Peleps Lasari has been consigned to a monastery at the North of the world, for failing to be what her house wanted from her. She would not mind it, were the monastery not also where every wine-soaked failure of the Great Houses seems to get sent to cool their head while whatever scandal they just caused dies down.
And, of course, an Anathema has just shown up nearby.
Peleps Lasari has been consigned to a monastery at the North of the world, for failing to be what her house wanted from her. She would not mind it, were the monastery not also where every wine-soaked failure of the Great Houses seems to get sent to cool their head while whatever scandal they just caused dies down.
And, of course, an Anathema has just shown up nearby.
Information
An Exalted quest! The Prologue will cover how our main character becomes an Abyssal, and then things can really go off the rails. I'm not going to be using the exact Abyssal stuff from Exalted, but will be putting my own twist to it. Write-ins encouraged.
I'm also not going to be building a detailed character sheet - it's all going to be very narrative.
Setting Info
Please feel free to ask me any questions you have! I'll try and explain the best I can without spoiling anything.
Exalted is an RPG set in a world very different to our own. A world of heroes, gods, spirits and demons, in the ruins of the old world. Post-post-apocalyptic, the Realm is the largest remaining political power, based out of the centre of the world, and it was ruled by the Scarlet Empress until a few years ago, when she disappeared without a trace. Now, the vultures circle her throne, her children arm their private forces, and civil war seems inevitable.
Worse, the heroes and monsters of old - the Solar and Lunar Exalted, known to the Realm as the Anathema - are returning. Some in person, some simply as reincarnations, but they are coming back and the Realm has declared itself their enemy.
The Abyssals, also known as deathknights, are the agents of the Underworld, where the dead go after their lives end. Necromancers and corpse-eaters, they seek to end all life, and no-one outside their realm knows why.
Wisdom Drowns The Faithless Penitent
Aka Drowned Wisdom, Wise Penitent
Midnight Caste Abyssal, hand of the Weeping Daughter.
Peleps Lasari Wisdom Drowns The Faithless Penitent is a tall, slender woman with well-defined muscles and a straight back. Her hair is a short, dark blue tangle, her skin is sun-starved light brown, and her eyes are the colour of deep ocean water. She wears the traditional white funeral robes of a dead Dynast.
Techniques
Incorruptible Corpse-Body Technique: As a dead woman, Drowned Wisdom's body requires no sleep, breath, food, or water. She also feels limited pain, is insensible to temperature differences that would leave a mortal barely functional, and can survive grievous wounds with only mild inconvenience.
Drowned Wyrm Annihilation Arts: A lethal synthesis of Dragon-blooded martial arts and Abyssal Essence, which allow the Wise Penitent to see and slay spirits, elementals, demons and gods. She can also devour the Essence released upon their deaths to refuel herself.
Words-Like-Worms Approach: Drowned Wisdom can twist Abyssal Essence into her speech, allowing her to push people into making bad decisions and taking the worst options available to them.
Peleps Lasari wakes at the same time every morning, before the sun rises. She washes, shaves her head, and dresses herself in simple robes, then walks, briskly but carefully, to the main temple. It is a stark, unadorned thing, all grey granite and slate, and snow perches on the edges of the roof even in summer. Before the first rays cross the horizon, she bows her head to the central shrine and repeats the morning mantras, offering her devotion to the Five Dragons. He voice is high and strong, carrying to every corner of the temple without a need to shout, but none attend to hear her. Even her fellows in the Immaculate Order do not bother with this practice, not here, so far from the Blessed Isle. She carries on regardless.
It takes two hours to perform the full cycle of worship, and her voice stops at the precise moment her prayers do, just in time for the sun to peek in through the high, small windows. She spends another fifteen minutes in silent contemplation, eyes half closed, staring at the iconography of the central shrine and meditating on the nature of the Five Dragons. This is not part of the normal practice of the Immaculate Faith, but a personal touch of her own, and the only indulgence she allows herself.
She then sweeps the hall and dusts the shrines, both the main one to the Five Dragons, with its carefully painted back panel and the small, carved figures of the Dragons, and the other shrines, to local gods. She says one final prayer for the morning, thanks for the day to come, and leaves. The others living in the remote monastery are not yet awake; many of them are still in a drunken stupour, and others only closed their eyes mere moments before she opened hers. She does not allow herself to dwell on this, for resentment of the Dragon-blooded is a sin. Her mortal shell means that she has no right to judge them, for they have earned their status, and their souls will pass on to ever greater things.
She is a great-grand-daughter of the Scarlet Empress, but her cousins and aunts and great-great-grandnieces among the Exalted are her moral betters. She knows this in her head, even as her heart questions, but her faith is clear and she knows that this, too, is a test. She failed in a previous life, and so she has been reborn a mortal again in order to learn and change and improve. In the next life, she hopes, she will be finally granted the place she was promised with her birth in this one.
She dismisses the thoughts with a breath, and goes out to the courtyard, feeling the cold stone through her thin cloth shoes. Even those are a compromise, for she should be bare-foot, the better to connect to Pasiap, but the Immaculate Faith recognises that lost toes make this a challenging endeavour. The ever-present snow lies mostly heaped in corners and against the walls, and, as it has not snowed overnight, it does not cover the main square. The residential buildings hem her in to the east and west, to the north is the temple, and to the south is the large hall that houses all the various necessities of life out here - the kitchen, laundry, store rooms and dining room, to name a few. There is a wall around the compound, barely four metres tall, just enough to keep the worst of the snow out in the deep of winter.
This has been her home for the past five years, and she did not love it when she first came. She has grown to loathe it with every fibre of her body; it is not the location, but it is the people.
She breathes out once more, and finds her centre. Her toes grip the cold stone, and her arms describe careful arcs as she moves, slowly, warming up through the Five-And-Fivefold Forms, moving through the cycle of elements and letting the simple, ingrained motions wipe away her thoughts. This, too, is worship. Emulation of the Five Dragons should be sought in all things, and nowhere is a dragon more at home than in a fight. Air finds her leaping, tumbling, sweeping high and low. Fire is sharp and fierce, relentless barrages that leave even her momentarily breathless. Water yields and turns, never facing anything head-on until the very last moment, turning all her momentum into a single brutal strike. Earth is calm and steady, deceptively simple movements that nevertheless hold immense strength. Wood has always been her weakest, for it is a contradictory art, life-in-death and death-in-life, but she is still skilled in it. Straight jabs with extended fingers, striking to nerves and vulnerable points, collapsing strikes that transition from knife-hand to fist to elbow to shoulder-barge.
She knows that she will have an audience, by now. Someone always wakes just early enough to watch her. She knows that, to some, she is attractive - tall and slender, with defined muscles and a straight back. She has never held an interest in these things, and some of those living here know that full well, and taunt her with it. Others simply have no control over themselves; there is a good reason they are here, instead of doing their duty as Dynasts.
Who watches?
[] Ledaal Zekan. He always watches, everything, sharp grey eyes almost hidden by the heavy dark bags around them. He is here for a reason none know, but many suspect, and every suspicion is different. He certainly indulges in wine and lechery enough to justify his presence.
[] Nellens Godala. She loves to see movement, dance, war, love - anything that moves catches her eyes. She also loves to call demons, too openly and for the wrong reasons. She will be here for a time, until things cool down back home, and then she can go back to her parties and salons.
[] Peleps Ashak. They seem fascinated with Lasari. Not her looks, not her voice - her personality. Ashak is weak, and everyone knows it.
[] Write in.
"Her form imperfect, she seeks the Dragons," a voice chimes, from a window behind Lasari. It is light and airy and entirely unfitting the woman it comes from - Nellens Godala is a solidly built woman, broad of shoulder, hip, and, to her eternal regret, stomach.
