more eloquent taunts, the beast falls back on a more primal means of communication - it rears back onto onto its hind legs, thumps it's chest with one ham-sized fist, and roars.

The sound is a physical thing, a hammer-blow of force that shatters the planks underfoot and puts long cracks in the stone foundations that hold them up. You brace yourself as best you can, and find that what should have been an attack worthy to burst the heart inside your chest instead washes off your bare skin like the gentle touch of summer rain.

Whatever else it is that the gods have made of you, you are a mighty weapon indeed.

The demon lunges before the echo has even begun, plowing forwards across the dock and sending shattered fragments of wood falling from its leathery hide, but whatever damage your earlier strike dealt to it is clearly too much for even a monster to entirely ignore; the beast's movements are rough and clumsy, unable to compensate for its own increased speed, and you avoid them with a nearly contemptuous degree of ease.

Then you strike back.

The demon is slow, for it must contend with the internal injuries bestowed by whatever strange analogue to blood it possesses rebelling against its control. It is vulnerable, for in its lunging charge it exposed weak points all along its flank. It is facing a veteran warrior blessed in some ill-defined way by the heavens themselves, who sees every moment before it happens and can bend the flow of events just as they can bend the water in the foe's own body.

You strike the demon once, on the crown of its head, and before the force of your attack the only thing it's inhuman constitution can do is burst.

Article:

Foe Defeated: Erymanthus, the Blood-Ape, Demon of the First Circle

Observed Powers

Shattering Roar - The below of a blood-ape is a sound fit to shatter stone and burst the hearts of weaker foes. It may roll nine dice as a physical attack against any enemy within medium range, which cannot be blocked, only dodged. Once per scene, reset by tasting the blood of a worthy foe.

Principle of Motion - The demon moves with blinding speed. It may take two actions during a round, which can be different or identical as the situation demands. Once per scene, reset by spending a round in pursuit of a fleeing foe.

Breathing heavily, you lower your arm. The rancid pile of meat that was once a savage foe lies broken at your feet, and for a moment it is all you can do to stare. Such an enemy would have been beyond you even a day ago, the sort of foe you would muster an entire unit of your cataphracts to safely confront and defeat… yet you vanquished it, and in less than a dozen heartbeats at that.

You were chosen scarce hours ago. What will you be capable of, given years to refine your abilities?

Then you shake your head and dismiss such thoughts from your mind. There are more important matters to attend to now; your sister is yet in danger, and though you overcame one demon you know you cannot protect her from a whole city full of foes. Already you can feel the fatigue pulling at your limbs, the light that guided you to victory taking its toll on your still-fallible body. You need to get Sabah and then get out of here, before you collapse and become no further use to anyone.

You turn, hoping that she has not run off from where you left her, and…

There is a boat by the pier.

How did you not see it before? It is a junk, of foreign make and bright-hued sail, and it was moored not ten paces from where you left your sister before the demon attacked. There is a woman standing on the deck, watching you with undisguised interest; a tall woman, with arms corded thick with muscle and dirty blond hair cropped close to her skull. She wears leather armour of practical make, and at her side she carries a mace that glitters with a multitude of hues beneath its polished surface.

Sabah clings to her leg with a desperate strength.

"Hey there, beautiful," the blond woman says, her voice rough and cheerful, "hope you don't blame me for standing by there. I was going to drop in, save the day, make a flirty comment, but by the time I got this little one aboard and calm you'd already taken care of the pest yourself. Pretty sweet moves, by the way."

Her words are of no consequence. What matters is that she is unknown, she is armed, and she is next to your sister.

You step forwards, shoulders rolling with the same flowing rhythm of the river, but before you can deal with her as you did the demon she holds up one hand in a warding gesture.

"Woah there, sweetness; peace, alright?" She says, flashing a smile at you that is probably meant to be charming, "I'm not your enemy, far from it, and we can't exactly afford to rumble now, so… ah, fuck it."

She squints for a moment, as though concentrating… and then a mark appears across her mannish brow, etched out in lines of shimmering blue. A mirror of some sorts, perhaps, but with two small horns… oh. The symbol of Venus, Maiden of Serenity, and sister to Mars who has blessed you in turn.

You sag in relief, somehow knowing in a way that you cannot quite express that it's ok, you're safe, that nothing is going to hurt you or your sister. The dull ache across your body seems to redouble at the thought, and you sway slightly, unable to resist it any longer. You begin to topple… and then stop, held safely in arms as broad as another woman's thighs.

"Well, it's not quite a daring rescue mid-brawl, but I'll take it," the foreign woman says with a vaguely bemused air, "go ahead and rest, darling. We'll talk for real once you're back on your feet."

Darkness takes you, and you comply.

Article:

Prologue Over. Character sheet posted to front page. Next arc: The Celestial City.

Farah slumbers, lost in dreams. What do you see?

[ ] A killer with blood on her hands. She runs her fingers through the life of a Titan, staring at them with mute fascination. There will be a cost to this, but it is one she thinks worth paying. Thinks, but does not know.

[ ] A general clad in scarlet. She stands athwart Creation, and all the world drowns beneath the shadow of her name. When she wills it, nations die, and the hosts that exult her name can only guess as to her motive.

[ ] A master with hair of flame. She stands in challenge to any who will meet her, pitting fist and mind alike against the blades of the world's most dangerous foes. Their hatred warms the forge, and with it she shall forge wonders unquestioned.

Spoiler: Combat rolls, moved to the end for simplicity

Round One:

**Maugan Ra** rolled **2** <6; 8; 8; 4; 4; 1; 2> # Brutal Ape Pounce [ID: 55592]

**Maugan Ra** rolled **3** <7; 2; 7; 1; 3; 8> # Flowing Water Defense [ID: 55593]

Farah currently benefits from TN5 due to being at the burning level of her anima. She avoids the first charge.


**Maugan Ra** rolled **8** <7; 9; 3; 6; 8; 9> # drowning in blood [ID: 55594]

**Maugan Ra** rolled **5** <7; 3; 8; 9; 9; 7; 4> # bloody handed defense [ID: 55595]

Farah counter-attacks, benefitting from two automatic success drawn from Flowing Water Defense and a third from Slow Blade Penetrates.


Farah strikes with three net successes. She uses her dexterity rather than her strength here, thanks to Rippling Water Strike, and compares her score of four to the demon's stamina of five. Normally she would only inflict two levels of damage, but RWS increases her minimum damage by two, so she deals three instead.


An Erymanthus has nine health levels, so it has lost one third of them here. This would normally inflict a -1 wound penalty; Drowning in Blood Technique increases that to -2.


Round Two:

**Maugan Ra** rolled **5** <1; 10; 6; 9; 6; 8; 9> # shattering roar [ID: 55596]

**Maugan Ra** rolled **8** <10; 5; 5; 6; 2; 7> # roll with it [ID: 55597]

The Erymanthus opens this road with an unblockable roar, but Farah (with her +2 successes from flowing water defense) easily avoids the attack even so.


**Maugan Ra** rolled **1** <2; 2; 1; 7; 4> # brutal ape pounce [ID: 55598]

**Maugan Ra** rolled **5** <7; 8; 6; 1; 9; 1> # avoid the blow [ID: 55599]

As per Principle of Motion, the Erymanthus then follows up with a melee attack. It is suffering quite a bit from its -2 dice due to the wound penalty, and although Farah's Flowing Water Defense is reduced to +1 by onslaught, she still handily avoids the blow.


