The Emperor, the Archon, his Magistrianoí and their Lover

[DragonCobolt]

The figure sitting upon the brass throne is made of fire and he is made of screaming. The screaming, though, isn't coming from him.

It's a part of him.

He's seven...nine...twenty...nine...seven feet tall. It keeps changing. Shifting. Maybe it's just your fear. Your hands are shaking and you try to think of your father-

[Oh, how utterly droll. I was enjoying the fear.]

The figure's voice echoes in your mind and you tense - and the laughs. His face - a carved brass mask, a jester's stylized smirk emblazoned across it - rotates to the left, allowing the mask behind the roiling flames that is his head to come into view. It is a frowning, scowling face.

[My suggestion is to give me what I want, child. Fear. Yes. Agony, that too.] His chuckle is like squealing metal. [What kind of a spy would you be if you could not take even a tiny bit of torture? Now...are you ready for the Rite?]

You gulp. Your hands tighten. Your fingers grip together and you lift your chin.

"I'm ready."

You force the fear away. Turn it into anger. Anger at this indignity. You close your eyes, lift your head. Ready yourself.

The brass figure - the Archon of Secrets - lifts his finger and points it at your head. And you feel the memories SCREAMING out of you in one long hideous chain, each link rasping and dragging against your mind. Clink. Clink. CLINK. CLINK-

And you begin to scream.

***​

You are Nike. You don't know who your parents were. You don't know why they had you, or why they left you. All that you know are the streets of Dragonspire. They're eerie streets, to others. Strange streets. Nightmare streets. But to you, they are home. You are used to the hissing doorways that open themselves when you draw close. To the midnight black, carapace like sweep of the roof-chitin that forms the tops of the main covered streets. You like the ribs that make up the walls of the houses, or the way the city breathes with a humid, moist air. You've only seen a blue sky once in your life - and honestly, you'd rather stick with the bioluminescents and the torches that light the interior of the city. It's a vast place, too. You've explored the back alleys and the sewer systems for years and you don't think you've ever been to even a quarter of the city.

You know that there are higher levels - built one atop the other, creating a pyramid shape, ascending up to the Imperial Palace and the home of the Archons.

The Archons...

Almost more than the Emperor, you know the Archons. There is, of course, the posters of them set up in every tavern. There are the bards, who sing their stories. There are the little booklets, with the illustrations, so that even illiterates like you can read them and see them. Printed out by the dozen on cheap paper, you must have read the adventures of Beli of South Sewer, or the Daring Cataphract, or Argileus the Archer, who had stood upon the wall of Dragonspire in the year 800 and shot dead an entire horse-horde army. All of them are so exciting - but they're not what you are focused on today.

Today, you are focused on finding a way to get a few more gold strata in your pouch. Or just some food. Either would work. You start to creep through the narrow vein-junctions that lead from the habitation area you have been sleeping in - this part of Dragonspire is not well peopled, and so there are plenty of empty chambers for anyone to sleep in. You emerge from the junction and into one of the open air marketplaces. Here, wood and cloth and bright colors are used to try and cover the unsettling...dragon-ness of Dragonspire. The city had been built, or so the bards said, by a dragon. The Empress Justinia had pulled a thorn from his taloned feet, and so, he had crafted for her a city where her people could stay. BUt dragons...didn't understand people. That was why so many outsiders found Dragonspire unsettling.

You rub your palms together - and then spot an outsider. Perfect mark. They're dressed in bright white robes, and they aren't even looking at their pouch. You creep forward, reach out and-

[WAIT.]

Everything freezes. Green fire crackles through the edges of the world - as if the buildings are breaking apart. The fires lick at the air, at your face.

[This is too late...go back.]

No, you-

You move backwards, juttering, fast motion. It's sickening. You watch food slide out of your mouth, waste slide into your body, blood drip into your wounds. You are back to...the bad time. Before...

You...

You don't like...

You don't like these memories...

FROM THE EARLIEST OF AGES, SOMETHING FELT...OFF ABOUT YOU

[] I felt ... like a boy
[] I felt ... like a girl
[] I felt ... like...neither
[] I felt ... like both...
[] I felt ... like... (write in)

Tutorial
The actual rules and mechanics of the game are going to be explained as we play - in these helpful passages! If it's green, it's a tutorial! But with the second post, the first (and most important) mechanic shall be revealed!

 

[DragonCobolt]

The bad memories come.

"Lad! You there!" The guard, pointing at you. "Turn out your pockets. You underhive scum are always stealing something. Aren't you boy?"

The way he just...assumes he KNOWS you, that he KNOWS who you are it makes you so ANGRY.

You stand, trying to imagine what you'd look like if you got a chance to go the Via Races. You...you think it'd be nice today to go dressed in flowing greens. You like the greens, they tend to be nicer than the blues in this district. But...you also just like the idea of being pretty. And in the right dress, you do look like...well...whatever you want.

The idea fills you with JOY.

You lay on your back. The old mothers of the beggars circles tell you that when you grow up, your body changes. It grows into what you want it to be, they say. God makes you a man, God makes you a woman, and you just want to be...one or...both or...NEITHER or...you don't know, but you just want to be something other than this.

You're so goddamn BORED. .

You are in an alleyway, sobbing. The new hair cut doesn't work it doesn't work it doesn't work. You try to get mad - but instead, you just get...more...

You're so...SAD.

You run, you run, and behind you, you can hear the other gangers. "Come back, girle! Come back! Haha!"

You sprint as fast as you can, and purple sparks fly behind you because you're so FRIGHTENED.

You stand before a cracked looking glass in a home that has been destroyed by fire. That's the best time to come picking over the ashes - right after the firemen have put it out with song and strumming guitars, but before the owners have come back to begin to set things to rights. In this part of Dragonspire, the owners were usually five, six levels higher and took forever to check on their tenets. You look into your dusky face, into your bright common purple eyes, and you are so...you can see all the possibilities...of what you...

You're so...CURIOUS.

It is a day that feels like any other - except that you're glowing. You have noticed, over the past few weeks, that...odd things have been happening around you. The old grannies that you talk to say that people who feel things too strongly go crazy. The Galenzanti say that only Frielanders and their debauched, decadent spellcasters are so grotesque as to simply let their feelings show. It is called an anima. BUt no matter what you try and do, you can't STOP feeling these FEELINGS. You know that they're...they're not right, that you shouldn't. But every time you try and squash it down, try to just be Nike, you...you...

They get stronger.

And today, your anima is crackling around you. You close your eyes and breathe out a small red fog - irritation forking along your back, irritation at yourself. When you cram the last bit of stale bread into your mouth, your teeth clack against hardened stone. The bread has been turned into a rock by how bored you are with your stupid, immature body. When you walk down the alleyway that you're roosting in, you leave behind rimes of slick winter ice. You're afraid that you'll...that someone will throw you in jail or something.

Is it against the law to have your anima flaring like this?

You come to the small tavern where you do your best trade in begging and pickpocketing. But as you step inside, Jonathas, the owner, glares at you.

"Get out."

You flush and the door frame around you - it's cheap wood, fastened over a gaping, almost vaginal maw that was the building's original doorway - begins to smolder. "But-"

"You're gaunting," he snarls, then snaps his finger. He uses that bit of anger he has about you to make a flame at the tip of his thumb, lightning his clay pipe. He puffs, then glares harder at you. "I am not having a gaunt in my establishment!"

You're not. You're just...

You...you've heard stories about gaunts. About people who can't STOP feeling. Who become so consumed by their emotions that they're twisted into monsters. You tremble slightly.

"Get out of the way, lad."

The voice behind you is gruff. Callous. Uncaring.

CRACK.

[Ahh, there it is.]

You turn and you SCREAM at the man.

"I'M NOT A FUCKING LAD!"

The man is flung backwards and the door frame shatters and you are surround by a multihued explosion of light. You are lifted up, then dropped down onto your knees, gasping heavily. Smoke roils around you and your palms rest against a shimmering skein of crystal-like material that the floor has become. You stagger up to your feet and feel a giddy sensation of purest relief. You're wrung out and loose - and you hear shouts for the guards. You flee, and yet, it's not fear that makes you feel as if you're flying. It is joy.