Lasari remembers her from primary school, back when neither of them were Dragon-blooded and Godala was a pudgy older girl who sobbed in quiet corners when she thought no-one was looking. She grew taller and crueller and came into her blood, while Lasari grew weary and beaten-down by life. There are none so cruel as those who have suffered cruelty, and found themselves in a position to turn that back upon their tormentors. Lasari is not too proud to admit that she did Godala wrong, so many years ago, and when the woman first arrived she prostrated herself to apologise.
"Greetings, Nellens Godala," Lasari says, turning to dip a short bow to the older woman. She is lounging on her windowsill, a bottle of something in one hand and a book, likely of illicit poetry, in the other. She is dressed in her nightclothes, but this far north those are a formidable set of garments in their own right. Her hair falls in a dark wave across the right side of her face, concealing an ugly, twisted scar and a milky, blinded eye. Her left eye, though, that holds a focus and clarity that could sear the soul out of a man. It has never, in all the time she has been at the monastery, looked at Lasari's face.
"Greetings," Godala says. "Your seventy-three is off."
Lasari frowns, and thinks back to the move. Ivy Pierces Stone, a series of sharp, precise jabs with two fingers outstretched on each hand, intended, with the correct application of Essence, to punch holes clean through a foe, regardless of armour.
"Your footing was weak, and your form collapsed. It is so disappointing to see you struggle like this, my dear," Godala says, words so sincere they lash Lasari with fire. "But then it's only to be expected. One cannot hold a leftover child to a Dragon's standards, after all."
Lasari suppresses the flinch with the tired ease of long practice, and tamps down on the building fury. "I apologise for staining your vision," she says, instead.
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," Godala says, a smile working its way onto her face. "You can be a delight to watch. Like a dancer born with only one leg, stumbling from move to move, desperate to catch up with her peers."
Lasari bows shallowly once more, to hide her face. "Your words honour me."
"Yes, well, if you won't come up here and join me in bed, you should go and…" Godala pauses, and her lips purse, as though deep in thought. "Do whatever it is that servants do." She waves a disinterested hand, takes a pull form her bottle, and turns that burning eye to her book.
Lasari remains bowed for a moment, collecting herself, easing her fists open, and walks briskly to the storerooms. She tucks herself into a corner and leans, both arms above her head, against the wall, head down, concentrating on her breathing. She does not sit, or kneel, for if she did she would not rise again for hours. She breathes and recites mantras in her head, washing away the shame with faith. It never ends, and it is her place. Why should she hate it so? Why should it burn her throat like hot coals with words unsaid? Why should she shame her faith by resenting her betters?
She stays there for a long few minutes, throttling the snake of wrath with chains of scripture. It is always arduous, and she never feels better afterwards, but it is done nonetheless. The day must continue. There are prayers to say, rites to enact, and chores to finish, and Lasari knows that none of the wastrels here will ever bother to enter the temple outside of Calibration or to pray for better luck at cards. The sun is now nearly overhead, and it is time for her to break her fast.
The kitchen is abustle, now that the other inhabitants are starting to wake. She collects her simple porridge, fortified with a handful of dried fruit and a sprinkling of cheese, and eats it in silence. Around her, the Dragon-blooded drink cheap wine and eat the same porridge, garnished with meat and spices. This, at least, she does not need to bury her resentment of. She has never really desired luxury, never felt that a simple meal is beneath her, and never cared for wine or spirits. She loves the calm ritual and structured day of her life as an Immaculate, and the few scant months she spent as a new monk on the Blessed Isle are her fondest memories. She was part of something greater, then, and now she is almost alone.
Still. She has work to do, and her bowl is empty. She can wool-gather later, before she sleeps. It is a short trip to the gates, and from there down the slope of the mountain to the snow-dusted forest. The silence is palpable, there, a thing found between pine needles rattled by the wind and the soft dry sound of snow sloughing from boughs. She always takes her time, here, even in the worst weather. The sun filters through the canopy, razor-thin blades of light illuminating the spongy floor of half-rotted pine needles. Little armoured bugs scatter before her slow footsteps, scurrying to better cover, and a fluffy wood-pigeon whirrs overhead, disturbing a whole miniature avalanche of snow from the tree it flees. The cold sharp tang of resin, the warm musk of slowly-rotting wood and leaves, the icy bite of snow off the mountains - all of it fills her with calm focus. Her path meanders, winding around trees and avoiding those signs of animals she spots.
Too soon, she emerges on the other side, and sees the small town below the ridge she stands on, and beyond it, the chill waters of the great western ocean. Tiny fishing boats bob on the waves, dodging ice and hauling in salmon and whiskerfish and deeper, stranger things that still move once cooked. Nearer the shore, larger boats haul up crab and lobster pots, dodging claws and sharp legs, and sometimes breaking out into fights between crews, when the boats pass too close to one another. Old men and women sit on the warped wooden docks, mending nets and pots and gossipping with one another. The fields around the town are filled with waving grain, golden in the late summer sun, and the farmers sharpen their scythes and eye the horizon, waiting for the right moment.
The town is almost bleak, from this angle; the steep roofs are all grey slate, and the buildings rough-hewn granite, and the low wall around the town is more of the same. But she knows that, up close, every building glints and glitters in the sun. Tiny flecks of fire, caught in the grey earth, reflect their father. The people wear clothes in bright shades of red and blue and green, trimmed with the iridescent furs of the pearl beavers that infest the lower woodlands. Flowers hang from roof corners in long garlands, and no-one refuses the polished shells that wash up on the shore. Pearls shine in half the ears of the town, and the women all wear snug brimless hats embroidered with monsters and heroes.
She knows that all of them have their own little gods, worshipped in secret, at hidden shrines or out on the water or deep in the wheat. The Blessed Isle is far away, and the Empress is gone. There are only three Immaculates at the monastery, and only one of them is a Dragon-blooded. The gods they manage are the most important in the area, and mostly keep their subordinates in line. All of these are reasons, but they do not excuse their failure. She must work as hard as she can, as she has every day in the five years of her life here.
The path down to the town is long and winding, an endless series of switchbacks down the near-cliff below the forest. Her feet are sure and steady, even in the deep winter days she manages to come down the mountain; on a dry, still day like today she barely even pays attention. There are no clouds visible, and the sun is strong enough to warm her, and the day has been tolerable. She is, for the moment, happy.
As she approaches the town, the gate guards greet her. The same two are almost always on duty - in a town this small, there are only a few guards, and she knows them all. One on either side of the gate, a study in contrasts.
"Morning, Lasari," says the first, a short, stocky woman. She leans on her spear and smiles at the world, pale skin creased with age and a life spent outdoors, golden eyes half-closed.
The man on the other side grunts, and allows her a nod. He is tall and rail-thin, with tell-tale neck gills and fine-scaled skin that reflects silver. His great-great-grandfather lives beneath the waves, and there is a shrine to him in the temple.
"Good haul came in just after daybreak," Ajana says, drawing Lasari's attention back to her. "The boys damn near sank their boat with it."
"A positive omen," Lasari says, and bows her head. "May the Five bless your day."
"Aye, I hope so," Ajana says, and waves Lasari through. "Go on, then, I'm sure they're waiting."
Lasari walks on, from the packed dirt road outside the walls to the uneven cobble of the interior streets. A small group of children, all younger than eight, bright-eyed and cheery, mob her, chattering and clambering and shoving. She bears it with a fond smile, ruffling hair and dispensing hugs. She keeps moving, the children trailing her like the tail of a comet, following the same path she has every day she has been able to. She passes the glinting buildings, nose filled with flowers and fish, and hands out slivers of dried fruit to the children. She nods greetings to the citizens she passes, and it seems like the whole town is sat outside today, taking advantage of the sun to sew and saw and sing. The tunes are mournful, but the words are joyous; the folk so far north have a grim sense of things, and find humour in darkness.