**Maugan Ra** rolled **9** <6; 3; 5; 8; 5; 10; 3; 6> # Farah strikes back [ID: 55600]

**Maugan Ra** rolled **1** <2; 6; 1; 7; 7> # demon ape defense [ID: 55601]

Farah then makes an attack of her own. She adds the demon's wound penalties (two dice) to her attack thanks to Water Dragon Form, gains two automatic successes due to Slow Blade Penetrates, and then deducts a single success from the demon's defense roll because it scored a 1 and she has Tolerant Strife.


Eight health levels of damage is reduced to seven by the demon's superior stamina, but that is still enough to kill the thing with room to spare.

[/article]

 

[Maugan Ra]

The ground shakes, and her armies march.

In their thousands they advance, rank upon rank of grim-faced killers marching in lockstep to the beat of the drums. They are the wrath of the Dragon made manifest, fangs becoming scales becoming talons and wings in steady progression up the ranks, and at their head she stands, wrapped in a destiny that is not her own.

Her name is on their lips.

With every step, they whisper it. With every command, they echo it. With every foe that falls before them they scream it to the heavens until their throats grow hoarse. She hears it, the sound of her glory repeated back a hundred times from a thousand different throats, and each time it makes her smile. Let the others cower in their glittering halls. She would reshape this world with the same tools that had first forged it; with violence and pride.

The world is a thousand shades of red.

The banners that snap in the wind, the plumes that ripple in the breeze, the dust that gathers in clouds around their feet; red, all of it, for red is her colour and her colour is war. Where her army goes the trees bloom in autumnal hues, and where it fights the waters turn to blood long before the gore can soak down into the ground. Red is the colour of Mars, and few things bring such joy to a soldier's heart as the knowledge that she is blessed by the Maiden of War and Battle.

The enemy is gathered, and now the army halts.

She stands at the head and surveys her foe, her eyes the colour of rust. The enemy are the restless dead, the rebellious god, the rampant chaos from beyond the world; it does not matter. She has broken them all before, and today she will do no different.

A gesture send the archers forwards, crossbows ready as they kneel in serried ranks. Another puts the spearman at their back, ranks ready to close in an instant once the skirmishers pull back, a forest of steel glittering in the sun. A third sends the signal to her officers, and up and down the line the fury of the elements burns to life.

The enemy advances. Her name is on their lips.

-/-

You wake up.

For a moment you are confused, for the room around you is not as you recall. The walls are polished wood, the roof too low by far, the bed beneath your reclining form a thing of wool and itchy straw. Are you on campaign? No, that does not seem right. Why…

The memories return, and with them come the tears.

You weep, for a time. You mourn, as best you can. Then you wipe your eyes and rise to your feet, intent on facing the day. Your clothes have been taken, and quick investigation uncovers a small chest at the base of the bed that holds passable replacements. The shirt and trousers are rough and practical, while the jacket is emblazoned with marks of minor rank in the armies of Taira. You consider them for a time, wondering if their presence indicates some connection between your mysterious new peer and the armies of the kingdom. Then you shrug, and begin to get dressed.

You are a man today, it seems, for the emotions that overtook you on waking are stronger than those a woman would allow herself. To that end you bind your breasts and pull on boots of stiff backed leather, the better to march and stride. That your body does not change in rhythm with your soul has always been a matter of personal vexation, but you have learned to cope with it, to adopt ways of moving and speaking that minimize the dissonance between the two. Considering all the other ways your life has changed within the past day or so, in truth the discomfort of skin that does not entirely fit is almost welcome in its familiarity.

So prepared, you leave the small room and head out to explore the ship.

Beneath the deck the junk is every bit as dark and claustrophobic as you were expecting, and as you navigate the cramped confines you do your best to avoid tripping over any half-seen obstruction. It is significantly easier than you would have expected - your body feels more graceful, easier to control, and while it is difficult to tell for sure you have a suspicion that the ambient light would not be nearly as sufficient for the person you were before yesterday. So too are you missing the aches and pains that should normally follow a day of rigorous activity, or the lethargy that has always clung to your bones in the aftermath of sleep. Such changes are strange and a little disturbing to think about, and so you do your best to ignore them.

After some consideration you decide to head to the stern - you can hear the flow of water and the snap of canvas echoing through the hold, which tells you that the ship is underway, and that in turn suggests the presence of a pilot at the helm. Where better to start your investigation than with someone who's duties will not permit them to simply move away?

You emerge onto the deck to find the world bathed in golden hues. Dawn has broken mere moments ago, and the burnished disk of the sun is half hidden by the horizon. You spare a moment to nod to him in thanks, and to make a silent promise that you will visit a temple at the next opportunity; you have lost much, but you survived to see another dawn, and that is a gift to be thankful for.

Your humble junk has covered a surprising amount of ground overnight, it seems, for while the view to port is of steaming jungle and glittering streams, the far side of the junk holds only green-grey water that stretches to the far horizon. No child of Taira could fail to recognize the Grey River on sight, and while you would not have thought it possible to have reached this point so soon… well, many things of late have been impossible. Shaking your head in quiet wonder, you turn and go in search of the helmsman.

You find him alone upon the deck, one hand draped lazily over the rudder and a hand already raised in greeting. He is a man of the northern lands, pale skin tanned and weathered by long years of exposure to the weather's lash, and his long robes are of pale brown hue and cut according to some strange, foreign design. A high collar shields his neck his view, but cannot hide the snow-white tail of hair that hangs down to this waist, nor the golden hawk like shade of his eyes.

"Hey there," he says with a cheerful grin, speaking river-tongue with a native's casual ease, "good to see you up and about. We didn't get to speak much yesterday. Heck, you probably didn't even see me."

You nod shortly. There are many things that you could say here, but above all else there is one that pressed on your mind, one that deserves an absolute and immediate answer.

"Where is my sister?"

If the northern man take offense to being addressed in such a brusque manner he doesn't show it. Instead he nods in a genial fashion and adopts a remarkably sympathetic tone.

"The little girl you came to the docks with? She's fine. Still sleeping, most likely," he says, gesturing with his free hand to another door leading below the deck, "down there, I think? Iron Siaka is watching over her. She seems to have taken a shine to the kid, not that it's hard to see why. Cute little thing."

You breath out a silent sigh of relief. You don't know why the thought of your sister being in the care of that strange muscle-bound woman reassures you so, but it does, and the idea that any threat to come to her with such a guardian on hand seems self-evidently ludicrous. You have time, then, to sate your more pedestrian forms of curiosity.

"That's good," you sigh, hopping up onto the edge of the ship and settling yourself down against the rail, "that's… yeah, good to know. I'm Farah Amestris, by the way."

"Shepherd of the North Star," the pale man grins, switching the rudder to his other hand so that he can extend a hand to you in greeting, "Pleased to meet you."

You shake his hand, and find his grip both strong a warm; a good combination, that, speaking of a trustworthy soul. "Likewise, I think, though the circumstances are…"

"Yeah, they never are," Shepherd sighs, settling himself down onto a small crate that serves as an improvised seat, "I owe you an apology on that front, actually. The Yozi cult that killed your family - the Servants of Emerald Flame, to use their term for it - Siaka and I have been hunting them for a while. We got most of them, but I think the rest must have gotten spooked. It wasn't our intention, but… well. Sorry, for whatever that's worth."

You stare at him for long, uncertain moments. To hear such a claim, to know that the man before you is responsible in some small way for the death of your family… it should make you angry, right? You should be demanding satisfaction. And yet, all you really feel is cold. Hollow, almost. It doesn't matter nearly as much as you would have thought it would.

You can't just forgive him, though. It's not that easy.