When you return to your hovel, you probe your body. And you find that you have smallish breasts. Then you focus - and the breasts go away. Your...thing, between your legs, is gone too. You spread your thighs, your eyes widening. You have...the girl part. And then...the male part. Then neither. Then...both. Okay, wow. You lay back, giggling to yourself. You play your own body like a fiddle, wriggling happily.

You are you. For the first time in your life.

And your anima doesn't flare again for a long time.

***
​

Memories, shuddering, come back to the moment you had been at before. Your hand is reaching out for the belt pouch of the white robed figure.

His robes sweep backwards and a hand - sinewy and tough and unwrinkled. It is the hand of someone maybe five, six years older than you, no more. It is also so strong that you gasp in fear and don't even try to jerk backwards. A pair of swords press to your back as two guards seem to materialize from nowhere, but another hand emerges from the robes, waving them backwards. "Come now," a cheerful voice says and you...look up as the hood is thrown backwards.

He's handsome.

And...

You know him.

Beli of South Sewer. The Mongoose. The Lurking One. The Gnarled Root and the Twisted Maze. The Conqueror of the Horde. The God of Strategy. The Strategos himself.

The Archon of War.

AND YOU JUST TRIED TO PICK HIS POCKET.

"I-I'm sorry!" you squeak as he chuckles, quietly, looking down at you. You're shocked at how young he looks for a man pushing three centuries. He's also...taller than you expected. The robes had concealed it, but he's nearly nine feet tall, towering above you like a giant. Despite his size, though, he has a kindly face. A well trimmed black goatee, dark brown skin weathered by sun, cold gray eyes that are flecked with gold - like a torch behind a gauzy curtain. He smiles down at you.

"There's nothing to apologize for," he says, quietly. "If I couldn't miss a few gold strata, the Empire would be in a bit of a sorry state."

He releases your hand and you step backwards into one of his soldiers - the bucellarii - who plants a hand upon your shoulder. The stories say that the bucellarii are immortal too, so you freeze in place.

"May I ask your name?" The Archon of War asks you.

"Nike..." You say.

"Victory," he says, quietly. "A good name..." He rubs his chin. "Your hair - it's...odd." He cocks his head.

He is looking at your...well. Ever since you had become you, ever since you had become able to shift between genders as fluidly as you wished, you had had one mark in your hair that made people look at you oddly. It is a fringe, running from above the left eye to the very back of your head. It begins red, then shifts to blue, purple, orange, green...the entire spectrum, until white hair dangles down the back of your neck.

You gulp. "It's nothing."

"How did you get it?" he asks.

"I..." you pause. "Is it true you can...tell when people are lying to you?"

"Sometimes," he says, chuckling. "And more true every day. So, I would suggest you speak quite carefully, Nike."

Your cheeks burn. You look away. You don't speak.

"Come on, kid," the bucellarii mutters to you - and he sounds so much like one of the dock workers that you've hung out with that you have yo laugh.

So, haltingly, you tell The Archon of War everything. He does not laugh, he does not question. He simply listens. And when you are done, he smiles. "Nike...do you have parents?"

You shake your head.

"Would you like one?"

[UGH! This is making me RETCH!]

Time stops - green flames crackle outwards and time shudders forward...

YOU WERE WHISKED INTO THE CARE OF BELI OF SOUTH SEWER, THE ARCHON OF WAR. SOON, HE WOULD HAVE A NEW SOBRIQUET FOR YOU...FATHER. FROM THE FIRST DAYS AT HIS ESTATES, YOU...

[] Listened most to Xenophous, the veteran Nightmare Cataphract. (+1 Stealth, +1 Melee)
(Stealth is the skill to hide and conceal oneself. Melee covers unarmed and armed melee combat - everything from swords to fists to poleaxes)
[] Listened most to Rosanos, the finest sharpshooter and scout in the Legion (+1 Aim, +1 Survival)
(Aim covers all manner of ranged weapons, including bows, arrows, slings, muskets and kannon. Survival handles surviving in the woods, knowing beasts, setting traps and tracking.)
[] Listened most to Jon the Historian, the...well, the tutor in history and rhetoric that your father hired for you (+1 History, +1 Presence)
(history covers the deep lore of the history of the world. Presence handles conversation and persuasion - one on one diplomacy, essentially. Also, seduction and sex. Not that Jon would be happy to hear you so abuse his lessons for such an earthly pursuit!)



Tutorial

Nike have used their first BEAT. A BEAT is a coherent "chunk" of emotion - which can be stored in a human soul and spent to perform magic and complete actions. The six "basic" emotions are ANGER/FEAR, JOY/SORROW, CURIOSITY/BOREDOM. Each skill is linked to one emotion and two secondary emotions. For example, Melee uses Anger as a primary emotion, but can also use Joy and Curiosity to a lesser effect.

Whenever Nike feels something, they can take up to 2 Beats or transform up to 2 beats. Transforming across the axis of internal/external emotions causes the beats to DOUBLE. For example, if Nike is afraid (2 fear beats), but then decides to face their fear with a burst of righteous anger, those 2 fear beats can be DOUBLED to make 4 Rage Beats.

When taking actions, you expend beats to get bonus successes (which are added to your dice rolls and your skill bonuses to get your total result.) When casting spells, you expend beats - the more beats, the more powerful the spell.

Nike needed to bank a huge number of beats for their permanent gender transformation spell. This can be dangerous - a large number of beats contained in a human soul causes their anima to flare, causing random, uncontrolled magical effects.

 

[DragonCobolt]

Memories shift forward.

The estates of Beli of South Sewer are not in Dragonspire - he owns a country estate in the southeast, near the Sea of Spirits. The weather is warm. More importantly, the weather is weather. For the first few weeks, you have to go outside without looking up, shrouded in a haze of purple fear. But you get used to the sky - the infinite blue, the brilliance of the sun, the pale beauty of the moon, the glittering of the stars.

It takes you no time to get used to regular meals. Beli, your father, does not stand on the formality you'd have expected of an Archon. You eat at his table, but so do some of his servants and his underlings. Discussions are complicated and hard to follow...at first. You sit quietly and listen, embarrassment filling your stomach as much as food as you try to follow the complexity of war, strategy, history and the great games played by the nobility and the merchants of the Empire. But, as days turn into weeks, and Beli never strikes you or raises his voice in anger when you timidly ask questions, you begin to grow more and more brave. You ask...and he answers...

And within a month, your need for answers has become so voracious that he has hired a tutor. Jon the Historian is a short man, heavily muscled, and so dark of skin that you assume that he has to be from the Land of the Gods. But no, he is from the northernmost part of the Empire, and he says he is so very glad to be somewhere warm for once in his life. He dresses in pleated, colorful robes, and he never teaches you in a classroom, where you'd expect (from what you've heard of children who have tutors.) Instead, your discussions are held as he walks through the rocky, sun drenched foothills that overlook the cleared, flat grounds that surround Beli's manor.

The discussions start simple - places, names, faces. Old Emperors. But as you get taller than him - you start shooting up like a weed the instant that you start getting regular meals - things grow more complex.

You are sitting on a rock, rolling a sling stone between your fingers (perfect for when Rosanos, one of your other tutors, gets you for a spell) as Jon sits crossed legged, his hands on his knees.

"Let us take the example of Empress Leostastis. One of the most successful conquerors in the history of the Empire since the Fall."

You nod. "Well, she had help."

"Ah, yes, the Nightmare Legions," Jon says, chuckling. "Yes, having ten thousand monsters on your side does help."

You grin. "Don't tell Xeno you called him that."

" Xenophous identifies as a monster," Jon says, inclining his head. "That's how he stays sane - he likes it, in some way. It helps that he's found maybe the only woman in the Empire who finds chitin and a barbed tail sexy." He snorts. "But that's neither here nor there: Leostastis had more than just the might of the NIghtmare Legion. What other tools did she use to so effectively conquer the Eastern Reaches and Frieland?"