The slate is waiting for her, as it always is. Her congregation crowd the town square, anyone who can spare a moment and many who can't. Old and young, poor and rich, all attend who are able to get to the square in time. Not for faith, she knows, not for most of them; the faith of these people is a subtle thing, quiet and private most of the year. They come because she offers something they cannot get elsewhere, something even the richest amongst them value.
She brings knowledge. Her slate, a great grey slab twice as wide as a man is tall, is propped up on sturdy wooden legs, visible to all as she stands on the raised steps of the town hall. She can see, out in the crowd, many folk holding small pieces of slate of their own, ready to practice their letters and take what notes they can. There must be a hundred people here, watching her, and it feels so big and so small at the same time. She feels insignificant, but it is a comforting feeling, the sensation of being part of something greater than her own feeble shell.
"Every scale has its place," she says, loud enough that all can hear her. Her voice bounces back to her from the walls of the houses and halls around her, and the crowd falls mostly silent. "It is said that, with one missing scale, a dragon is vulnerable. With all arrayed, it is undefeatable. So, too, is the Realm."
Her sermon lasts exactly as long as the crowd has patience, a length she judges from the gleam in the eyes of the elderly and the fidgeting of children. Too long, and they start to leave. Too short, and she has not performed her duty to its greatest. She knows they do not truly care for her words, but she continues. The faith which has brought her such happiness must be given a chance to help others, and there are some devoted amongst the townfolk. Nevertheless, it is less than half an hour before she moves to the core of her visits.
She teaches them letters and numbers, how to read the words of High Realm and Low Realm and both Sky- and Seatongue. There is no written form of the local language, but all save the most isolated speak at least Skytongue. With her help, trade and travel have steadily increased, bringing prosperity and happiness to the town. This, too, is a gift of the Five Dragons, for was it not lofty Mela who first brought language to humanity? Pasiap who granted it permanence with writing? In this way, Lasari also preaches. She has had to learn subtlety, these past years.
It grated upon her, at first, to teach unwashed peasants and incontinent old men, but she saw the joy in their eyes and heard the gratitude in their words and knew the truth of things: even if she spoke no prayers, even if she never thought the names of the Five Dragons again, and only taught for the rest of her days, she would be doing work as great as that of the highest abbess. Every soul has the chance to join the Dragons, and self-improvement draws one closer. She is helping them, and it soothes her broken heart.
She teaches until the sun begins to sink, and then she stays, waiting for the torrent of questions and requests for advice she always gets. Even a priest of gods they hardly worship can be useful, in this way.
Which friend approaches to ask advice?
[] Sulian, patriarch of a brood of quarrelsome sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons.
[] Fai'ir, young mother of triplets.
[] Virtuous Current, ancient and dying master sailmaker.
[] Write in.
The first person in line, as she often is, is Fai'ir. She stands a head shorter than Lasari, with rope-calloused palms and salt-etched wrinkles, for all that she's barely twenty-five. She is corralling her children in much the same way she nets in shoals of fish just off shore. Lasari has never known Fai'ir to be still, and the young woman juggles raising her children, fishing, and caring for her elderly parents without complaint.
"Lasari!" she says, leaning forwards to tap her forehead against Lasari's own. "Good day for it, hey? Bright sun, calm sea, and one hell of a morning haul."
Her eldest, Dana, spreads his arms and shouts "This many!", barely missing his sister with his wild swing. They nearly begin to fight, but both Lasari and Fai'ir have done this many times before, and the two are gently separated before it goes anywhere.
"I heard," Lasari says. "Was it truly so impressive? You've had good catches before."
"Oh, it wasn't the best I've ever seen," Fai'ir says, and nudges Lasari with her hip. "You should have seen what Khassat brought in when he was courting me. The fish were pretty good, too," she adds with a raucous laugh and a wink.
Lasari nods politely.
"Anyway, I love catching up, but, uh, I need to talk to you a little more private-like. Kids, go bother Sulian's brats!" she says, shooing her children over towards the very loud mob of fishermen and their sons, who have apparently decided to throw an impromptu party. "They're the ones who brought it in," she says, and turns back to face Lasari. She steps close enough she can whisper in her ear. "They brought… something else up with it. We don't know what it is, and we don't know what to do with it."
"What does it look like?" Lasari whispers back, keeping her face carefully pleasant.
"Like gold, inlaid with silver, almost. But it's not right. It moves when you don't look at it."
Lasari's heart beats faster. If it is made of what it sounds like, it needs to be moved to the Blessed Isle as soon as possible. "Where are you keeping it?" she asks.
"Locked it up in old man Vasir's warehouse. He's got that strongroom, and seemed like the best place to keep it," Fai'ir says. "You know how this place is. Everyone will know about it by tomorrow. You think someone up your way would be interested?"
She fakes a laugh, and Lasari forces a smile onto her face. "I can bring the abbess down tonight to inspect it. If it is valuable, I am sure my family will happily pay everyone for it. It could be very dangerous."
"See, you know what I wanted before I even had to ask," Fai'ir says. "I'll see you later. Meet me at the warehouse tonight at ten."
Lasari nods, and Fai'ir envelops her in a hug before she has a chance to do anything else. She endures it, and even pats Fai'ir on the back twice, before the younger woman lets her go.
"Good talk!" Fai'ir says, hands on her hips. "Now, if you don't mind, I smell grilled fish. I'll see you around, Lasari! Swift currents!"
"May Daana'd guide your sails," Lasari replies, dipping her head.
The rest of the petitioners move swiftly, little queries and simple answers, until she reaches the last in the line. He is a slim young man, underfed and nervous, and his long red hair is tied back in a messy tail. His light brown skin is only a fraction paler than her own, but his eyes are warm amber and he smiles sheepishly at her. He is unfamiliar to her, but she greets him anyway.
"Oh, um, hello," he says. "I'm, uh, a traveller, and I just wanted to say that it's pretty inspiring, what you're doing here."
He sounds so young that she immediately revises her guess of his age downwards; not underfed, simply not yet grown. Perhaps sixteen, at the oldest, with the way his voice cracks.
"Thank you for your words," she says. "Would you like a blessing, to ease your way?"
He shuffles awkwardly, all elbows and knees. "I don't- that is, uh, I'm not very…" he pauses, searching for the word. "…versed in the Immaculate Faith. There's nothing, um, wrong with you blessing me?"
She smiles, weary. "Blessings are freely given, even to those who do not believe. Who am I to decide who the Five Dragons choose to protect? If they do not intercede on your behalf, they do not, and if they do, they do."
She raises a hand, eyebrow quirked, and he nods to her, eyes fixed to her own. She makes the signs of the Dragons, complicated, finger-wrenching gestures for any not practised in them, and speaks clearly.
"May Danaa'd smooth the waves, Sextes Jylis provide you succour, Mela scatter storms, Pasiap steady your road, and Hesiesh keep you warm," she intones, as she has so many times before, and she feels a little peace settle over her. It is a simple peasant blessing, and would have her laughed out of any real temple, but they do not have an hour to perform the full rites, and it is more important to spread the Dragons' love with true devotion than to mouth empty platitudes. There are thousands of variations on the blessing, but her own inclinations and those of the coastal town decided this one.
She has always wanted to be Water.
The boy smiles wider, and something tense in his shoulders relaxes. "Thank you," he says.
"May I have your name?" she asks, her own smile widening in return. "If you are willing to offer it. I am Peleps Lasari."
His eyes go wide. "I'm, um, surprised to see a Dragon-blooded so far from home," he says.
"I'm not," she says, joy crashing down again.
"Far from home?"
"Dragon-blooded. Thank you for coming to the service," she says, smile tightening.
"Oh. I'm… I'm very sorry, ma'am," he says, eyes darting this way and that. "I- um, thank you for the blessing!"