"You hunt them?" You say instead, seizing on an otherwise minor detail to take your mind off the more painful ones, "Like… monks? Or exorcists?"

"More like magistrates, really," the Shepherd says with a thoughtful expression, "I am one of the Sidereal Exalted; a Chosen of Mercury, to be precise, empowered by the Maiden of Journeys to tend to her interests and further her goals within Creation. Demon-worshipping cults are pretty much by definition opposed to such things, and tend to cause all manner of suffering if left unchecked besides, so we hunt them where we can, or put others on their trail if we can't."

"And that's…" you lack the words to fully explain your query, so instead you opt to simply raise one hand and touch it lightly to your brow, where the crimson rune once burned.

"Yeah - that's your caste mark," Shepherd says with a nod, "It was red, right? Colour of Mars, Maiden of Battles. She's chosen you to serve as her agent. You'll get a full briefing on what that means when we get to our destination, so don't worry about it too much just yet. I'll answer what questions you have in the meantime, though."

You nod thoughtfully. To be chosen as an agent of the gods in any capacity is an honour, to serve one of the Most High a blessing beyond compare, and… well, if you bear the blessing of Mars herself, you don't imagine there will be any difficulty in finding a place where Sabah can be safe, or a way for your father to be properly avenged.

In fact, hunting demons as a profession sounds remarkably appealing right now.

"Where are we going, then?" You ask, looking up at your fellow… Sidereal, "This is the Grey River, I know that much, but…"

"Doesn't exactly narrow down the options, does it?" Shepherd grins, "We're going to Yu-Shan, City of the Gods. There's a Celestial Gateway not too far from here. Siaka and I need to report on our mission, and you… well you need to meet your new associates."

You blink.

"We're going to Heaven?" You reply, a little dubious, "Is that… even allowed?"

"For basically anyone else? No, and the lions will eat you for trying," Shepherd replies with a laugh. You rather like the way he laughs, actually. It has a nice, warm ring to it. "But for us? We're not just allowed to visit, we live and work there. There's nowhere else like it, though I'm not sure I can really explain it all that well. Better if you wait and see for yourself."

You mull that over, somewhat uncertain of how exactly you should feel. It doesn't sound real, to be perfectly honest, though if Shepherd was going to lie you'd think he would choose something a little less blatant. Still… the sun is still brushing the horizon, and Sabah was never an early riser. You have time to ask a few more questions.

Article:

Choose two topics of conversation. This vote will be counted by line.

[ ] The Sidereal Exalted. Shepherd made what you are now sound more like a job than a state of being, and surely he can't always work as a demon hunter. See if you can get some more details on what it means to be Chosen by the Maidens.

[ ] Your Abilities. You did things yesterday that should be rights be impossible, and you don't really understand how. Some of it you can piece together through practice and experimentation, but an explanation from a peer would help you get a head start.

[ ] Arcane Fate. Why does Sabah not recognize you? Is it connected to the fact that you've never even heard of a 'Sidereal' before today, when the Dragon's Blood rule across Creation?

[ ] The Maidens of Fate. Your knowledge of the Most High is somewhat basic, and since one of them has apparently named themselves your patron, it would be a good idea to get some more information on who and what they are.

[ ] Demons and the Yozi. You lacked knowledge of these threats before, and it cost you everything. You need to learn more about them, and here is a veteran hunter to question at length.

[ ] Shepherd of the North Star. It would be rude not to ask of your fellow traveler, you think, and perhaps his circumstances can help shed some light on your own.

[ ] Write In

 

[Maugan Ra]

There are many things you could ask here, and many that some external advisor might even say you should, but as is always the way of things it is the small details that catch your mind, that draw your attention and will not let it go. A single word, spoken without thought, but carrying with it implications in legion strength.

"You… called yourself one of the Exalted," you say cautiously, trying to wrap your head around the idea, "but you are not of the Dragon's blood. Nor am I, for all that we are supposedly peers. So…"

Shepherd of the North Star winces slightly, and for a moment you think you might have caught him in a lie. But no, he does not appear defensive or upset, simply awkward and slightly annoyed.

"Right, shit, that…" he says, rubbing one hand across the back of his head in a gesture that makes him look far younger than his face and bearing would imply, "alright, so, to boil a complex topic right the way down, the Dragon-Blooded are what we would call 'Terrestrial Exalted'. Their power is drawn from the elements, from their bloodline, from the Jade relics in their arsenals - all things of Creation and the material world. We, by contrast, draw our abilities from the night sky, from fate and prophecy and the blessing of the highest among the gods. We are, in short 'Celestial' Exalted."

You nod slowly. That matches up with what you know already, for while your studies into essence and the most esoteric areas of natural philosophy are somewhat limited, one does not need to hunt through a library to know the truth of the Dragon's Chosen. The Dynasts of the Scarlet Empire are the greatest military, economic and socio-political power in Creation, all glories built on the back of their grand lineages of Exalted heroes. There are not many Children of the Dragons in Taira, but those who exist could walk into your father's court and be granted audience at virtually any time, a privilege for which others would literally commit murder… and a price they were more than worth paying.

"Alright, but… well, that's not what I meant," you say, awkwardly aware of the dull heat of the morning and the cool embrace of the water at your back, "I know about the Dragon's Chosen, everyone does, but… a Sidereal? I've never even heard the word before, and if you're anything like the Exalted I know that should be all but impossible. Why don't the histories…"

A young girl's eyes, watching you in uncomprehending shock. A question from lips that should never speak such words. A sense of shock, and loss deep enough to scar the heart.

"Yeah," Shepherd says softly, his golden eyes warm and compassionate, "you've already encountered it, haven't you? Do you mind if I ask…"

You swallow thickly, your mind shying away from the sheer magnitude of what the collection of clues at your disposal imply. "Sabah… she's my sister. She's known me all her life. We used to play games together, but… yesterday, she didn't know me. I thought it might be shock or injury at first, but…"

The blond man sighs and looks away, his gaze drifting aimlessly along the riverbank. The river blends with the tree line here, creating a region of mangroves through which strange reptilian forms glide and lurk.

"We call it 'arcane fate'," he says at last, voice melancholic, "and it is a curse in the most literal of senses, one that binds every member of our fellowship from the moment they take their second breath. It is a curse of anonymity, I suppose would be the best way to describe it; in short, nothing we do will ever really be remembered."

The humid air leaves droplets of water against every surface and beads your brow with sweat, but you do not feel the heat. As Shepherd speaks, the only thing you feel is cold.

"We've tried to find ways around it, of course, but as far as we can tell nothing works," the wanderer continues, his voice heavy, "written records go missing, or get destroyed. Stories change with every telling, until another is credited with our own role. Statues erode, scars fade, and memories… well, those have never been reliable. Someone who felt strongly about you might notice a sense of lack, and those of strong will can hold onto the details as they slip through their fingers like so much sand, but a child like Sabah? Someone that young has trouble remembering what they were told five minutes ago. To her, you might as well have never existed."

You are… well, very glad that you are already seated, to be honest, and that your stance is such that any loss of balance will tip you into the boat rather than out. The thought of such a curse, of the sheer power represented by something of that scope… it boggles the mind. The moon-witches of Perswha are infamous for the afflictions their displeasure brings, but even they could not do such a thing, else your ancestors would have never been able to conquer their city and burn their temples to the ground.

"How is… how is such a thing possible?" You say, your voice hoarse, "Who could even perform such magic?"