You frown. "Well..." You look up at the blue sky. "She had all the artisans and craftsmen and such in Dragonspire. And, um, once she had the Eastern Reaches, she had enough farmland to support mustering troops from the southern provinces. So..." You tick it off on your fingers. "Plenty of armor and weapons, plenty of food...and the means by which to transport them! Because she built up the navy too!"

Jon chuckles. "And yet, we do not still rule Frieland to this day. Nor the Eastern Reaches. Why is that?"

"I mean, the obvious answer is the forty seven knife wounds to the Empress' back," you say, grinning.

"Ah, yes. But look deeper, Nike. The Empress had guards, magic, an entire army of monsters, the most secure home in the whole world. How did she get assassinated?"

"...well...the Nightmare Legion was made out of the sons of nobles," you say, frowning. "That was the requirement the Dragon put on his working. And I don't think most of them took it as well as Xenophous. And...the Eastern Reaches lands were run by slaves. Well, indentured servants. And that's a sin against God, so it must have made every Spireling in the Empire upset, right? ...especially the farmers who normally sold their food to survive, and now, the market's filled with cheap eastern food, brought in by the slaves." You blink. "And the taxes she had to levvy wouldn't have been popular either. I mean, I'd be upset."

Jon smiles.

[Hmm...edging close on sedition here. Our glorious Empire once ruled the world - and a thousand others. We should rule it again, should we not?]

Your memories continue - juddering back into motion. Jon is nodding. "Excellent. Understanding history - and people - is usually more complex than simply looking at what a single man or woman, no matter how powerful."

You grin. "What about Father?"

"Oh, even the Archon of War is bound in the same currents of the world that the rest of us are. He simply makes bigger waves." Jon chuckles.

You smile, then toss the stone into the thin, scrubby brush that surrounds the rocks you sit upon. The breeze is pleasant, and you and Jon speak until the sun sets and the stars come out.

AS YOU BECAME A YOUNG ADULT AND YOUR STRENGTH GREW, FATHER DEMANDED A REGIME OF MARTIAL TRAINING. FOR THIS, HE ADDED TO YOUR DAY THE TRAINING NORMALLY USED FOR MEMBERS OF THE LEGIONS. BUT WHICH?

[] The stubborn pride, horsemanship, and lance-work of the dreaded Cataphracts (+1 Integrity, +1 Melee, the Background of "Horselord")
(Integrity is the skill used to resist persuasion, deception, intimidation, and other attacks on the mind and soul. A background is an all encompassing facet of your character that includes bits of skill, but also what equipment and dramatic abilities they have access to. In this case, Horselord means that Nike can always get their hands on a horse SOMEHOW - theft, having one stashed nearby, whistling for their trusty steed, what have you. It also allows them to use Integrity in addition to Athletics for the purposes of movement if they're on a horse.)

[] The methodical skill of the Grenadiers - siege masters and sling masters both (+1 Aim, +1 Craft, the Background of "Architect.")
(Craft covers all kinds of construction and building, obviously. Architect means that Nike can "create" architectural oddities or advantages that they can take advantage of. Not by magic, just by knowing how buildings are put together, so of course there's a sewer pipe connection there. This includes things like weak points to rapidly destroy buildings, rapid exits to get away, short cuts through cities, sewer entrances to important places, that kind of thing.)

[] The invisibility and perceptive astuteness of the Auxiliaries (+1 Awareness, +1 Stealth, the Background of "Friends in Low Places.")
(Awareness covers perception of all kinds - including spotting lies and such. Friends in Low Places is a background that represents that Auxiliaries are normally drawn from the criminal underclass and "barbarian" mercenaries. In Nike's case, it means they haven't lost touch with their old haunts...Friends in Low Places means that Nike is able to find any and all criminal elements in a city, town or village within a few minutes of arriving and, usually, can know or get to know someone important within that criminal element within a few minutes of meeting them.)

 

[DragonCobolt]

Another memory...

You're getting sick of this

[We're almost done, my little genderqueer fuckstick.]

God, you could stand to never, ever, ever be described like that AGAIN.

Your memories stop on you putting your training to good use. You are creeping along the rooftops of the small village that is nestled one valley to the east of Father's manor house. The buildings here are so different from Dragonspire. There, everything is black chiten and bone and slick. Here, everything is made of white adobe and wood and tile and...though you hate to admit it to yourself, part of you prefers the pleasant warmness of the tile under your bare feet. Night has fallen, so the roof is merely pleasantly warm, rather than scorching. You come to the small gap between the tavern and the home you're here. On assignment, of course.

After all, your instructors would definitely want you practicing your scout lessons.

You hop from the roof to the sill of the window, landing crouched, and grin inside at Cali, who is curled up on her cot, dressed only in her shift. "Cali..." you murmur.

[ohhh ho ho]

Cali turns, then grins. "Nike!" she whispers, very softly. "Nike, you came!"

NO

STOP YOU ARE NOT DOING THIS

The memories shudder for a moment and green flames crack past the edges of Cali's face and then her body crumples inwards. Everything crunches inwards, then swirls outwards again and it's the next morning as you report to your instructor. Batu is as short as Jon, and as muscular, but where Jon radiates a kind of pleasent, comfortable, scholarly energy, Batu...

Well.

Batu kind of scares you. But he also kind of turns you on. He never smiles, and he is stern as hell, and, you know...when you're feeling really...well, girly is the wrong word. The ancient Galens, according to Jon, had terms for people who thrust and people who were thrust into, but they were extremely long and the latter was highly insulting. Because the Galen simply did not know how to have a good time. But when you felt like being on the bottom (which also didn't feel right, as you could easily be on top while being filled but...whatever...) you would want someone like Batu. Tough. Strong. Kind of fierce. Intense.

[Good to know.]

And now the memory is tinged with even more feelings of disgust.

Batu nods, then frowns. "You snuck out again, young master."

He speaks Coptic, the tongue of the Empire, with a distinctly eastern accent - his features, too, make him look more from the steppes than the mountains and hills of the Empire proper.

"No I didn't," you say.

Batu does not smile. He does not frown. He, instead, reaches out, and brushes your hair up, to reveal a distinctive purple mark that comes from being bitten very hard by a very enthusiastic girl, right on your neck.

"Would you believe a nosferatu crept in my window?" you ask.

Batu does not smile. "No."

Training is particularly brutal that day.

The memories shudder forward again.

Your seventeenth birthday is creeping towards you - day by day - and you've heard rumors that something big is coming. You sleep badly the night before, thinking hard about what it might be. You've...had a sinking suspicion in the back of your mind, the whole time you've lived with Father, that...that there was a reason behind what he had done. That there was a reason beyond kindness and generousness and gentleness. Part of you was excited by this. Part of you, though? Was terrified. And so, you continued to toss and turn...until the next morning.

The next morning, you are called to your father's office. He is seated behind the overly large desk that he must use. This place is familiar and comfortable to you - the books on the walls, the portrait of his wife-

[Oh GOD, he's still mooning over that whore?]

Red crackles along the edges of your memories - anger that shouldn't have been there stabbing in around you. Don't you DARE call her that.

[You never even met the whore. She died two centuries ago.]

Red hazes - and then fades. The Archon of Secrets doesn't speak again - instead, the memory plays forward as it had been. You saw the books, the comfortable chair, the maps that Father liked to collect. You take your seat and Father smiles at you. "I hear from Batu that you've been misusing your lessons again," he says, playfully.

"W-Whaaaat?"

Father snorts. "Honestly, if the worst thing you get up too is bothering the village blacksmith's daughter, then I think I've done all right by you, Nike." He shakes his head slightly. "You are, of course, using protection?"

Your cheeks flare. "Father!"

"I've seen enough legionaries laid up by-"

"Yes!" You put your hands over your face, groaning. "Yes, yes, I make sure to think really hard about having kids and that's MORE than scary enough."