He flees. Lasari schools her expression and pushes down on her sorrow; he did not know, and it was a compliment, in many ways. On the Blessed Isle, he would have been serendipitously arranged by one of her House's enemies, to shame her in public; here, everyone knows already and does not care. They like her more for it, even. She can connect to them in a way the abbess cannot. She certainly cannot imagine the abbess allowing a petitioner to touch her. Lasari would have dreaded the idea, and did, for many months after her arrival here. But you can get used to anything, eventually, and the townsfolk are respectful enough of her wishes that they keep contact to a minimum.
She collects her wooden alms bowl - which is, as always, filled with little slates the length of her finger, asking for certain lessons to be given next - bows to the small council of elders who always watch, and whose words can turn the town, and departs. She does not walk so slowly on her way back up the mountain, this time; she has important business to discuss, and she does not want to wait until it is too late. She regrets not carrying her staff, but she rarely needs to move quickly enough or far enough to justify it, and any foe she faces which cannot be defeated with her fists would not be deterred by a length of wood. She does not run, but she gets back to the monastery thrice as fast as she descended.
She passes through the narrow gate and sweeps across the cold flagstones and only slows at the entrance to the temple. She can hear the abbess, softly reciting mantras, and this is not so urgent as to interrupt. She dusts off her robes before she quietly enters the hall, and she glides to kneel behind and to the right of the ancient woman who is the only Immaculate Dragon-blooded in the entire region.
The abbess is so old that it is rumoured she helped to found the Immaculate Order itself. This is ridiculous, but to townsfolk who have lived seven generations in her shadow, seems possible. Her eyebrows are long, gone silver-white with age, and the wrinkles on her face are so deep it looks like they were put there with a knife. Her back is still straight, though her joints ache and click, and she is a master of Water style. She is also technically Lasari's aunt. Peleps Isaka does not pause in her prayer, and Lasari quickly joins her. It is a round prayer, in five parts, and best delivered with five monks, but even two add a depth and complexity that a single voice lacks.
Lasari lets her mind slip into the well-worn tracks of ritual, and her fears and anger and tension ease away. She is focussed, directing her faith and gratitude in the prescribed ways, so that the Five Dragons may truly know her. The prayer lasts exactly as long as it needs to, no longer, and two voices fall silent as one.
"You are back early, child," Isaka says, still facing the shrine, voice steady and smooth. "Trouble or joy?"
"Both," Lasari says. "The fishermen pulled up what sounds like a device of orichalcum and moonsilver. It may be nothing, but I was told it moves when no-one is looking."
Isaka snorts, a disconcerting sound from such a dignified woman. "Just trouble, I think. Grandmother disappears and everything goes to shit. I doubt this will be any different."
Lasari bows her head. "I said I would request that you come and inspect the device," she says. "If you have no pressing matters."
"Hah! The only pressing matters I have nowadays are waking to piss in the middle of the night. Well, I suppose I can have one of my sisters owe me a favour," she says, slowly getting to her feet. It sounds like a bag of castanets falling down the stairs. "You'll want your mother to have it, no doubt? Might even net you a posting to a less remote hellhole."
"I would never dare to presume," Lasari says, head still bowed. Of course she hoped for it. But to say so would be nearly blasphemy.
"Mm. Perhaps you should. A genuine First Age artifact would give your mother enough leverage to achieve some of her goals, even if she simply sold it. The sins of mortals are washed away easier than those of the chosen of the Dragons," Isaka says, arms folded behind her back. "And you committed no great sin. But we must finish our duties here, first. Did you arrange a time?"
"After ten, at a warehouse by the docks," Lasari says. "We should have plenty of time to say evening rites and get to town."
"Well, no-one ever accused you of being stupid," Isaka says, approving. "Come now. Help me move old Mujjit into position."
She does not need Lasari's assistance, but it is a kindness. They take the handles of the shrine and carry it to the lower dais around the one which keeps the shrine to the Five Dragons elevated, and place it front and centre. It is Mujjit's turn to receive the prayer he has bargained for, and it is their job to provide it.
The prayers are simple, generic things, now. Compliments on his power, non-specific requests for aid, and platitudes. They do not worship Mujjit, they simply pray to him.
This too is the duty of the Immaculate Order.
Who decides to join Lasari and Isaka on their way into town?
[] Ledaal Zekan. He always watches, everything, sharp grey eyes almost hidden by the heavy dark bags around them. He is here for a reason none know, but many suspect, and every suspicion is different. He certainly indulges in wine and lechery enough to justify his presence.
[] Nellens Godala. She loves to see movement, dance, war, love - anything that moves catches her eyes. She also loves to call demons, too openly and for the wrong reasons. She will be here for a time, until things cool down back home, and then she can go back to her parties and salons.
[] Peleps Ashak. They seem fascinated with Lasari. Not her looks, not her voice - her personality. Ashak is weak, and everyone knows it.
[] Write in.
Lasari and the abbess meet at the gate as night falls fully. Lasari bears a staff with a lantern attached to the top by a short chain, while the abbess simply brings herself. They set off, the way less steady than it was in daylight, and walk in silence for a few minutes before the abbess speaks.
"Ledaal, get your arse out of those trees before I bring you down my own way," she says, still facing straight ahead.
Ledaal Zekan, slight and short, drifts to the forest floor ahead and to the right of them, and sweeps his dark cape out into a flourishing bow. "My dear lady, can you blame me for being curious?" he says, in that sing-song tone of his. His pale eyes sweep across the two of them, and then around, flicking from spot to spot, never alighting for long, like nervous birds.
Isaka sniffs derisively, and waves a gnarled hand. "If you are coming, walk with us. If you are not, go back to your room. A suspicious woman would think you might be spying on her."
Zekan darts to stand beside the two monks, feet barely touching the ground, and brushes imaginary dust and real pine needles out of his artfully dishevelled pale green hair. "A wise woman would know that no son of the Ledaal house would ever be caught spying," he says lightly.
Isaka clips his ear without even turning around, and he flinches, but does not protest. "You're not in the Imperial City any more, brat. Not-smart-enough words and not-clever-enough tricks don't just get you laughed at out here."
He bows his head and mumbles an apology, and it seems to be enough for Isaka. He is only young, after all, and a man to boot, so what can really be expected of him? He's lucky to get away with only a smacked ear.
"You know why we're going to town, boy?" Isaka asks, as she keeps walking.
Zekan has to go a little faster than a walk to keep up with her strides, while Lesari, taller than him and fitter to boot, has no such trouble.
"I couldn't guess," he says.
"Mm. Well, you'll just have to live with the curiosity. You'll find out when I say you can, and no sooner," Isaka says, and then her mouth crooks up in a wicked grin. "Or you'll have to practice forms with Lasari until she is happy with your technique."
He blanches even paler, and seems more afraid of this than of the dressing down from the abbess.
"It is not my place to instruct Ledaal Zekan, abbess," Lasari says, keeping a careful step behind both of the Dragon-blooded. "I have not mastered the forms myself."
"I've seen Immaculate shikari whose forms are worse," Zekan blurts. "What ridiculous standard are you holding yourself to, Lasari?"
"We walk in the footsteps of Dragons, Ledaal Zekan, and even the mightiest warrior can be only a poor imitation," Lasari says. Her eyes are narrowed, and her back is straight. In manners of Immaculate doctrine, at least, she is very much Zekan's superior.
"You're both right," Isaka says, and the pair of them fall silent. "Lasari is a prodigious martial artist, and she is not good enough to claim mastery. We all know she never can be, in this life."
Lasari bows her head to hide the pain, while Zekan rolls his eyes and goes back to watching the foliage. They haven't been walking for ten minutes before he starts whistling, and, with a flex of his Essence, the soft breezes around join in the harmony; a parlour trick, for one of the Air aspect, but it drives barbs into Lasari's heart. He doesn't even think about it, possibly doesn't even know he's doing it.