"I don't know," Shepherd says with an awkward shrug, "as far as I can tell, no one does. The Mask… that is to say, the part of fate that governs secrets and hidden information like this, as represented by the constellation itself… well, it's broken. Maybe that's the reason we're cursed as we are, maybe it's just a side effect of such a grand working, but while it is broken any information relating to the curse is itself concealed by that same mechanism. I've heard at least half a dozen stories that seek to explain it, all with what appears to be strong evidence behind them, none of which permit the existence of the others."

You sit in silence for a time, struggling to comprehend the full meaning of being so ruinously afflicted. You knew that being Chosen like you were likely meant your worldly ambitions had come to an end, and your desire to see your sister to safety beyond Taira's borders has not faded, but… you can't go back. The people will have forgotten you, and even if you could convince them of your name and birthright any legal decrees you might pass down would wash away like sand the moment they passed beyond your sight.

The life you had is gone, and none but you will even know to mourn.

"...what's going to happen to my family?" You whisper, voice on the very edge of breaking, "My parents are dead, my uncles and my cousins too, but… I have aunts, other relatives, a whole lineage beyond the ones who lived in Zamash. You're a servant of heaven, you have to know more than I do, as much as the gods themselves…"

"I don't," Shepherd says gently, shattering the one rock left of your foundation with a voice as soft as velvet, "not with any certainty, at least. When we get to Heaven I can consult the records of your family and see what fate has in store for them, but that won't tell the whole story. Fate cannot be defied, but it can be altered, most frequently by mortal will."

You bow your head, your eyes burning with unshed tears. Damn it, this would be a lot easier if you were a woman right now… but no, your soul is that of a man and so you must contend with a man's passions, even when they threaten to steal your sense and send you screaming for the horizon.

"So… I can't help them, can't even know what will happen to them…" you whisper, the words intended for your own heart but carried to the ears of another regardless of intent.

"Hey, I didn't say that," Shepherd replies, attempting to console you as best a relative stranger can, "see, we're the Chosen of the Maidens, and when it comes to fate that means something. You can't stick around and look after everybody yourself, but you can tweak the weave so that fate does it for you. Or, since you're still new to this, you can let someone else do it on your behalf."

There is an offer in those words, and it is one that sets the light of hope burning in your breast once again.

"Truly?" You say, scarcely daring to believe, "You would do such a thing for me?"

"Hey, I did say I owed you an apology, and deeds weigh more than words," Shepherd says with a serious nod, "now it'll take time to get a blessing of any scale laid down, but I'd be willing to call in a few favors and get it done when we return to Yu-Shan. I'm pretty sure Iron Siaka would be willing to chip in as well…"

"Chip in with what?" The woman in question asks, one eyebrow raised as she emerges onto the deck from the quarters below, "Shepherd, what're you getting me into this time?"

You frown slightly at the sight of her. The build is the same, the steel armour and leather coat are familiar, but you could have sworn her hair was blond when you encountered her last night. Now it's a pale, multi-layered blue, like that of someone from the furthest western reaches of Creation. She catches you looking and raises one hand in greeting.

"Hey there new… girl?" She says, frowning back at your in turn, "Or… guy? Could have sworn you looked prettier last night…"

"Guy, at least for today," you clarify, raising a hand of your own in return of the perfunctory greeting, "it changes sometimes."

Iron Siaka seems to consider this for a few moments, then shrugs, broad shoulders rising and falling like boulders rolling down the mountain. "Alright, guess that works. Not the strangest thing I've seen this month, even if the others were all gods…"

"I'm talking about laying a blessing, Siaka," Shepherd interjects, saving the conversation before you can demand further details on what sounds like an honestly fascinating story, "Farah here wants to be sure his family are all right, while he's off in Yu-Shan and beyond. I volunteered to write up the proposal."

"Oh, right… yeah, that makes sense," Siaka nods briskly, folding her broad arms across her chest and turning to face you. You think there is a glint of approval in her dark blue eyes. "I did something similar when I was chosen; had a blessing laid on the little village I was from, made sure that no one who lived there would ever fall victim to plague or famine as long as they kept faith with their neighbors. The top brass like us to keep the scope limited where we can, but they generally look the other way when it comes to stuff like this - an agent who knows their family is safe and happy is an agent much less likely to go wandering off mid-mission to make sure of it."

"Not quite how I would have put it, but close enough," Shepherd says with a sigh slightly too exaggerated to be genuine, "so, this is how it works…"

Article:

The fate of Creation is decided in committee.

Within Heaven's Bureau of Destiny, a vast array of divinities discuss, debate, politic, and conspire to plot the destiny of the world. Nominally, they seek to weave a beautiful pattern upon the Loom of Fate, that the Maidens of Destiny may look upon the shimmering cloth of That Which Is and be pleased. In truth, the five divisions within the Bureau compete with one another for resources and decision making power, for particular courses and outcomes.

The Sidereal Exalted are, by and large, only as involved in such matters as they wish to be. They are the agents of Destiny, not mere scribal-pit gods, and walk Creation to realize their views of fate more concretely. That said, there are times when members of the Five-Score Fellowship finds it helpful to submit their own plans and projections to the Bureau, and weave the world as they will.

Astrological Projections are the subtle art of destiny-weaving and the birthright of the Sidereal Exalted. They are kin to sorcerous workings, but differ in intent and means. Astrological Projections are less capable of wildly altering the normal workings of the world, or creating monsters in defiance of reason. However, they are better suited for encouraging or ensuring that certain events do or don't come to pass, and can cause even the wildest of improbabilities to occur.

Farah is currently incapable of reliably weaving a projection by themselves (this requires investment into charms associated with the sign of the Sorcerer). Hence, full mechanics are not provided here; for now, it is sufficient to note that the difficulty of such a weaving is determined by how ambitious it is, how much precise control the Sidereal desires over the result, and what resources they have to commit to the attempt. A plan with room for flexibility submitted alongside a full astrological horoscope and the authorizing signatures of multiple other Sidereals and relevant gods has a much better chance of becoming fate than a precisely dictated scheme dictated alone and entirely through prayer.

Beings outside of Fate, such as the Demon Princes, Rakan Thulio, the Getimian Exalted, and certain powerful beings of the Underworld or the Wyld, may not be included as targets of an Astrological Projection.

Telluric Projections are the simplest sort; they can encourage or discourage a small group of people towards certain actions, or dictate the fate of a particular individual. They may also be used to directly intervene in the workings of Heaven upon Creation in modest ways, assigning or removing Terrestrial gods from their positions.

Ambition 1: Grant wealth and ease to a mortal, or extend (but within the constraints of natural) their lifespan. Learn the whereabouts and condition of a particular mortal, assuming they are alive.
Ambition 2: Curse a family to misery and poverty. Cut the thread of a mortal's life short. Learn when and how a mortal died.
Ambition 3: Grant prosperity to a village, ensuring good harvests and avoiding mundane hardships. Assign or remove a God of Essence 3 or less to a duty within Creation.

Supernal Projections are of more complex variety; they typically either affect a much wider area, or bend and twist fate in unnatural ways. They may also be used to directly intervene in the workings of Heaven in significant ways, assigning or removing Celestial gods from their positions. They are comparable to Celestial Circle Workings.

Ambition 1: Grant a mortal dizzying political power, making them a prince or chief of their people, or slow their aging to an unnatural degree. Alter a mortal's major intimacies and abilities in any fashion. Learn the whereabouts and condition of a particular Exalt, assuming they are alive.
Ambition 2: Curse a tribe to hatred unto the third generation; they and their children and their grand-children inspire enmity in all outsiders they meet. Heavily tilt the scales of a confrontation between up to several hundred people in a significant way (on the scale of +3 success once a turn for a scene). Learn when and how an Exalted died.
Ambition 3: Grant prosperity to a city-state, such as revealing an unknown cache of magical materials or precious gemstones. Bless every seventh son in a region with a thaumaturgical gift. Assign or remove a God of Essence 5 or less to a duty within Heaven or Creation.