Father laughs - but you're still blushing all over. The fear it takes to ensure a child doesn't catch is one of the simple tricks that you need to learn. But it's sometimes a little awkward to learn it from your parents. And since Father has no wife, you had to learn it from him. God. That conversation could stay locked in the memory hole. Forever. Father's smile, though, fades. "You...have heard rumors around the house, I'm sure. About something big coming." He pauses. "This has to do with why I adopted you, Nike. You have noticed that I've had you tutored quite hard in a wide range of subjects."

You bob your head. Heart hammering. A tinge of purple slides along the insides of your arms.

"Do you know what a Magistrianoi is?" he asks.

You nod. "The agent in rebus - the, ah, post officers." You smile. "But...everyone knows they don't just deliver the mail"

Father nods. "There are only three beings in the Empire who are allowed, by law, to confer the post to anyone. The first is the Emperor, by direct fiat. The second is the Senate, by a simple majority vote. The third, of course..." He smiles. "Are the Archons. All twelve of us are allowed, within certain limits, to name anyone we wish to the post. And I believe that you...will make an excellent Magistrianoi."

Your mouth opens in shock.

"Why?"

It's the first thing that blurts out of your mouth, even as Father pulls a wooden, lacquered box from the desk. He sets it down atop a letter he had been writing, flipping it open to reveal a small brass pin containing the Coptic word: Cavorite. Though cavorite hasn't been seen by the Empire - or the whole of Eclipse - since the Via Crusade nearly six centuries ago, the symbol was still used by certain places. One of them was for the Imperial Post Office. The idea being that you would deliver mail as if you flew.

Which was ridiculous. Everyone knew the mail was slower than fucking basilisk chow.

"The answer is in your hair, Nike."

"My hair?"

Your hand goes to the fringe of...

Your brow furrows. "Because I...cast a spell on myself?"

​

"We Galenzanti pride ourselves in our magic - but...it is only the kind of magic that the Frielanders call hexenwerking. We're able to bind fire into gunpowder, or create Archons. But the other form of magic, bardic magic, is...frowned upon. We don't understand it. We don't use it very well, beyond the most simple cantrips like making a tiny fire or stopping pregnancies." He sighs. "But you were able to not only feel strongly enough to cast a real working but you were able to form it into quite a complex bit of magic." He nods. "Hexenwerkers aren't exactly field agents. They like staying in their alchemy foundries and their laboratories, doing what they do best - turning immense amount of money into magic." He smiles. "But a trained and skilled bard could do great things for us."

You gulp, nodding.

"Which is why I have hired for you...a tutor," he says. "They will be arriving tomorrow - all the way from the Academy of the Falls in our good neighbor of Frieland. A bard. To teach you some proper magic."

Your eyes shine.

"And once you have learned, I will write to the Emperor and have his permission to pin this upon you personally." He hefts up the pin.

You spring to your feet, beaming, green sparks flickering around you. "I won't let you down father."

He smiles. "I never doubted, Nike."

IN THE FINAL YEAR OF YOUR STAY AT THE MANOR OF BELI OF SOUTH SEWER, YOU WERE TAUGHT BARDIC MAGIC BY A FRIELANDER! BUT WHICH FRIELANDER ARRIVED TO TEACH YOU?

[] Anneke Lafrenz, the Drunk Pistoleero: +1 Aim, +1 Presence
Implement: Instrument (1).

[] Ulf Hornik, the Mordhau: +1 Melee, +1 Athletics
Implement: Song (1)

[] Ursula Aling, the Timeless Longbow: +1 Aim, +1 History
Implement: Dance (1)

[] Erica Wulf, the Skywolf: +1 Melee, +1 Craft
Implement: Writing (1)


TUTORIAL: When casting a spell, you spend beats on several "categories." The only Category that requires a beat is "Duration" - all others have an effect even with 0 Beats, to allow for simple, easily cast spells. Those Categories are...

DURATION: How Long a spell lasts. A single beat may last for a moment. Eleven lasts for eternity. ​

RANGE: The range of the spell. No beats means the spell must be touched to an object. Eleven beats reaches around the world.​

TARGET: The number of living targets or the weight of unlivng substance effected. No beats will handle one pound or one person. Eleven can create tons, or effect thousands. ​

AREA: The general area effected. No beats means there is no area of effect. Eleven will cover several square miles. ​

SPEED: The speed of anything moved. For no beats, no speed can be imparted. For eleven, the spell will impart enough speed to fly across whole continents in hours.​

HEALTH: The amount of raw Damage is caused. This is a direct 1 to 1 relationship - 1 beat causes 1 damage. ​

DICE: The amount of dice added by or subtracted the spell, if the spell is a buff or debuff. At zero beats, this is zero dice. The scaling is relatively slow and caps at +/- 6 dice at eleven beats. ​

TAGS: This amount of beats indicates the number of positive or negative tags applied to or removed from weapons. ​

There are four kinds of Implement: Writing, Instruments, Singing and Dancing. Each adds their level to two different categories.

WRITING: Each level of writing adds +1 beat to Duration and Tags. ​

INSTRUMENTS: Each level of instrument adds +1 to Range and Health. ​

SINGING: Each level of singing adds +1 to Target and Area ​

DANCE: Each level of dance adds +1 to Speed and Dice​

​

To put this all together as an example. Say Nike has 1 Level of Writing and 4 anger beats. They quickly scribble some furious exhortation on their trusty flintlock pistol and spend the 4 anger beats - 2 on Duration, 2 on Tags. This is bumped to 3 on duration, 3 on tags, creating a spell that lasts for 1 minute, has a range of touch, targets one one pound object (the pistol), imparts no bonus dice, causes no damage, and has no speed. But it DOES remove 2 tags, which Nike use to remove his flintlock's tags of Loading [2]. Now, he does not need to reload the pistol. It has become a glowing, bright red, modern Colt 1911. For the next few minutes at least.

 

[DragonCobolt]

The memories are so close to now - you cannot feel anything but utter relief.

"Garbage."

Okay, you could stand to...not have to remember this part.

Erika tosses the parchment back at you and you catch it, looking down at the dozen, two dozen, three dozen underlined sections - circled sections. There was an entire paragraph that just has the word WHAT???? written across it in big red letters. You look down at your short story and frown a bit, then look up at Erika. The Frielander - no, sorry, the Atollwoman - doesn't look a thing like what you expected. You'd expected someone who was more...

Well.

Human?

Or at the very least, wolfish.

Erika looks like a walking, talking, armed, dangerously sexy shark. She had blue skin and gray eyes and teeth that make you regret ever getting her to smile once. She has slitted gills on her throat, which ripple whenever she laughs, and her hair is a dark gray color and looks perpetually slick. She says that she's from the northern part of Frieland - where the oceans get cold and bitter and there are nothing but craggy, rocky islands.

"Okay..." you say, frowning. "...was the...anything about the story good?"

"Oh, yeah," Erika says, grinning at you and you blink a bit. "I only give notes like this to stories I think have a chance. Once it stops being garbage, it may actually be halfway decent."

You sigh and go back to the writing desk. Four drafts and two days of feaverish work later, and Erika finally hands the story back with only sixteen red marks on it - and you scowl down at it, sit down, and lay your head in your hands. "AUUUUUUGH!"

"Frustrated?"

"Yes!" You shout. "Writing is impossible!"

"No, it just takes practice," Erika says. She sits up a bit, putting her boots on the ground. "Wanna know what always helps me when I have writing block?"

"Killing your tutor?" you mutter.

"No. Well." Erika grins. "Okay, that one time. Nah. Blowing stuff up!"

In a shockingly short time, you're standing in the large clearing that is normally used for grazing cattle. But the herds have been driven to another pasture for this month - to ensure they don't eat the grass dry - and you watch as Erika grinds together the parts for gunpowder. "You're a hexenwerker too?" you ask.