The walk to town is faster than Lasari had expected, but slower than she hoped. The minutes dragged by like hours, and then Zekan didn't even bother to take the path down the cliff, he simply jumped off to wait for them at the bottom. Isaka, at least, simply sniffs again and takes the path.
"Boys. You can't take them anywhere without them showing off," she grumbles. "This is why we have women in charge."
Lasari nods her agreement, leading the way with her lantern; Isaka probably doesn't need it, but it is courteous. She douses the lantern as they approach the town, and Zekan flits back into view as they step onto the level road. He has found a flower, somewhere, and tucked it artlessly behind one ear; it's a pale lavender, and matches well with his hair, but it looks in danger of falling out at any moment. He's grinning, though, and does a little spin as he approaches for some reason, his dark cape flaring out and kicking up dust.
Lasari covers her mouth and nose with the sleeve of her robes to keep the dust out and keeps walking behind Isaka, who hasn't paused in her stride. Zekan looks disappointed for some reason, but trots along beside the abbess like an obedient dog. They pass through the gates, opened a sliver by a tired and silent Muji, who simply nods to Lasari and waves the trio through.
The streets are a little quieter than during the day, and different; there are no bellows of challenge from fisherman to fisherman on the sea, no loud rattle of knives being sharpened or the wet, efficient noise of fish being gutted and filleted. Instead, there are bawdy songs and the hollow sound of wooden tankards and the meaty muffled thuds of back-alley brawls. Bats scoot over the houses and swoop through the swarming insects at the shoreline, and a great fishing-owl hoots ominously in the distance. Zekan looks longingly at the taverns they pass, and very nearly leaves to get a drink, from his faltering steps, but he seems determined to find out what they're up to. Few people are out on the streets, for even in the depth of summer it is too cold to be outside at night without good reason, but the few that are all greet Lasari and bow to Isaka. This seems to perplex Zekan, who has only ever seen the two monks at the monastery, and, worse, the citizens are mostly ignoring him.
Despite the delays, they still arrive at the promised time. Lasari is good at her job, and she knows how long it takes to get from one point to another in the town at various times of day; she accounted for the townsfolk when setting a departure time, and allowed for unexpected delays. Like Zekan. The docks are the quietest they ever are, and the sound of lapping waves and splashing fish and the soft murmuring creaks of the boats rising and falling are finally audible. The great fishing-owl Lasari heard earlier perches at the end of the furthest dock, atop one of the wooden pillars, scanning the dark ocean for its luminescent prey. The glowsquid spawn at the surface at this time of year, and though they are inedible to humans, the fishing-owls love them.
Lasari screamed in fear the first time she saw a great fishing-owl, beak and feathers splattered with glowing ink, come out of nowhere on silent wings, the first summer she came here. Like a vicious beak and reflecting eyes and a starry nebula and nothing else, she thought it was a spirit or a ghost. That got a good laugh out of Fai'ir, when she was told about it.
Lasari knows Fai'ir remembers, because she is stood by the warehouse, smirking and pointing at the owl. Lasari very deliberately does not react.
"Hey, Lasari!" Fai'ir says as they approach. She knocks her forehead against Lasari's, then bows to Isaka. "Lady Abbess, it is an honour to see you here."
"Sekkhet's daughter, no?" Isaka says, wrinkles arranging themselves into a benevolent smile.
"Great-granddaughter, honoured elder," Fai'ir says, but she is smiling. "I know we all blur together to one such as yourself."
"You look like her," Isaka says, then waves a hand. "We can discuss pleasantries later. Zekan, Lasari, stay out here. If he tries to peek, break his arms, Lasari."
"At your command," Lasari says, and bows, fist in palm. Zekan backs up from her and raises his hands, eyes wide with exaggerated fear.
"No need for that, Abbess Isaka," he says. "I'll stand here in silence."
"Mm," Isaka says, and taps one finger by her eye. "You'd better."
They settle into place on either side of the warehouse door, and wait. Lasari's eyes do not leave Zekan, and he fidgets in place.
"So how come you're stuck all the way out here, huh?" he blurts. "Must be bad if your mother didn't even keep you around to bring new blood in."
"Ledaal Zekan," Lasari says, calmly and slowly. "That is private house business. Or will you answer the same question, asked of you?"
"And ruin the betting pool? Never," he says with a laugh, but his shoulders tighten. "You going to tell me what's in there?"
"I do not know," she says, and it is the truth. She stands completely still with arms folded in her sleeves, breath fogging in the night cold, but seems utterly unaffected.
"It's really creeping me out, you staring like that," he says. "You like what you see, at least?"
She blinks, and keeps staring. It is amusing, to see a mighty Dragon-blooded squirm at a little inspection. Her instructors at the Cloister of Wisdom would have beaten her blue if she fidgeted like that.
"You're like a brick wall, Lasari," he says, and starts pacing.
"Words wasted are a sign of improper spiritual education," she says. "You must ask the abbess for further instruction."
He huffs out a sigh and turns away. She carefully does not smile. The silence stretches until the door snaps open, and Isaka strides out, followed closely by Fai'ir, who locks the door behind them.
"I'll send a letter tomorrow," Isaka says. "You were correct in your guess, Lasari."
Fai'ir grins wide, and Lasari cannot stop a matching smile reaching her face. Zekan hisses through his teeth in exasperation, but shuts up at a sidelong glance from the abbess. There is a splash in the distance as the great fishing-owl seizes a glowsquid.
"Come on, then," Isaka says, finally, after she has let them celebrate a moment. "These old bones don't like the cold. We should be getting home."
Lasari and Isaka make the trip back in silence, but Zekan seems incapable of keeping his mouth shut. He chatters and questions and sulks when he gets no answers, and Isaka's smug satisfaction is nearly palpable. Once they are back, Isaka fixes Zekan with a glare and a promise to never speak of this - which Lasari assumes he will break the moment he has the opportunity - and they retire to their beds.
They wake the next morning to a panicked visitor hammering on the doors.
Who is it?
[] Dana, Fai'ir's son.
[] Auspicious Tide, young crab-fisher.
[] Write in.
By the time Lasari gets to the gate, the servants have already opened it, and let the visitor inside. It's Auspicious Tide, a young crab fisherman from the town; Lasari knows him from his pinch-scarred arms and bone-pierced ears. He's usually loud and laughing, sitting with the other crab fishermen and drinking, but he is sweating with exertion and fear and he is pale and shaking. He slumps onto the stool that is brought for him, and catches his breath for only a moment.
"Lasari, you need- there's-" he begins, falling over his words. He starts to cry. "Gods, where did they come from? Ajana's dead," he says. "They- it's a ship. Bigger than anything I've ever seen, and some woman came down off it and ordered us to give over the artifact! What artifact? She just… she just tore Ajana's head off."
He rakes a shaking hand across his face, smearing tears and sweat and dust.
"She- she glowed. Like in the sermons. And then the man, he tried to calm her down, and he glowed too. Silver and gold."
Lasari's blood freezes in her veins.
"Pirates, here?" Auspicious Tide continues, babbling as though if he stops he'll have to let what has happened really sink in. "Pirates? What- why has this happened? Ajana, she just… she just went up to ask what the woman wanted. Didn't even draw a weapon. Now she's dead. Gods, did you know how much blood there is in us?"
Lasari places a hand on his shoulder, and squeezes gently, trying to ground him.
"Breathe, young man," she says, no sign of fear in her voice, for all it thrums in her chest. "Slow and steady. Follow me."
She sucks in a slow, calm breath, then holds it, and out again, over and over, squeezing his shoulder in time, and he gradually copies her and stops babbling. A servant has brought over a mug of water, and is followed close behind by Isaka, who looks very disgruntled at having been awoken so early. She pauses when she sees the state Auspicious Tide is in, but it is only the smallest falter, and he is in no state to notice it.
"You told Lasari everything?" Isaka asks, not bothering with niceties.