Sidereal Projections are the most complex and most subtle of all; they are typically concerned with the fate of all Creation, or with a radical change in the functions of the world. They may also be used to directly intervene in the workings of Heaven to an almost unlimited degree. They are comparable to Solar Circle Workings.

Ambition 1: Grant someone limited immortality and beneficial mutations; they cease aging, but can still be injured or grow ill. Alter a mortal's defining intimacies, attributes and abilities in any fashion- at this Ambition, you can completely re-write who they are.
Ambition 2: Curse a people to destruction; while not every member of the people will necessarily be killed, their culture and identity will be wiped from Creation. Ensure the victory or defeat of a side in a conflict (on the scale of +5 successes on every action and static defense)
Ambition 3: Any single, possible event to occur, regardless of the improbability. Assign or remove any God short of the Incarnae to any duty or portfolio save entry into the Games of Divinity, or have them banished from Heaven and Creation entirely.

Article:

Shepherd of the North Star and Iron Saika have agreed to weave an astrological projection on behalf of your family and loved ones in Taira (or alternately, against your enemies). At present they are only capable of enacting Telluric projections by themselves - they are willing to call in outside help to work beyond this level, but the more you ask the greater the chance the attempt will fail… or, if it succeeds, increases the power and seniority of the person you are now in debt to.

With that in mind, define your requested Projection:
[ ] A Blessing of Personal Safety: You would have the fate of your surviving family members emphasize their continued survival - they will be healthy and whole, and that is what matters.

[ ] An Invocation of Success: You would see your family retain their power, and be blessed in their attempts to govern well and bring stability to the country. The enemy cannot be allowed to succeed in their aims and topple the throne.

[ ] A Curse of Vengeance: Those who would plot to raise a blade against any of your blood should be cursed with a lingering and unpleasant illness, one that brings suffering and often death. A traitor must be paid for their work.

[ ] Write in

 

[Maugan Ra]

Spoiler: Winning Vote

A Blessing of Glory: Yours is an ancient line, and it has held the throne by accomplishment and valour - were you not champion of the kingdom's finest warriors, an honour you earned in blood and victory? But now you are gone, sailing away to Heaven. It is only meet, then, that you see your family's passions kindled in your wake, the blaze of your Second Breath inspiring their own achievements in your absence, that they might remind the wolves at the gates exactly who they are fucking with.

"You sure?" Iron Siaka says in a dubious tone, quirking one pale blue eyebrow in your direction, "Most people given a chance to lay a blessing on their loved ones go for health or prosperity or long life… you know, peaceful stuff."

You nod, a hard-edged smile creasing the curve of your lips. The thought of laying such a blessing did occur to you, but in your heart you know you have made the right call. It simply… feels correct, in a way that few other things have before the last few days, in the exact same manner that your instinctive use of these new abilities has felt.

"Quite sure," you reply, meeting her gaze and willing the outlander to understand the true depth of your conviction, "Taira was founded in blood, and it shall be kept by the same. There is no safety to be found in peace, not here - only through victory can my family's future be secured."

"Well, you're definitely a Shieldbearer," Shepherd of the North Star mutters, an amuses edge to his voice as he studies you from his position near the helm. You shoot him a glance, sensitive to what sounds dangerously close to mockery, and he raises a hand in warding. "Peace, Farah, I meant no insult. Mars chooses her attendants well, and those she will one day bless are all but guaranteed to lead lives of strife and competition. Siaka and I don't share the same heritage, but we don't really need to; a promise given, a promise kept. You will have your blessing."

"Sign of the Banner, I suppose?" Iron Siaka grunts in a thoughtful manner, folding broad arms across a broader chest, "Might have to call in the Executioner, he knows more about that than most…"

"Or the Steersman, potentially, given the environment," Shepherd replies in a similar tone, and something of your confusion must have shown on your face, for he addresses you again a moment later, "You'll get brought up to speed on the particulars when we reach Yu-Shan, don't worry. For now… Siaka, do we have some spare rations?"

"Whole gallery full of them, yeah," the woman nods, making a beckoning gesture with one hand as she turns back to the stairs, "come on, new guy. We'll grab something to eat, get to know each other. You must be starved."

Now that she mentions it… you do feel the first pangs of hunger in your gut. Nothing truly excessive, and about what you'd expect for the day after a hard-fought skirmish, but you know from experience that left unattended such minor sensations will grow to a crippling sense of lack with shocking speed. You hop down from the rail, raise one hand in a half-hearted gesture of acknowledgement to the Shepherd, and follow your new comrade down below the deck.

"So, I'm pretty sure the cloud-wit up there already introduced me," she says, and you frown slightly at the strange term - it sounds like a slur, but there was no true malice behind it, "but I'm Iron Siaka, daughter of the Realm and sanctioned Joybringer of Venus."

You blink at that. Surely she doesn't mean… well she is wearing blue, and the term sounds suggestive enough, but still…

"You're not what I would have expected from a Dynast," you say, somewhat awkwardly, "or from a, uh…"

Iron Siaka merely laughs at that, or rather snorts in a way that manages to convey the appropriate level of mirth. Considering the size and weight of the hammer hanging from her hip this is probably a good thing.

"Courtesan? Prostitute? Back-alley whore?" She suggests in quick succession, her voice amused as she leads you down the darkened passageway under the ship's deck, "Don't let the name fool you. There are Joybringers who use sex as a tool and weapon, but it's not required, and that's never been my style. No, I bring joy to the world by beating the shit out of anything big and ugly enough to deserve it."

At the end of the corridor is a small mess hall of sorts - you don't know what they call it on a ship, but there are tables and wooden plates and a small selection of lockers stationed around the wall. You take a seat at one of the tables while Iron Siaka kneels and begins rooting through one of the cabinets.

"As for the other thing," she says idly, drawing out a collection of small clay bottles and a tray laden with some strange fleshy orbs, "I'm not a Dynast. Realm has peasants like everywhere else, even if they don't go traveling much. I'm a fisherman's daughter, regular 'salt of the earth' kind of gal, which is why I'm here dressed in steel and leather rather than some fancy set of patterned robes."

"Huh," You say with some eloquence, watching as she brings what you can only assume to be food over to the table. You've never really spent a lot of time around peasants, truth be told - even in the army, your cataphracts were drawn from the lower ranks of Taira's noble class, selected by necessity from among those with the resources to acquire their own steeds and armour. The panoply of war does not come cheap, and while you have led toasts in busy halls and been the hero of the camp on more than one occasion that doesn't mean the rank and file have ever truly felt comfortable acting naturally in your presence.

Maybe you should have done the storybook thing and gone out drinking incognito or something, assuming your accent wouldn't give you away immediately. Well, too late for that now.

"Anyway, hope you don't mind, but we need to use up the fruit," Siaka says, setting the small platter down on the table in front of you, "it'll spoil if we leave it too long, and that would be a real shame."

You study the 'fruit' with some wariness. The waxy skin is an odd purple in hue, and at irregular intervals is studded with some kind of spiny growths that remind you of a pike formation mustered before your charge. Siaka parts the outer skin with a broad-bladed knife conjured from somewhere within her outfit, and when she does the soft innards are revealed to be a bloody red in hue.