"Hexing gets easier the more people do it," she says, casually, then pours the powder into a clay orb. She picks the orb up, then mutters to it softly in Friespeil. Glowing green light shrouds it - and when the light fades away, the clay pot has transformed, becoming a large metal cylinder stuck on the end of a long wooden handle that reminds you of a mortar and pestle. She grins. "FIRE IN THE HOOOOOOLE!" She tugs a metal ring from the base, hefts her arm back and hurls the contraption down range. It lands near a stump. A second later, the stump explodes and you jerk, ducking down as the smoke spreads across the field. Erika cackles.

"By Amiah's tits!" You laugh. "I wanna try! How did you do that?"

"Okay, so, emotions...you're trying to capture emotions in your writing, right?" Erika asks, nodding. "But I was thinking, maybe having an idea of your end goal might help. So. Okay." She nods. "Do you know what, exactly, bardic magic does?"

You nod. "Yeah. It casts spells with emotions and stuff. Like...you can use anger to set fires."

Erika grins. "Oh no. See. See. What you're actually doing is...when you cast a spell, you're turning the metaphysical-" not a word you'd expected to hear from her "-and metaphorical-" another word you hadn't expected "-components of emotions into literal reality. You know how joy makes your whole day seem brighter? Boredom can feel like total torture? Fear can blind you - but it also reveals. Anger breaks chains and frees people." She nods. "That's what spells do. I feel really happy when I make something new - so, I channeled that joy into the grenade and made it, oh, three centuries more advanced. Only for a tiny itty bitty length of time." She grins.

You nod, slowly. "Can...I like...make people feel things?"

"No," Erika says, her voice flat, her grin vanishing. "Listen, Nike, that's the one thing. The. One. Thing. That Bardic magic cannot and can never do. We can raise the dead-"

"Wait, what?"

"-we can sink continents and we can walk between the stars if your passion and your skill is great enough. But we. Cannot. Make. People. Feel. Things." She looks at you. "Trying is a quick road to madness and death and damnation."

You frown. "But...I hear that the Archon of Secrets can-"

[Oh! My ears are burning!]

Erika shudders. "Don't bring up monster to me. Archons aren't bardic magic. They're fucked up bits of your shitty Empire."

You scowl. "Hey!"

"Present patron excluded," Erika says.

"No, I mean, I take exception to ALL of that!" you say. "Archons are amazing! They're constructs of not just the will of the people and God, but they're also amazingly powerful and can do so much good stuff! Beli can win entire wars without losing a single soldier! And...yeah, the Archon of Secrets is scary, but he also keeps us safe."

[Aww, my ears are DEFINITELY burning.]

Erika snorts. "They're not human."

"You're a SHARK person!"

"Yeah, I am," she says. "But I'm still human. I die when I'm old and I can change if I wanna. Archons don't change. Your Dad is the same guy he was three hundred years ago when they made him an Archon. That's not good for a soul, Nike. Stasis is just another way of saying dead. At least Nosferatu are honest about it."

You scowl. "Take that back."

Erika shrugs. "I'm not an Imperial subject, Nike, you can't make me not say things."

You bristle, then turn your back on her.

Erika sighs. "Okay, sorry. Sorry..." She sighs again. "Your father may be a horrible extension of the Imperial will of the state. But...he's a stand up guy beyond that."

You glance back, narrowing her eyes.

"And the Empire could be worse," she says, shrugging one shoulder. "At least the peace is still up."

You grin, ever so slightly. "Why? Worried we'd kick your asses?"

"Oh, Frieland hasn't won a war since it was founded!" Erika laughs. "We're awful at the whole army thing. Half of them are mercs and the other half are anarchists who can't agree on a battle plan." She looks oddly proud. "But that's just the thing. We don't have to win wars. We just have to make the peace so fucking expensive that you guys leave. We've done it before. An archer behind every tree, pitfall traps in the road, poison the wells..."

"How honorable." You mutter.

"You're the fucker training to be a spy, Nike," Erika says.

You grin. "Wanna see how I relax?"

Erika bites her lip. "...does it involve your dick? Assuming you have one at the time?"

"No," you say. "Though long, hard objects are involved."

Though, it turns out, shark girls plus adrenaline plus being pitched onto their backs after you hook the pommel of your sword around her ankle and lift her chin up with the tip of your blade? Yeah. Dicks do become involved.

The last memory.

It's...

Literally...

Five minutes...

Ago...

Your so close to the end of this.

Your father stands before you, smiling. "I'm very proud of you, Nike." He says, the fireplace crackling. But you can see that his smile is brittle. "But...the Emperor...has sent someone to..." he frowns. "Well. To ensure that your loyalty is to the Empire."

You scowl slightly. "Of course it is!"

"I know, NIke," Father says, kneeling down. "But the Emperor wants to be sure. The Archon of Secrets is in that room down the hall. You must...allow this." He frowns. "But know this: If he hurts you, even a little bit, tell me and I'll throw his bronze ass through the fucking wall." You laugh, blushing as Father speaks.

[He could try...]

The memories SNAP away and you gasp, staggering backwards - the fireplace is crackling, and the Archon of Secrets is looking down at you.

"Acceptable," he says, his voice a grating whistle through the metal of his mask-face. "Though, you know, I've seen sex before. You don't need to shield my eyes from it as if I were some kind of blushing virgin." He cackles and you glare at him, then start to stand. "Now, I wanted to-" He starts to twirl his heavy scepter - it's a bronze shaft with a large ornate rams head on the far end, making it look more like a heavy mace than a symbol of rulership. It catches the firelight, winking into your eyes as he twirls it.

The door opens behind you and Father looms. "Narses," he says, his voice flat. "This is over."

The Archon of Secrets hisses. "Ah, so, we're back on first name basis, Beli?"

You blink. The Archon of Secrets has a name!? And you...

What was it?

The name...feels like it's...

Just...

Slipped out of your head.

"Your pet is perfectly loyal, Beli," the Archon of Secrets says. "You have my permission to make them a Magistrianoi." He pauses, standing beside you. His flaming fingers caress your shoulder. "I am curious to see how you manage, Nike..."

And then he is gone - out the door.

Whistling.

***
​

Afterwards, Father and you sit in his office, with a cup of wine in your hands and the fireplace stoked nice and warm. Father frowns as he looks out the window. You look at him. "Why does the Emperor not trust you, father?"

"I'm an immortal demigod with the utter loyalty of the army and a peerless skill in leadership," Father says, his voice wry. "I'd be more worried if the Emperor did trust me." He sighs. "I am sorry that it fell upon your shoulders tonight, Nike."

You shake your head. "It's okay, father." You sip from your cup.

"Now..." Father looks at you. "Have you been keeping abreast of the news in Frieland?"

You nod. Sometimes, Erika still writes to you - and her latest letter had mentioned 'lots of rowdy idiots.' You lick your lip. "Their new Apex isn't very popular," you say. The Apex- the head of the Spire - was actually the Antiapex, technically. The Occultist Spire, which the Galenzanti Empire followed, had the real Apex. The Antiapex, who ruled the Materialist Spire followed by most of the West, had no authority over your immortal soul.

"Do you know why?"

"Uh..." you blow out your lips. "Well, they're trying to heal the Eastern Schism, aren't they?"

Father nods. "A few centuries late, but yes, that is what they were trying."

The Schism that had rent the Spire had been one of your favorite subjects. Amiah, the She Who Knew God, had founded the Spire after God had spoken to her. The Texts stated that God told Amiah the truth about the world: It was filled with monsters and fae and horrible creatures as a cauldron to forge a better mankind. By pitting ourselves against the woes of the world, we could make the world - and ourselves - better. The Schism had come down on a doctrinal and political difference: What was the intended role of the Fae. Fae spirits could be made to serve humans with contracts, trickery, brute force. Fae courts could thus be used to enrich the land, protect miners, even build buildings.

The Materialists rejected that idea. They believed fae were a soul sucking blight on Eclipse, and must be kept at bay. Occulists believed fae were made to serve man by any means required.

"...wait, you said were."