He nods.
"Get him some food and somewhere to rest," she orders, and he's quickly led away.
"He reports two suspected Anathema," Lasari says, and her hands tremble now. "Glowing silver and gold. I didn't get many details, but the silver killed one of the town guards, unprovoked."
Isaka sighs, long and hard, and shuts her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, the abbess is gone, and only the empty deep ocean remains. "They are called Anathema for a reason," she says. "I declare a Wyld Hunt, for all the good it will do. Are you willing to join?"
Lasari is not required to; by law and custom, even the most battle-hardened of mortal Dynasts have the right of refusal. She could simply stay here, secure the temple, and follow later to offer aid and calm the townsfolk.
She does not even consider it.
"My arms are your arms, abbess," she says. "I swore an oath to the Dragons, and I will not forsake it now."
Isaka dips her head, and closes her eyes again. "Go gather the other three. I will need their assistance if we are to succeed."
Lasari bows deep, clenched fists together, and hurries to wake the three other Dragon-blooded in residence. Godala staggers out of her room, obviously hungover; Zekan emerges dressed in only a sheet; and Ashak has to be dug out from under their collection of naval treatises. Their attitudes take a sharp turn when they are told what's happening, but none of them turn and flee. Isaka gives them an hour to prepare, to drink and eat and pull on what armour and armaments they have with them. For these Dynasts, disgraced and near-abandoned, it is perhaps forty-five minutes more than they need.
Lasari shaves her head, washes carefully, and dresses in a fresh set of robes. She sharpens the edges of her tiger claws, until they cut a thread dropped against their edge, and takes them out to the courtyard. She has time, yet, so she goes through the water forms, slowly and meticulously, weapons in hand, until her thundering heart calms to its normal rhythm. This, she knows. This, she is good at. This, she can control.
It is time.
In the stories, a Wyld Hunt is called with a great speech, and liveried messengers hand over illuminated letters to the mightiest Dragon-blooded warriors in the area. They arrive in full panoply, arrayed in jade, armed with heirloom daiklaives. They are always a perfect Hearth, one of each element, and bound by oath and blood. They set out from a gilded manse on their purebred horses, and ride across verdant grasslands without getting dusty.
The truth is this: there are four scared children and one old woman. There are two Water, one Air, and one Wood, and none of them would swear to another even now. They are dressed in worn silk and furs, and they have steel weapons, save for Lasari, who wears cotton, and Isaka, who wields blue jade. The only fighters are a mortal and an old woman, though the other three know at least the basics.
It will have to be enough. There is no speech.
Isaka simply nods to them and begins to walk, and the rest of them trail after her. They walk through the forest in silence, all of them taut as bowstrings, until they reach the edge of the forest, and stare down at the town, and the ocean beyond it. Fog covers the water halfway to the horizon, and stops exactly at the shore.
"By all the Dragons," Zakan gasps.
"No, the Dragons didn't do that," Isaka says softly. "Mujjit has betrayed his oath." She spits on the ground and intertwines her knobbly fingers in a condemning mudra. "I swear that if I survive this, he will not live to Calibration."
"You want us to fight a god?" Ashak says, visibly shaken.
"Hah! The god isn't the worry," Isaka says. "It's the Anathema. Two at once is a bad sign, but I've slain Anathema before. You're all Dynasts, aren't you? Will you straighten your spines or will you cower like boys?"
Lasari knows that the situation is nowhere near as simple as Isaka is making it sound; two Anathema are certainly bad news, but a pair in gold and silver are worse than that. She has read the records, and knows the names of dozens of Dragon-blooded slain by such a pair. Perhaps they are lucky, and this pair are new to their powers, brash and impulsive and acting before they know better. Mortals have slain Anathema before, in rare cases, when the Dragons have guided their hands, but it normally takes a Hearth of Dragon-blooded and luck.
They have no Hearth, and they would not be here if they were lucky.
They descend regardless. Godala starts reciting death poetry, delicate flowery verse hiding the brutal truth within, and Zakan fidgets with his spear. Ashak's face is slick with fear-sweat, but they adjust their swords and keep pace.
Lasari whispers prayers to the Five Dragons, to protect and guide them. There are a set of prayers specifically for the Wyld Hunt, and they are grim. They ask for bloody swords and shattered shields and heads to hang from saddles.
They ask to be allowed to die on your feet, face to the enemy.
Isaka prays, too, loud and with a pressure that is not entirely imaginary. Backs straighten, furrowed brows ease, and fists clench. They reach the town in silence, and pass through empty streets. Terrified eyes peek out from behind shutters, and Lasari can hear weeping from behind more than one closed door. Finally, they near the docks. Half the town is there, it seems, surrounding the area but not close enough to be targeted. A galleon wallows just off shore, broadside on, and it's a beast of a ship, one that could take on a Realm navy vessel and come out the victor. It looks old, too, ancient and well-preserved. She feels the fear rise at the realisation that this ship may have been made before the Realm existed.
A woman leans against the railing of the ship, tall and muscular and proud, glowing silver tattoos marking out abstract pattens on her bare arms, a full silver circle obvious on her forehead. She looks frustrated with the situation. Next to her, on the deck, sits the second Anathema, a young man with an empty golden circle, containing a dot, on his forehead. He stares out at the town, eyes glowing, and lifts a hand to wave at the approaching Dragon-blooded.
Ajana is there, dead on the dockside, torn in half at the chest. There's so much blood, black and sticky in the sun. Lasari's grip on her weapons tightens.
"Perhaps we can avoid any further unpleasantness?" the man calls, once they are near enough to hear him.
The docks themselves are empty of anything but crab-pots and rope coils and that awful, awful lump that used to be a friend. They are exposed out there, but they are also unlikely to cause collateral damage.
"This is a waste of our time," the woman says, voice dull and deep. "I give my last warning to you, Seeker."
"What's the harm in talking?" the man says, his voice carrying.
"To exchange words with Anathema is to be corrupted by them," Lasari whispers to herself. "Daana'd guide my blades."
Isaka stops, halfway to the ship, and the rag-tag Wyld Hunt stops beside her. "We will treat with you, boy, if you come down here to talk."
"Even now they try to lure you in to a trap, Seeker," the woman says, glowering at Isaka. "I do not think you an imbecile. Yet."
"Will you not protect me, Kala?" Seeker asks, and gives her a crooked smile. "We haven't come so far by doing things your way. You have to extend trust to receive it."
"They think us demons," Kala says. "Our breath is evil to them. We must slay them and retrieve the artifact. There's no point to you risking your life here."
Godala squeezes Isaka's wrist twice. "On my mark," she says quietly.
"All I'm saying is-"
"Now."
It starts with perfect clarity. Two hulking figures manifest from thin air behind Seeker, seize him in huge shaggy arms, and throw him as hard as they can towards the docks. Isaka leaps, so hard she shatters cobblestones, and blurs through the air towards Kala. Kala turns and tears the blood-red gorillas to pieces in a torrent of protean flesh. Isaka lands on the railing and her blue jade tiger claws descend, an endless crashing assault that puts Kala on the back foot.
Lasari blinks.
Seeker lands, having turned his uncontrolled tumble into an elegant glide. Lasari is there to meet him, her own claws ready, and his face twists in panic just before the blades catch him at the jaw and slice half his face to bloody ribbons. It seems even the Anathema have limits. She loses the rest of the battle, then, concentrating on her target; he is not so easy to strike now that he properly fears her. Fisherman Spears His Prey flows into Eddies Undercut Banks which transitions to Carp Leaps Waterfall, a stab to a looping trip to a vicious uppercut, but she only catches his clothes. He staggers back, clutching his face, and she sees fear in his one open eye. He turns and runs, and before she can catch him he has taken a long arcing leap which lands on the ocean, and then he keeps running, across the water's surface.