"And you're sure this is… edible?" You say cautiously, as your host pushes half of a sundered orb across the table towards you. "It doesn't look like any kind of fruit I've ever seen…"

"That's because you've never been out West," Siaka says with a shrug, biting down on her own morsel and sending small trickles of purple liquid running down her chin, "Out there… mmgh… you can find whole islands dedicated to growing this stuff. Volcanoes, mostly, with too little surface area above the waves to be worth colonizing but enough fertile soil to support a whole field of wyrm-trees."

Unwilling to back down without at least making the attempt, you follow Siaka's lead and bite into the fruit set before you. It is… not as sweet as you would have expected, and there is a slightly bitter aftertaste that you swiftly realize is caused by the small ink-black seeds scattered throughout the scarlet flesh. Biting down on one of those causes such an explosion of bitter acid across your tongue you come within a hair's breadth of spitting the whole thing out at once.

"Not your style, then?" Siaka says with some amusement, watching the way your expression contorts, "No shame in that. Creation's a big place, and no one person is ever going to fancy everything. Hell, Shepherd likes this weird kind of salted meat he says comes from some of the herd beasts near where he comes from, even though it's tough enough to break a tooth if you chew too hard."

"Not my style, no," you echo, setting the fruit back down on the platter, "still, you said it came from out West? The way you spoke of it implies you've been there…"

"Oh yeah, I've been damn near everywhere at this point," Siaka says cheerfully, finishing her fruit and wiping the back of one gauntlet across her lips, "Well, in terms of the general Five Directions, anyway. I've hunted pirates off the shores of volcanic islands out west, saved young heroes from an oasis ambush down south, brawled with a dragon in a snowstorm…"

There is a faint scraping sound from the entrance, and you and Siaka both look over at once. There, huddled half-behind the door frame, is Sabah - barely tall enough to reach your knee, swaddled in what seems to be an old shirt that she wears like a robe, and staring at the two of you with a vaguely plaintive expression in her dark eyes.

"'m hungry," she says softly, sounding almost apologetic, and it hurts to see that the one she addresses is the woman who was no more than a total stranger less than a dozen hours past.

"Well we can't have that now, can we?" Siaka says cheerfully, beckoning for her to approach and already carving open another one of those disgusting fruits. Sabah toddles across the floor, and with a single muscular arm the Joybringer hoists her up onto one of the seats. "Why don't you try some of this, yeah?"

"Ok," the young girl says quietly, staring at you instead of the fruit. You look back at her for a long moment, painfully aware of the lack of recognition in her eyes. "Who're you?"

"...I'm Farah," you say hoarsely, ignoring the knife that digs into your guts at the very word, "We… this is Siaka. She was going to tell us a story about a dragon. Would you like to hear it?"

Sabah nods eagerly, and as she turns to stare at your companion you bow your head and force yourself not to weep. Your sister does not know you. She does not even remember that you saved her life the night before, that you fought a demon before her eyes to keep her safe. Is this… how it's always going to be? Will you spend the rest of your life introducing yourself, chasing a one-sided love with the only immediate family you have left? Will it always hurt this much?

You don't know if you can do this.

"Right, so, dragons," Siaka says with deliberate cheer, keeping your sister distracted with enthusiasm and glee, "now most of them are pretty peaceful sorts, on the grounds that once you're that strong it takes a real effort to antagonise you into feeling genuinely threatened, but sometimes one of them can get real ornery all the same. There was one up north, name of Jarlskale, that started going beyond the normal demands for tribute and started outright chasing off nearby communities from any manse or demense he considered 'his', so the Bureau sent me up there to take care of it…"

The Joybringer spins her tale, and you bury your grief in her words, at least for a time.

Article:

Starting have been added to the front page character sheet. However, there are a few other potential options that must now be decided upon.

The first is the matter of Farah's surviving family, and his intentions going forwards. Do you intend to keep Sabah by your side, come what may, or would it be a better choice to see her established in a new life somewhere safe where you could watch over her from afar? This does not mean immediate action, but rather your intent for the future.
[ ] Keep Sabah Close
[ ] Watch from Afar

The second is the matter of your Exaltation and how you feel about it. Becoming a Sidereal arguably saved your life, but it also cost you your family and your place in the world. Do you resent Mars for choosing you like this, or are you honored by the idea of being one of her servants?
[ ] Mars (Resentment)
[ ] Mars (Reverence)

Finally, there are any number of other things that Farah may hold strong opinions on, and I wish to take this opportunity to open the floor to suggestions. This part is not a winner-takes-all type vote; rather, any option that accumulates at least half a dozen votes will make it onto Farah's character sheet in some form or another, provided it does not conflict with other votes or currently established beliefs.

[ ] Other intimacies (write-in)

 

[Maugan Ra]

When Shepherd of the North Star came down to the galley to inform you of your arrival, you were expecting something rather dramatic. Surely a passage into the halls of Heaven itself would be a thing of mystery and wonder, a veritable fortress guarded by legions of loyal guards or hidden carefully away behind a series of sorcerous runes.

Instead, it seems your destination is a patch of unremarkable water somewhere in the middle of the Grey River's vast expanse. The slowly flowing water all around you is too deep to hold any kind of discerning feature, and the width of the river itself hides both banks from view; in short, you could be in any one of a thousand different spots and never know the difference.

"I'll be honest, this is not what I was expecting," you say dubiously, reaching up with one hand to shift your sister's weight upon your shoulder. Sabah has warmed up to, it seems, and as is her way has decided to demonstrate this approval by claiming you as a personal exercise frame, or else an imitation tree she can scurry up and down at will. You are too touched by the memory of what was once normal to restrain her. "Shouldn't there be… well, something here?"

"Oh, there is," Shepherd replies cheerfully from his position at the stern. You would have expected him to be moving about, tending to the various ropes and sails across the deck in the absence of a dedicated crew, but it seems he has found some way to shirk the burden of such necessary work. Indeed, you're quite sure that the ropes are moving on their own, absent any command or visible crew, but they never do so while in direct line of sight and so you cannot say for sure. "It's just not visible right now. Siaka, would you do the honors?"

"Figured it'd be me," the Joybringer replies with a disgruntled expression on her face, stepping up to the edge of the deck and drawing a small knife from a pouch at her waist, "one of these days I'll see you pay the toll, you lazy bastard, and then we'll see who's smiling."

The knife is a tiny thing, it's blade plated in glittering silver, and as you watch Siaka draws it across the back of her forearm in a single precise motion. The blade's edge parts silk and skin with equal ease, and a small trickle of dark red blood falls from the wound and into the river below. Siaka says something in a language you have only heard from the lips of priests and wise men, then steps back and puts the knife away once more.

"Technically we don't have to make an offering," she says in a conversational tone, the cut along her arm already sealed and dry, "but it keeps the wardens happy and means we don't have to make a big show of invoking our authority every time we come on through. A little grease for the wheel, you know."

You nod, but absently, for your mind is not upon her words. Instead it is grabbed by the ripples that are spreading out towards the distant banks, and the rapidly growing shadow from just below the waves.

With a hollow boom and a roaring foundation, the gate emerges from beneath the waves.

Thrice the height of a full grown elephant, it takes the form of a hollow ring wrought of burnished gold. Pictographs adorn the rim, jade of every colour hammered into stylized representations of the divine and all their works, and at the base a shimmering pillar of perfect silver holds the whole structure clear of the river's bed. There are no doors, only a featureless expanse of pure white light that fills the interior of the ring, and for the barest moment you could swear the sound of trumpets hung distant on the breeze.

"One hundred and eight gates join the heavens and the earth," Shepherd of the North Star announces in a slightly theatrical fashion, the ship he commands drifting toward the otherworldly portal of its own free will, "plus an innumerable number of less official passages under the control of one divinity or another. This is one of them, and as Sidereal Exalted it is our right to make use of them as personal circumstances require. Uh… try not to look too gobsmacked, we have a reputation to maintain."