Father sighs. "The Apex was thrown out of the third story window of Beliz two days ago. There's already reports of fighting between the Elector-Counts and Spirelings who have been waiting their whole lives to throw out their doctrinal disputes into the air for all to see are nailing demands to Spire doors." He shakes his head. "I can already see the war clouds spinning. And when Frieland falls to pieces, the Emperor is going to try and make his name bigger on the map."

He sounds bitter.

"Don't you want to reclaim Frieland? That territory is ours, by right," you say.

"I think a thousand years has put those rights to rest," Father says, then shakes his head. "But I have little choice. My Emperor commands - and I, perforce, obey."

He pauses, looking at you. "Though...Nike...I know that you've been to services, talked to our local Spireling..." he pauses. "What do...you think about all this?"

BEFORE SETTING OUT UPON THEIR FIRST MISSION, NIKE'S FAITH IS TESTED

[] Gain the Background: Occultist (As a follower of the true spire, you are protected by ancient treaties hammered out by the Occultist Spire - allowing you to demand and be given meetings with any fae court throughout the world. Any fae you meet in the wild cannot escalate past social combat with you - meaning that they will not attack you physically unless you attack them first. This does not apply to any fae bound to a corpse, aka wiederganger and skeletons.)

[] Gain the Background: Materialist (You find the practice of enslaving the fae, no matter how alien they are, to be abhorrent. The teachings of self reliance and inner strength appeal to you. You can, for the cost of 1 beat, heal 1 damage. Using normal magic to do so costs 2 beats, so this means healing is twice as effective.)

[] Gain the background: Atheist (You live in a world of magic and immortals - but you haven't seen any evidence for a greater power. Atheists, according to both Spires, are blessed by God - preforming kindness and good deeds without the promise of eternal reward. This expectation is exhausting and annoying - but for 2 beats, you'll be given free food, board, and other minor help from Spirelings of both stripes.)

 

[DragonCobolt]

You shrug. "I mean, I've never seen any reason to follow the Apex - I mean, the right one." You smile. "It's not like we're the old Galen Empire, before the Spire. We don't feed human slaves to fae or make fae fight each other for our entertainment." You nod. "It's not the same thing at all."

Father nods, thinking for a time, watching the fire.

"What about you, Father?" you ask.

"I don't have a choice," he says, but he doesn't sound bitter. It is as if he is simply stating a fact - one that cannot be changed. He claps his hands on his knees. "Tomorrow, you will be taking a parcel to an associate in the border city of Prater in the Joylands - it's a part of Frieland." He says - but you already know the place. The idea fills you with excitement. Not only are you doing a mission, a real mission, but it's going to take you to the most famously beautiful landscape in the whole world. A place so beautiful that the joy of a thousand generations has soaked into it - they say that the mountains float there, that's how happy it is.

"Who is the associate?" you ask.

"An old auxiliary named Garicaus," Father says. "Those letters have zirs marching orders - and you are to follow zir orders as well, until you recieve further messages from me.'

You nod. "Yes, my Archon." You bow.

Father laughs and sweeps you into a bone crushing hug.

***
​

The next day, you ready yourself. It will be a long journey from Father's estates to the joyland - and you have your choice on how to get there. You can take a horse and ride through the passes. More dangeorus if you run into brigands and bandits, which haunt those passes even when things weren't tense. However, taking a boat at the nearest port would draw more attention. And you have no reason to trust the Archon of Secrets to keep his burnished nose out of this. Not that you think Father has anything to hide - but you know, you just know, that the Archon of Secrets would dearly love to ruin father's plans.

But as you considered your options, you took a moment to peruse your options in supplies. The Magistrianoi were a motley bunch - each trained to the desires of their masters, each equipped differently. Xeno was there in the armory, to give some advice. The nightmare cataphract was taking up his favorite position - hanging from his hindclaws, upside down, drool dripping from his buglike manidbles. His secondary mouth slammed out and punched out the core of an apple on a bowl set beneath him and as he chews and crunches, you look at what options you have.

"You can't take it all, Nike," Xeno growls, his spiked tail lashing from side to side. "Before you ask."

You snort.

If you had taken all of it, you'd be buried under the sheer weight of steel alone.

In a short time, you've gotten a pretty good idea of a few possibilities...

NIKE IS ALMOST READY TO SET FORTH ON THEIR FIRST MISSION

HOW WILL THEY GO AND HOW DO THEY FEEL?

[] By boat (write in up to 2 beats)
[] By horse (write in up to 2 beats)

TUTORIAL: Since we're no longer in the past, YOU, the QUESTORS, get to decide how Nike feels about things! With every vote, they can TAKE up to 2 beats (their cap is Will, which is 2 - the above average amount that PCs start with.) Taking a beat is as simple as saying "I take 2 joy." However, remember, these are things Nike ACTUALLY FEELS. They're not falsehoods, lies, deceptions or things that Nike can fake. They're what they feel! Fortunately, feelings shift - you can choose to TRANSFORM beats rather than Take them. That's as easy as saying "I shift 2 joy to 2 rage." Remember, though, beats double if they cross the emotional axis (joy to sorrow, sorrow to joy, fear to anger, anger to fear, and curiosity to boredom, or boredom to curiosity.)

WHAT WILL THEY BRING?

[] Arming Sword, Sling and Cloth Armor

Arming Sword: Deadly (multiples damage by x2), Defensive (Adds +1 success to defense rolls)
Sling: none (no tags, so it simply allows you to make attacks with Aim without special effects.)
Cloth Armor: Armor 2, Sorrow 0

[] Longsword and Cloth Armor

Longsword: Deadly (as above), Cleaving (can take an enemy out at 1 Health as a free action), Cautious (can treat Boredom as Rage for the purposes Melee skill checks.)
Cloth Armor: Armor 2, Sorrow 0

[] Dirk, Pistol and Cloth Armor

Dirk: Joyful (can treat Joy as Rage for the purposes of melee skill checks)
Pistol: Harrowing (this weapon can be used to "Harrow" enemies - reducing their armor for the rest of combat), Gun (deals x2 damage and is VERY LOUD), Deadly (deals x2 damage, stacks with gun), Load [3] (requires 3 successes on an Aim skill check to reload once used.)
Cloth Armor: Armor 2, Sorrow 0.

TUTORIAL: When taking an action, Nike will roll their Will (starts at 2, gets higher as they gain in experience.) Each Will is a six sided die, with each side reflecting a different emotion. After the dice are rolled, you add in "results" equal to your skills. Finally, you expend any beats you want. For example, Nike has 1 in Melee and they try to stab a bad guy. They would roll 2d6 and get, say, 2 and 4: Fear and Joy. Then their Melee skill would add in a Rage result. But if they had 2 rage beats hanging around, they could expend those to make it 1 Fear, 1 Joy and 3 Rage. You HAVE TO USE the HIGHEST result! Fortunately, Rage is the main skill for Melee, so that'd be 3 successes, which can be spent to hit and do damage.



Sometimes, you add things for reasons you can't control. Heavy bulky armor is depressing to wear and filled with the mournful magic of its craftsmanship - and so, it adds Sorrow results to all rolls. Being wounded can be infuriating (and thus, add rage results to checks) which makes you fight harder...but is hugely detrimental to Awareness or Stealth.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Once this vote is done, I'll make Nike's character sheet and a rules cheat sheet and an emotional tracking sheet and pin it!

 

[DragonCobolt]

Xeno watches you as you look at the heavy scaled armor normally worn by a cataphract.

He chuckles. "I doubt it."

You grin at him, then snatch up one of the frielander style longswords that Erika taught you how to use. Every bit of this sword can be a weapon - the pommel for striking, the blade, the point. It may not be the best in all situations, but it can be used in every situation. You pick a baldric to hang a scabbard from, sheath it, then set it aside to dress in a cloth gambeson - preferring mobility to sturdiness. Not that a gambeson is fragile. People are always shocked at how tough cloth can be, when properly layered, doubly so when enhanced with magic.