The next thing Lasari knows, her vision is filled with a great, many-hooked tentacle, which slaps across her chest and sends her flying into the stone wall of the nearest building. She feels things crack and shatter and tear, white-hot and cold and everything spins, but there is no pain. She blacks out to the sound of thunderous cannon fire.
Lasari wakes to agony. The world has changed in her absence, and all that remains of the dockside is shattered wood and fire and blood. She is half-propped on a stone, but she cannot move enough to take in anything more. She cannot move at all. She tries, but her arms do not obey her, her legs betray her, her neck refuses. Her chest feels like someone has filled it with burning splinters. Her breath comes strained and weak. The first thought is that this is not real, that she is dreaming or unconscious, but the pain is all too real. Someone has packed her throat with mud, and it burbles in her ears when she breathes. She can smell only red, and taste only steel.
She knows she is dying.
She tries to move again, panic granting her another shot of adrenaline, but all she achieves is tipping herself over. She cannot even scream. She stares out at the ocean, and thinks of how blue it is, in the morning sun. The fog is gone.
She has always wanted to be Water.
She blacks out.
She wakes, choking and gagging, hot blood running down her throat, cold creeping into her limbs.
She cannot believe her eyes, but across the battlefield walks a girl. A child that could have been her cousin, her sister, her aunt. Ragged red hair and skin so pale her veins show through it. Her dress is tattered black, the fashion of centuries past.
The child looks so sad. She picks her way through the bodies and the rubble like a pallid stork, careful, bobbing strides bringing her ever-closer.
"Oh, but it always hurts," she whispers, kneeling down to cradle Lasari's head in her lap. Tears drip down her face, falling cold onto Lasari's cheeks. "I can't help you in this. It breaks my heart, every time."
Lasari gets no colder, but the blood still fills her throat and the ice still fills her fingers.
"You don't have to be brave for me. You don't have to hold back," the child continues, slow and sorrowful. "In death, we are all undone. You should have been a mighty warrior," the child says, still weeping. "A poet, a musician, a dancer. You should have had the life you wanted. But it always fails us, doesn't it? Life."
Her eyes, pale grey irises around too-dark pupils, seem to fill Lasari's vision. Her voice echoes strangely, and Lasari feels no peace. Just the pain and the cold and the choking blood.
"I mourn for all the living," the child whispers, rocking Lasari gently back and forth. "The world is broken, Peleps Lasari. It has failed you. It has failed your companions. It will fail countless millions more."
Lasari coughs blood into the child's face, and she just lets her tears wash it away.
"This is all it is, in the end," she says, voice breaking, and hikes Lasari up so she can see the devastation.
The glittering buildings are tumbled and broken. Godala's head is lying atop a half-ruined wall, staring at the sky. The rest of her is in a heap twenty metres away. The abbess is slumped, and Lasari can see straight through the hole in her chest.
It should be raining.
"Everyone dies, Lasari," the child continues, interlacing icy fingers with her own. She can barely feel it. "Everyone dies. The world is broken, and it breaks us all in turn. It broke them. It has broken you. It broke me."
Lasari sobs through the pain, at last, overwhelmed. The fires do not move. The smoke does not rise. This moment is endless, and she cannot die.
"But we both know the truth, do we not? We were broken before we were full grown. Not by death. Never by death. Death would be a sweet release," she continues. "To return to the cycle of reincarnation, to be born anew in a better life? That would be wonderful."
She buries her face in Lasari's shoulder, still weeping. Her voice is muffled.
"But even death is broken."
Lasari sobs again, pain and fear and that tiny worm of doubt wriggling in her brain.
"Death is broken, and we cannot move on. We live eternal in death. Why won't it end?"
The child keeps weeping, rocking Lasari as though she is the forlorn infant.
"Why? The world is broken, and life is broken, and death is broken. Who did this to us? How can we make it stop?"
She sobs harder, voice raw and ragged, and Lasari cannot hold back the tears any longer.
"I hate it. I hate it all. If the world will not be fixed, then it must be ended. If death cannot be fixed, then that, too must end!" the child screams, and it flays her nerve endings just to hear it. "The Anathema did this to us! They broke the world! They broke death! I hate them! I hate it all!"
The child pants, breathless, and takes a moment to compose herself.
"But I love you, Lasari. I love all who live, and all who die, and all who are broken," she says, so soft and tender Lasari almost believes it, that this strange apparition really does care. "You should have been a great warrior, unmatched in skill. I have seen it in the stars that do not shine, in the sky that is not, where all the fates that are broken weave in endless void. You should have been Exalted. Instead, the world is broken and murderers and thieves can do this!"
She gestures to the battlefield once more. The townsfolk are so badly mangled that Lasari cannot distinguish one corpse from the next. Zekan's arms are twisted like dishcloths, and the dust at his feet tells the story of his death throes. He did not go quickly. Even Ashak found their courage, and was destroyed for it.
"But there are forces that put their thumbs on the scales, and so we must press down harder. I am dead, and you will be dead the moment we finish. But we live eternal in death," she says, poison dripping from her words. "We live eternal in death, and there are ways to make you more than you were in life. Exaltation in death. All I ask, all that I have ever wanted, is that you help me end this."
Lasari's tears dry up. Her sobs rattle in her chest, but she is shocked to silence. This must be a trick. A last hallucination.
"I do not lie, Lasari. The Weeping Daughter does not lie, for the truths I speak are worse than any faleshood. The offer is true, and the wishes are true, and the Exaltation is true. You will die. It cannot be prevented. But I love the dead, and the broken, and the living, and you are all of them at once. I want you to walk with me, to be my sword and hand, and to be what you were always denied in life."
She pauses, and tilts Lasari's head to meet her eyes once more. Lasari know, deeper than anything she has ever know, that this is true. All of this is true.
"All you have to do is agree," the child says, quiet enough Lasari has to strain to hear her.
She knew that when she was five, when she was told that to love your child is a sin. When she discovered that the woman who had raised her had been paid to do so, and that she was leaving, without a word.
She knew it when she was ten, and she was rewarded for tormenting other children.
She knew it when she was fifteen, and she was tormented.
She knew it when she was twenty, and her life was ended, because she did not Exalt.
She knew it when she was twenty-five, when she was sent out of her mother's sight for a crime she did not even commit.
She knows it at thirty, when she walked towards death with fear in her heart.
She has seen cowardly children breathe fire, and snivelling brats walk on water. She has done everything right, all her life, and been punished for it. The model daughter, the obedient mortal, the perfect monk. She doesn't regret it, but she resents it.
Why were others chosen before her? Why did she have to be the one who failed? Didn't she work hard? Didn't she excel? She met and exceeded every expectation except the one that mattered, the one she had no control over, and so her life was ended before it even began.
Death is almost a relief.
But that almost is what digs its teeth in and bites down. Why should she accept death? She has been condemned to mediocrity in life, though no choice of her own, and now she is given a choice.
She has always wanted to be Water.
The waves do not move, frozen in perfection. Foam-frosted at the shoreline, pristine.
She will never be Water. She knows it, has known it for longer than she can remember, but some part of her is still that terrified five-year-old, waking up and finding an empty room where her nanny used to be. She clings to familiarity.
She has always wanted to be Water, but more than that, she has always wanted to be Exalted. She has watched failure after failure come into their blood, and buried the anger and resentment deeper and deeper every time. It is a rotted, grasping thing, that lives in her chest; something she has always wanted dead, but which lives as long as she does. Now she knows it will live beyond that.
Above all, she hates it. The whole corrupt edifice that has put her under its boot and ground down. She could have accepted it if she had done something, if she had caused it through a choice of her own. But it has always been someone else, someone with power, making choices for her.
It's time she starts to make choices of her own.
And now? She chooses to be Exalted.
The Weeping Daughter smiles though her tears, and presses a frozen kiss to Peleps Lasari's forehead.