Your grit your teeth at his request, and watch with a certain trepidation as you sail straight towards the curtain of pale white light hung so clearly out before you. The prow of the vessel pierces the light and vanishes entirely, and you steady yourself as best you can as the radiance washes over you. It feels like silk and feathers against your skin, and then…

For one brief moment, you fear you have gone mad, for all around you other Farah's stand on other ships in the endless procession that stretches off into infinity. Then sense returns and you discern the contours of the perfect mirrors that now surround you, the reflective walls of a tunnel that stretch from the portal at your back off to some unknown destination up ahead. It is impossible to tell how large the chamber truly is, and after a moment you stop trying and instead focus your attention downward.

You blink.

"Is that… gold?" You say in a hesitant voice, looking down at the shimmering liquid that has replaced the river water beneath the hull of your conveyance. It flows thick and glows from within, as though some great fire was trapped beneath the surface, and though you have never been within the great foundries of your kingdom you imagine the material they work with must look something akin to this.

"Yeah, it is," Iron Siaka says with a simple nod, "molten gold at that, cold enough not to set the boat on fire. It's the same stuff that flows in all the rivers of Yu-Shan, when they're not filled with quicksilver or light at any rate… I'm told it all comes from a massive heart buried somewhere underneath the central districts, but I don't know if I believe it."

"Alright, everyone, quay is coming up," Shepherd announces in a cheerful voice, the boat slowing to a halt at his command, "everybody off."

You cannot see much difference between the endless hall of reflections here and those of any other point in your journey, but when your companion steps off the side of the boat he does not fall despite the lack of visible support. You shake your head, adjust an awestruck Sabah gently on your back, then follow in his wake. As you do the perspective shifts and you find you can just about make out the rigid block of not-quite-metal beneath your booted feet, it's shape outlined in your view by the myriad sparks of a thousand captive stars.

"We're between the worlds right now," Iron Siaka says in a reassuring tone as she steps up to join you, "not in one place or really any other. Things get kind of weird here, but once you get used to it such things aren't really a problem any more. The real trick is getting past these guys."

She nods down the length of the platform, and before your eyes a doorway seems to weave itself into being out of a crumpled zone of folded space. Through the portal comes one of the guardians of this place, and the sight of its magnificence takes your breath away.

"Four visitors," the Lion says in a rumbling voice, looking down at you with eyes cut from shining emeralds. It's flank is the burning sunset hue of Orichalcum, and if it wished it could drown a bull elephant in the depths of its enormous shadow. "Three Exalted and… a mortal?"

"My sister," you say sharply, feeling Sabah's frightened breath against your ear as she clings tightly to your shoulder. You don't want to imagine what would happen if something so large and powerful took issue with Sabah's presence here, but you're not going to stand aside and let that happen. Even if it does have paws the size of your entire torso.

"A member of our comrade's household," Shepherd of the North Star interjects, stepping smoothly in between you and the looming form of the leonine guard, "the proper paperwork will of course be submitted promptly, but Farah here has only recently taken the Second Breath, so there has not yet been proper opportunity."

"Ah, a newly-Chosen agent? Well then," the Lion says with what you think might be intended as some kind of smile, "allow me to be the first of my brothers to say 'Welcome to Yu-Shan', my lady, and to remind you that the Laws of Heaven should not be defied. It would be a shame to have to eat you."

The Lion bends its front knees in a surprisingly dignified looking bow, and you are struck with a pair of impulses each worth disregarding in their own way. The first is to explain that you are not in fact a 'lady', which you surrender for concerns of time and a general uncertainty over whether or not deities like this even have a gender in any sense you would understand it.

The second is the childish urge to swing yourself up onto its back and ride the god through the streets like the most magnificent of steeds, an impulse set regretfully aside on the suspicion that indulgence would see you outright devoured.

"Indeed it would," you say instead, trying to control your expression, "I'd make a terrible meal. All sinew and bone."

The Lion chuckles, a sound that is perhaps less reassuring than you think it had intended, and turns away to return to whatever strange den it keeps here among the borderlands of reality between accosting travelers. "I shall call a Dragon Boat for your party. Do not tarry, we might have other visitors coming through shortly."

You watch as the great guardian vanishes before your eyes, then turn to find that the boat which bore you hence has done likewise. The reflections in the shimmering metal persist for a time, but one by one they too fade from view, leaving only the golden river and the hall of myriad images.

"So, yeah, Celestial Lions," Iron Siaka says in a cheerful tone, "biggest, meanest and quite possibly the strictest guards you'll find literally anywhere in Creation or beyond. Don't cross them; they weren't kidding about the eating."

"Can't say I was planning on it anyway, but cheers," you say drily, "and I take it that's our ride?"

Coming up the river from the same direction you entered is something that you suppose more or less qualifies as a boat. It looks rather more like some artist's impression of a watercraft than anything you'd trust to carry you over an actual river, but within those limitations you can admit it looks impressive enough; a thing of sleek curves and polished silver, it's flanks adorned with a variety of iconic decoration and its prow capped by an enormous draconic sculpture. There doesn't appear to be any kind of crew, another entry in a pattern that is beginning to concern you with its implications, but the boat draws up to the dock in good order all the same.

"Right then, all aboard," Iron Siaka proclaims with a laugh, vaulting back over the rail in a display of athletics you are quite sure isn't actually necessary, "we'll head back to my place first, I think. You'll need a place to stay until lodgings are formally arranged, and I've been missing the comforts of home something fierce."

She switches tongues then, seemingly addressing the empty air in that same god-speak you heard her employ earlier, and though you have your reservations you board the boat behind her. Shepherd follows along in your wake, and the moment he is aboard the beautiful sculpted prow coils turns back on itself to study you all with gleaming yellow eyes.

It appears the term 'dragon-boat' is rather more literal than you had first supposed.

"Yeah, that trips everyone up the first time they come through here," Shepherd says in a sympathetic tone, taking a seat on a set of large and decadent looking cushions, "you'll get used to it in time, but as a general rule most gods don't often feel the need to adopt any kind of humanoid form. Some do, but you're just as likely to wind up chatting with a jewel-encrusted raven or a set of empty robes as you are something with the expected number and arrangement of limbs."

"Assume everything is a god till proven otherwise, got it," you reply, filing away what would otherwise be a flippant response in your mind as a general principle for later reference, "speaking of which, what's that language Siaka keeps using?"

"Oh, that? Old Realm, language of the gods," Shepherd nods, stretching out and getting himself comfortable, "though really it's less a separate tongue and more the common root of, like, a majority of Creation's modern languages? The variant spoken here never really had to adapt or evolve in the same way our ones did, never really suffered the same degree of isolation or linguistic drift, so…"

"Fascinating, I'm sure," you wave a hand at him, grunting slightly as Sabah detaches herself from your back and goes toddling across the deck, "but what I want to know is 'how easy is it to learn', because unless I miss my mark most folks around here won't speak any tongue I know, so…"

The Dragon-boat turns its attention back to the river, and without any sense of perceptible motion the world outside begins to scroll past at a leisurely rate. Iron Siaka nods to your new conveyance then makes her way back over to join you, picking up Sabah with a single muscular arm as she goes.