Xeno drops from the ceiling and lands upon his four clawed hands, his tail lashing. He prowls towards you, and speaks. "Good luck, Victory. I've been deployed to Frieland. You're going to need it."

You grin at him - shifting subtly to be more fully on the feminine end of the spectrum. Your eyes sparkle. "They're the ones who are going to need the luck, Xeno."

The Nightmare Cataphract laughs - a hissing, chittering sound - then sweeps you into his hug, careful to not slice you.

***
​

The nearest town to father's manor - the proper town, that is, not the small village that is technically his land (he is a Dux, the highest noble rank granted to Archons by the Senate) - is a bright, white washed place that clusters up to the gentle beaches that run up to the Sea of Spirits. The ocean is wine dark and beautiful and seems to stretch on forever. You see that there are several large fishing boats out and bobbing at the sea, and a massive warship has docked. The Galenzanti navy once ruled the seas - but now they have ceded their absolute supremacy to ships put out by Avalon. The attempt by your people to match the massed broadsides favored by the Avalonians is still somewhat awkward looking compared to the history books you'd read of the fast, sleek ramming ships of the past centuries.

Still, the glittering steel kannon make you feel a swell of patriotic pride as you ride your horse into town, accompanied by a stablehand who volunteered to come with - simply to bring the horse back to the manor once you are done. He waves you a goodbye and you wave after as he and the horses ride off. You're alone. Actually, really alone - in a bustling town that somehow manages to feel ten times larger than Dragonspire did. But that's because Dragonspire is all enclosed sections connected by thin doors. It doesn't sprawl like this place does.

You feel light on your feet - happy and excited all at once - and take some time just watching people. Fishermen, working with the fish that they pulled from the sea. A brewery with its barrels out and a woman chanting over them to affix the magic. A tavern, where rough types and sailors are clustered around, drinking, talking, playing cards. You see fae servants, following after their masters, their control collars glittering faintly in the sunlight. You see Galenzanti sailors swaggering through town as if they own the place.

But at last, you come to the docks and begin to check the boats out. Several of them are heading for Frieland - but most of them are bound for their capital, Beliz. Well. "Capital." It was where their so called Emperor was crowned, after he or she had been elected to the position by a squabbling mass of Electors. The whole system seemed like madness to you - anyone could be an Elector in Frieland, there wasn't even the requirement of service or nobility that the Galenzanti senate used. Your thoughts are scattered, though, by coming to a pier whose sign announces that the ship is heading for Prater. You grin, nod, and then step onto the gangplank.

"Hello?" you call out. There are a few crew on the ship, mostly working on lashing down cargo, and one of them glances over. He walks over and your grin grows a bit more playful - he's handsome. Tall, strapping, green. The Via Lux had touched many worlds, and the term 'human' had spread itself fairly broadly to denote anyone who wasn't a fae, even if their great great great grandparents had come from a distant world conquered by the Galen. "I'm here to book passage to Prater?"

"And who are you?" the green skinned man asks.

WILL YOU

[] Fake Name and profession (write in)
[] "Nike, a magistrinoi. Just delivering the mail." (This fellow speaks with a Galenzanti accent - besides, you actually are just delivering mail.)

 

[DragonCobolt]

You grin at the green skinned man. "Finn Steros, Author of Guidebooks to The Wonders Of The World!" you say, expansively. "It's a book project I've been working on for my whole life - starting with Dragonspire, of course. But I need to hit the Joylands, maybe Avalon next. Definitely want to see the first Spire, and round it off with the Sun King's palace? Maybe see if the Atollmen really do come from a city beneath the waves." You stroke your chin, trying to look thoughtful.

The green skin man laughed. "Well, I'm Viator," he says. "I'm one of the older hands on this ship - the captain should be back soon, but I know his prices. It's a sub-strata - that's a silver grochen if you're Frielander - for a berth. The berth's a hammock in the hold, along with the rest of us." His eyes flick to your sword. "You know how to use that?"

You grin. "No, I just wear it to look sexy." Your hand pats the hilt that juts above your shoulder. "Does it work?"

Viator's eyes flicker and his grin is playful. "Well..."

"Viator!" A cheerful, bostrious voice draws your eyes. A tall, blustery, broad shouldered fellow comes swaggering aboard. He has a broad brimmed hat, a massive russet red beard, and skin like burnished copper. He is dressed in a white tunic and short cropped white leggings, with well worn sandals that he kicks off the instant he is aboard, allowing his toughened feet to slap against the deck. "Excellent news - we'll have the bales of fae picked cotten- who is this?" He looks at you.

"This is Finn," Viator says, cheerfully. "Says he's an author."

"They, actually," you say, shrugging.

"They're an author," Viator says, nodding, then shoots you an apologetic look. "Sorry."

"I mean, I am carrying a big pahllic symbol," you say, flashing a wink at him.

"Well, if you're willing to pay," the captain says. "Oh! Where are my manners. Captain Arthur Bryant Cornwallis Fyord the Third." He sweeps off his cap, then stands. "Now, Viator has told you everything, I'm sure - though, did he cover what to happen if we run into any trouble?"

"He was mostly checking out my sword," you say.

"Viator! No hitting on guests-"

"I never said I didn't like it," you murmur.

"-but if we're attacked, you can pitch in - but if you're no good in a fight, stay back. And for the Lady's sake, if they're not fighting to kill, don't escalate things," Captain Fyrod says, shaking his head. "Pirates can pay ransom as good as noblemen. Sometimes better." He nods. "Do you understand."

"Yup," you say, grinning. "So, uh, Viator, do you...want to show me my berth?"

"Of course, Finn," he says, mirroring your grin right back.

"Viator..." Captain Fyord rumbles.

Viator coughs. "And then I will, of course, return to my work." He says, which provokes a snort from his captain.

***
​

Your berth is small and slightly squalid - and you don't even care as you look out at the dwindling coast as the sails bell outwards and the ship - which you've learned is named the Amiah, a ludicrously popular term across the entire Spire fearing world, no matter which Apex you followed - takes to the sea. Porpoises follow along with your hull - springing up and chortling in their alien tongue. The clouds are light and puffy in the sky and the crew sings work songs as the air hums with a pale white light as they channel their focused attentiveness - their boredom, honestly - into making the work go by faster and easier.

The coast never quite leaves your line of sight, and Captain Fyord steps over to stand beside you, nodding as he puffs on his pipe.

"You know, I've never read your book," he says, cheerfully.

"Huh?" you look at him. "You...it...hasn't...been written yet."

"I've read a lot of books that haven't been written yet!" Captain Fyord says, cheerfully.

"That's a neat trick," you say, leaning against the railing, watching him intently - almost certain that he's pulling your leg.

"Ah, you've never met an Avalonian before!" he says, scoffing.

You blink. "You're from Avalon?"

"The name should have given it away," he says, puffing on his pipe. The sea breeze whisks it away and the smell tingles on your nostrils. You almost sneeze as he continues. "Which is part of why I did want to warn you...the Joylands may not be the best place to visit this decade..." He frowns, slightly.

You bite your lip. "So, it's really true? Avalonians can see the future?"

"Oh, no, no, no. We don't see the future. We..." He pauses. "When the Lady of our fair island brings up the mists and whisks us away, she plants us somewhere else. Not just in the land, but somewhere else in history. Sometimes before, sometimes after." He shrugs, slightly. "I just praise her that she chose to slap us into the middle of the Sea of Spirits this time and not up north near Patrias." He shudders dramatically. "My father and my grandfather lived through that time - it was awful. War every other day with the damn Patrians and not a single day of sunny weather and not a good grape vine crop the whole time." He shakes his head. "Here, now, here, we have proper weather. And friendly neighbors."

"I'm shocked the Antiapex is happy having a fae ruled land in the middle of the Sea," you say.

"Well." He puffs on his pipe. "The Lady doesn't precisely rule us, no."

You smirk. More accurately, the Antiapex didn't see the Avalonians - so prone to vanishing at the most unexpected time - to be an actual threat. "Still, you haven't read my book? You may need to check next time you visit home."