Peleps Lasari dies.
Once
There was a girl.
She was not brave, and she was not strong,
Her body was weak and her hands trembled.
She was lashed with fire and stones.
Illness took root in her lungs.
No-one helped her.
She died alone.
Now
There is a girl.
She was not brave
And she was not strong
But she had a broken soul.
She turned the pieces into blades and
She cut away pieces of herself
Until
Only
Hate
Remained.
What is Lasari's Caste?
[] Dusk. She was a warrior in life, and it is only appropriate she becomes one in death.
[] Midnight. She is ever-faithful and enduring, and even death cannot change that.
[] Daybreak. She has always wanted to know the truth in all things, and perhaps now she can.
[] Day. She has always passed beneath the notice of others, and why should that change?
[] Moonshadow. She has always wanted to travel and see everything in Creation. Now she can do all that, and go beyond.
Where is she tasked?
[] West, to the oceans and islands.
[] South, to the deserts and savannah.
[] East, to the forests and jungles.
[] North, to the great tundras and frozen pine forests.
[] Write in. Name a cool city, a favourite location, or make somewhere up!
AN: There will be an interlude piece about ghosts tomorrow, and then I'm taking a break over the weekend. I'll be back with the start of Chapter 1 on Monday!
A little interlude piece to do some worldbuilding and give those unfamiliar with the setting some info, especially on my version of the Underworld
On Ghosts I
[In thick red ink, across the top of the paper: NEEDS WORK, SEK.]
From the collected works of Sek Vashal, Chronicler to the Weeping Daughter
Congratulations on choosing to improve your knowledge of our benighted state, dear reader. In this piece, I will elaborate on the nature of ghosts and the ways in which they may increase in power and stability. Keep an eager eye out for my next work in the series, available from all reputable merchants soon!
What is a ghost? Many people ask me this, when I walk the lands of the living as an exorcist and scholar. The answer varies from culture to culture, place to place and time to time. If you had asked me three hundred years ago, I would have given you one answer; today, I give you another.
A ghost is what remains when the body is dead. A simple answer, but a true one.
Why are ghosts? That's a trickier question, and one I do not know the real answer to. My lady tells me that we exist because the path to reincarnation is clogged with the uncorpses of those never born, deathless things that were killed despite the impossibility. Others claim we linger due to some grudge or passion; I think, perhaps, the truth lies somewhere else. I certainly had no driving passions nor bitter enmity upon death, merely a sense of being mildly inconvenienced. It may be, however, that both are true at once. Most ghosts, I have found, are little more than mist; they drift, insubstantial even in the Underworld, and seem aimless and mindless. They can be directed and trained, with no little effort, but are, for the purposes of this work, unimportant.
So how, then, do ghosts such as myself and, dare I suggest, my lady come to be? To understand this, you must understand how a ghost becomes more powerful, for personal power and psychological acuity are intrinsically linked amongst the dead. There are four rough categories which dictate how powerful a ghost is: passion, worship, sacrifice and consumption.
Worship is the simplest category, though even this is more complex than the worship given to gods. It can be gathered in the normal way, through mortals and the dead alike praying and offering gifts to the ghost in question. It can also be gathered by becoming feared. If one is whispered of in dark nights, if one is passed around the campfire to thrill and scare, then that, too, is worship. In this way even mindless ghosts can become powerful, attaching themselves to legend by accident and glutting on the runoff worship, and so, in turn, regain some mental capacity. Such ghosts are to be treated with caution and respect. [See also: On Regional Folklore Vol. I through XXIV (Sek Vashal)]
Sacrifice, too, is relatively simple. The ghost must simply give up something of intense personal value, and cast it into the Well of the Void. What is at the bottom, none know, for to descend is to never return. One does not need to be physically present at the Well to perform the sacrifice, but it is highly recommended. The greatest sacrifice one can offer is memory, for there is something hungry in the deeps that longs for it. A common sacrifice is the name one died under; it grants significant power and binds one closer to the essence of death itself. [See also: A Study On The Well Of The Void (Sek Vashal) and A Travelogue: Stygia Vol. III (Sek Vashal)]
Consumption is as it sounds; one can increase in power through eating. By devouring the corpus and Essence of other ghosts, one can easily grow in Essence and corpus in turn. This is an intensely challenging path to walk, however, as one must first have a sufficient supply of ghosts, and then must be able to overcome them for long enough to eat. Further, by taking in foreign Essence and corpus, the ghost's own are destabilised. Last, and most relevant, is that this path grows ever more challenging as the practitioner grows in strength. Doubling one's Essence when one is barely a candle requires another candle; when one is already a raging bonfire, the candle means nothing. Most ghosts are candles, in this analogy. Worse, one must always beware the hungry ghost trying to steal a bite of you; if a candle seizes from a bonfire, it burns intensely brightly, albeit briefly. [See also: How Much Is Too Much? A Meditation On Necrocannabilism (Sek Vashal)]
I wonder - if these things clogging death truly exist, what would their Essence be like? What would consuming even the tiniest part of one do?
Passion is the only area I must caution my reader against in the strongest possible terms. It may be considered willpower, or intensity, but the truth path to power here is through impossible madness. The deeper the emotion one feels, the purer, the more powerful one can become. I am aware that my own power comes, in part, from my love of scholarship and research, but this is a meagre dribble. The true masters of this path only ever feel a single emotion, as intensely as they possibly can, forever. Infernos of rage. Bottomless pits of hate. They do not, cannot, think; they only act. If you, dear reader, ever encounter a ghost obsessed in such a way, pray you do not attract their attention. You may be able to defeat it, but it will not stop until destroyed.
Thus, we come to how the more powerful and cognisant amongst the dead arise. Walking any of the four paths grants power, and with it clarity, but it is in combination that they truly come into their full potential. I, myself, am the subject of several small cults, and there is a rather amusing anecdote about a library that involves my presence, for worship. I have also sacrificed my birth name and death name to the Well of the Void, and am sustained in part by my passion for my work. As anyone reading my works can tell, I am a ghost of moderate power and high intelligence, with a very stable and defined personality. Every other ghost I know who has a similar level of ability has a similar tale. From this, we can determine that a balanced power base is likely the best path to pursue.
Of course, this leaves the greatest question of all: how do Deathlords come to be? Certainly, all of them are worshipped widely; one can assume that they have offered great sacrifices, too. I have personally seen my lady devour a thousand ghosts in a single breath, and her passions run deep and true. But I have met other ghosts with similar tales, and though they are powerful, they do not compare to the Deathlords. There is a secret there, and not one any of them are eager to share, for good reason.
It would be remiss of me to ignore the other exception to the rules of ghosts: the Deathknights. They are not truly ghosts, as we understand the term; they are, as far as I can tell, closer to a possessed corpse. I have not, yet, convinced one to allow me to dissect it, but hope springs eternal. They are sealed to their bodies by the Deathlord they serve, and through some secret mechanism they are granted Exaltation. I suspect that the Exaltation serves as a form of spiritual 'glue', holding the ghost and the body together where normally they would separate. They are certainly dead, and cannot respire Essence while in Creation, nor do they need to eat, drink, or breathe, but they do not rot or degrade the way a normal possessed corpse would. They can gather power the same way ghosts do, however, and it is my understanding that the sacrifice of their death name is used to catalyse their creation.
Or so my lady tells me; how much truth she speaks on a given day is impossible to tell. She claims she never lies, but the things she says are so outrageous it is hard to believe that.
In any case, one should not focus on the exceptions. If you, dear reader, seek to grow in both power and knowledge, you are perusing the correct series of scrolls. The next piece in the series, On Ghosts II, should be available from all reputable merchants within three seven Calibrations!
All praise the Weeping Daughter, whose tears wash away the sorrows of the dead.
Sek Vashal. Chronicler to the Weeping Daughter, One of Thirteen.