"You're not wrong," she says, having apparently kept track of your conversations even while giving directions to the boat, "most of the older and more powerful gods refuse to use any modern language as a point of principle, and even if they did all the official paperwork is in Old Realm as well. I asked if I could just use seatongue once and I might as well have blasphemed against half the office…"

"Don't worry though," Shepherd puts in quickly, apparently concerned that you might find the prospect of learning an entire new language intimidating, "we have tutelary spirits to help with this sort of thing, you'll be up to speed in no time."

You nod vaguely at that, but in truth you can barely hear his voice, for the boat has just reached the end of the tunnel and emerged into open air once more.

Yu-Shan lies before you, and the world will never be the same again.

It is a city that stretches to the horizon, a metropolis unmatched in scale and grandeur by anything you had dared to imagine before this day. The streets are paved in silver and the buildings clad in jade; gemstones glitter on every wall and golden fountains paint the air with plumes of crimson wine. Trees of coloured light sway in long procession along the boulevards, and the sound of the wind in their branches is a symphony to make artisans weep with joy.

The sheer size of the place conspires to trick the eye, as slender needles of jade become great towers of a hundred floors and estates hidden behind orichalcum walls reveal themselves large enough to hide three mortal cities in their depths. The Dragon-boat speeds ever onwards, racing fast enough to turn the banks of the river into little more than a shimmering blur, yet the city beyond crawls by so slowly as to be almost stationary.

"It's the size of the Blessed Isle, I'm told," Iron Siaka notes, and even in her jaded eyes you can see some small fraction of the awe that threatens to drown your mind this moment, "on the surface, at least. I don't think anyone ever mapped out all the stuff beneath."

The air itself is sweet and clear, untouched by smoke or miasma, and in the azure skies above great winged chariots ply their way between the pristine clouds. With every heartbeat, another wonder presents itself before your eyes, there and gone again too quickly for anything more than the merest glimpse to be taken.

Thump, a primeval forest the size of Taira, strange silhouettes unknown to the mind prowling between trees the size of titans.

Thump, a spiraling network of roads and bridges that folds in on itself like origami, strung with silver chains.

Thump, a volcano frozen mid-eruption, it's basalt slopes crowned with a statue of a four-armed lord of living gold.

It is too much. You screw your eyes closed, struggling to regain your equilibrium, reeling as the basic context underlying your entire world is ripped away in an instant. Taira is a mighty nation and your life was one of wealth and power, but in the space of twenty heart-beats you have seen enough wealth to buy every man and crafted food within it borders three times over.

"This is insane," you growl, mastering yourself and forcing your eyes open once more, "how can a place like this exist? Hells, if the gods have this, why do they even care about Creation?"

"A question asked only because you lack knowledge of what it is you see," Shepherd replies, and for all his jovial airs the look in his golden eyes is a grim one, "this is prayer, Farah, the reverence of mortals given form."

You blink, then frown. "You mean metaphorically, or…"

"Nah, he's being literal," Iron Siaka says with a shrug, "every time a mortal prays, their words and thoughts and hopes race on up to the very edge of the world and beyond. Once here, they are transformed into 'ambrosia' - it's kind of like a food, I guess? Horrible waxy-looking stuff. Anyway, give a lump of ambrosia to a god that knows what it's doing and they can make damn near anything you can imagine. Cooked meat, fine wine, flawless jewels, a set of magic armour… or, you know, enough orichalcum to build yourself a fifty foot golden penis that shoots lava and moonbeams whenever someone says your name."

You stare at her for a long moment. "Please tell me you're not…"

"Nah… well, I don't think so?" Siaka frowns for a moment, "I'm pretty sure any god who tried to build something like that would get flayed alive by their furious neighbors before construction was even halfway through, but you still get plenty of symbolic shit even so. I'd call it subtle, but if there's one thing most gods don't really believe in…"

"Point is, inside Yu-Shan you can generally lay your hands on basically anything if you know where to look," Shepherd cuts in, gesturing vaguely to what you think was a park of frozen waterfalls as it flashes by on your starboard side, "couple that with the fact that gods don't actually need to eat, not to mention the natural immortality, and you've got yourself a recipe for… well, all of this. If ever you wondered why the gods of Creation seem so obsessed with gathering worshippers, well, it's because prayer to them is literally everything."

"It's why the Order has to keep decking them in the face every handful of years," Siaka adds cheerfully, "but don't mention that around the locals, they get kind of touchy about the general idea. I'll take you sightseeing at some point, but for now I think we're just about… Ah, home at last!"

The dragon-boat stops dead in the… well, gold... without actually slowing down, yet despite the sudden transition you feel only the vaguest sense of momentum from your loss of speed. There is a quay jutting out over the river by its side, and at Siaka's hurried gestures you rise to your feet and disembark. Beyond is the building you can only assume is her house.

Truth be told, the Joybringer's residence is almost shockingly mundane. Oh as such things go it is still a palatial estate to rival the finest villas of the Scarlet Dynasty - in fact you're reasonable certain the architecture is deliberately styled to resemble such a place - but in comparison to the wonders surrounding you in all directions it manages to seem downright humble. The gate is made of actual iron, for pity's sake, and as you approach it swings open to reveal… well, what appears to be a handsome looking man with a spray of peacock feathers in place of his hands.

"Welcome home, my lady," he says, bowing deeply to Iron Siaka in a way that sends brilliant colors shimmering through his hair, "your estate is as you left it, though it appears we are having guests. Should I prepare quarters for them?"

"Cheers, Chief, that sounds wonderful," Siaka says with a grin, stepping past her… servant, you think?... and leading the way down the gravel path beyond. "Farah, this is Chief Cuts-like-beauty, an old friend of mine. Chief, this is Farah Amestris, my new colleague. Show him where the baths are and then have a meal made up for us, would you?"

"Of course, my lady," the god (you assume) gives you a courteous bow as well, though not nearly so low as the one he offered to your companion, "if you would follow me, my lord, it would be my pleasure to extend the hospitality of the house."

"I'm sure you have questions," Siaka says with a negligent wave of the hand, "but sit on them for now, alright? We can talk over dinner. Speaking of, I need to send some reports to the rest of the Fellowship, tell them you've arrived…"

With a bemused smile, you follow your host as directed, and with your baby sister take the first steps into this opening chapter of your new life.

Article:

The process of Exaltation has reshaped Farah in body, mind and soul. Over the next few days, the remaining changes will finish manifesting, in the form of five additional attribute dots: these are the last of the 'free' points, and any further increases will require extensive training.

Please assign these dots as you desire between your nine attributes. The maximum rating for any attribute is five.
[ ] Attributes

• [ ] Write in (x5)

Additionally, Farah has begun to instinctively grasp the strange astrological magic that is their birthright. Twenty Five constellations govern the capabilities of the Sidereals, and as a Chosen of Mars Farah has an affinity for nine of them; the five signs that lay within the House of Battles, and one more from each of the other four houses that most closely resonate with the nature of Mars herself.

For clarity, these signs are: The Banner, the Captain, the Corpse, the Gauntlet, the Pillar, the Spear, the Shield, the Treasure Trove and the Quiver.

Please choose any number of the above as signs that you would like Farah to display an instinctive mastery of. Once the vote is called, I will distribute five additional charms between the winning five options (or less, if the vote is particularly lopsided). The main impact worth considering here is what it says about Farah that a given sign is so easy for them to master, even absent training or even awareness of what they happen to be.

[ ] Write in (Any number from the above nine signs)

Spoiler: Example vote for formatting purposes

[x] Attributes
- [x] +2 Strength
- [x] +1 Charisma
- [x] +1 Intelligence
- [x] +1 Resolve

[x] The Banner
[x] The Spear
[x] The Corpse

Attribute votes shall be counted as a block. Astrology votes shall be counted by line.