"Or, aye, you never finished it," he says, his voice ominous and dark.

You gulp.

"HAH!" Fyord slaps your back. "Don't worry - half of what we Avalonians know is wrong anyway."

You nod. "Do you know how the war goes?"

"Oh, terribly," he says, his voice soft. "By the time it's done, according to the books I've read, one man, woman and child out of three in Frieland is dead of plague, shot or spellwork."

You frown, then look out at the coast again. Your brow furrows.

"...is that a boat?"

"Yes, it seems to be," Fyord says, cupping his hand over his forehead to shade it - not that he needs it much. The sun is beginning to dip towards the horizon, turning the sea to red fire. You narrow your eyes. The boat coming at you is rowed - you count at least twelve oars. It's clearly made of light wood, and it's fast. The hull actually crackles with red and purple light - the fear and anger of the rowers pushing it to move faster and faster as it cuts through the water.

"Pirates?" you ask.

"Quite likely," Fyord mutters. "Damn it all - to arms!"

WILL YOU...

[] Stand near the railing, eager to do battle?
[] Slip back - let the crew handle this

(AN: Don't forget to include any emotional beats you want Nike to take - or to transform!)

 

[DragonCobolt]

You gulp - feeling a curious mixture of excitement and fear buzzing inside of you. Excitement, though, won out: A pale orange glow flared out of your body, blanketing the deck. It's not the only subtle hint of excitement - red and purple both flicker along the skins of the other sailors as they ready their weapons. You step back to stand near the captain, who nods to you.

"I do hate it when a passenger gets their throat slit - or knocked over their heads. Or-"

A whistling sound came from over the edge of the deck. Grappling hooks landed and with a springing leap, pirates were over the edge. They were mostly Galenzanti peasantry from their looks - but you did catch a few who had blood from the fae or far worlds mixed with more common Galenzanti stock. Their blades flashed and clattered as they pressed against the crew. You hadn't expected the battle to move so quickly - but within a few moments, several of the crew were pressed backwards and shoved aside by a quarter of pirates, flanking around their leader.

He was a bear of a man - quite literally, ursine furred and clawed, holding an immense metal shod wooden club in his hands. He stands upon the deck, which rolls gently beneath you. "You'll fetch a good price on the Golden Coast..." he says, nodding to you.

You draw your sword with a quick jerk, grinning at him as you do so.

NIKE FACES OFF AGAINST THEIR FIRST FOE!

[] Attempt to get him off balance with some creative footwork (Harry+Attack using Athletics)
[] Try to end him rightly (Pure attack using Longsword)
[] Write In

ENEMY STATS

Captain Bear
Danger: 6 (1/single) | Defense: 3: Armor: 1

Escalations: Y/Y/Y/Y​

Flourishes​

????​

​

TUTORIAL: An enemy has five important stats. Danger (Usage), Defense, Armor and Flourishes. Danger is their hit points and how dangerous they are. The usage (indicated in parenthesis) indicates how much danger they can spend to take actions. So, in this case, Bear can spend 1 Danger on a single target per turn! Defense is how many successes you need to roll to hit them. Armor is how many successes you need to cause 1 damage.

So, if Nike got 4 successes, they would spend 3 to hit, then the last could be spent to do 1 damage (which would be doubled by their longsword to 2), reducing Bear to 4 Danger. If an enemy hits 0 danger, they can be "taken out" as a free action. What being taken out MEANS depends on the Escalation. There are four levels of combat: Social, Chase/Physical, Non-Lethal and Lethal combat. We're currently at Non-Lethal, so taking him out would KO him or force him to surrender!

Enemies (or Nike!) can escalate at any time, to entirely refresh their health AND gain the initiative (this is a sneaky way to get two actions in a row), but the downsides are that...well, the consequences for failing have just gotten dramatically worse.

Finally, there are Flourishes. Flourishes are special moves that NPCs get to reflect their training, skills, spellcasting abilities and magical powers. Since you've never fought Bear, you don't know what his flourishes are.

Now, for actions, you choose a Skill, then roll it, then expend those Successes on any of four actions (and yes, you can combine these actions, in any order you want, so long as it makes sense using the skill in question.) Those actions are Manipulate the Environment, Attack, Hew and Harry. Manipulating the Environment is a catchall for moving, throwing over tables, kicking braziers at people. Attacking is just as it says, attacking. Hewing reduces the enemy's armor by 1 per success to a minimum of 1 until they expend Danger to repair it. Harrying is the same, but with Defense! There is one restriction in skill use: Hewing and Harrying CANNOT USE COMBAT SKILLS unless you have a weapon that specifically allows for it!

 

[DragonCobolt]

You grin, stepping before the Captain. You dart forward - shifting to your most pixish form. Small and slight and lithe, you come up underneath the bear's guard as he swings his weapon high above his head. You dart beneath him, literally skidding between his furred legs, then kick one of his legs out with a vicious thrust of your leg.

The immense bear of a pirate captain drops to one knee, bellowing in fury. He pushes his immense, steel shod club underneath him, using it to leverage himself up. You can see him limping, favoring his other leg. He's off balance now. You grin. Easy prey for a murder-stroke, maybe something fancier, if you-

The bear captain roars and springs forward, using his one good leg to launch himself towards you. Your eyes widen and you duck low, but the immense club is rushing towards you faster than you believed possible, considering everything!

WILL NIKE...
[] Duck Low and go for the Gut? (Escalate Combat from non-lethal to lethal. Note, this will give you two actions since you choose to escalate at the end of your turn.)
[] Take the hit! (Take a Consequence - write in what it is!)

Spoiler: Combat Roll!

Harrying roll, using Athletics!
Roll, with +1 dice for creative trickery.

2,6,2 = Two Fear, One Boredom.
Add in athletics rating: Three Fear, One Boredom.
Spend Fear Beat: Four Fear, One Boredom!

Since fear is the highest result, we use it! Since Athletics is a fear skill, this means we get 4 successes!

Spend 2 successes to reduce Defense from 3 to 1 (the minimum.) Spend the remaining 2 successes to cause 2 damage. Since we're using athletics and not our sword, we don't get to use any tags from the sword. Bear is reduced to 4 Danger.

On his turn, Bear will use a flourish (SMASH!, a 1/combat flourish - meaning he gets to use it once) and 1 of his danger to attack with 7 successes. Nike attempts to dodge, using Athletics!

Roll, with +1 dice for creative trickery
2, 2, 3: Two Fear, One Curiosity!
Add in one more fear from Athletics.

Bear spends 3 successes to beat Nike's defense, leaving him with 4 successes left! Nike has 2 armor, so it costs 2 successes per 1 damage - bringing Nike to 0 Will!

Nike is in danger of being TAKEN OUT! Bear is at 3 Danger, 1 defense, 1 armor.

TUTORIAL: So, Nike has given and taken some damage. Fortunately, damage isn't "real" damage until you're either taken out or take a Consequence. You can take one Consequence per level of combat (meaning, four in total - one for social, one for chases, one for non-lethal, one for lethal.) A Consequence is simply a narrative description ("broken limb", "stinging wound", "humiliated", "torn shirt", "bloody forehead wound"), a value (the amount of damage negated) and an Emotion (Anger, Fear, Boredom, and so on.)

A Consequence adds the value of damage negated (2 in this case) in the emotional result of the consequence to ALL DICE ROLLS. This can be good AND bad. For example, lets say you take the consequence of "Bruised Forehead" (2 Anger). Now, you add +2 anger results. Great for melee attacks and intimidation. NOT so great for stealth or awareness or lots of other skills that don't use Anger as a result.

Consequences are removed by having other characters treat you with a skill check, removing 1 level of a consequence per success.

EACH LEVEL OF A CONSEQUENCE REMOVED GRANTS YOU ONE XP.

Does this mean that I, the designer, am trying to encourage you to get dramatically wounded, then have your wounds tenderly bound up by your friend who is falling in love with you?

Yes.