This Too Shall Pass [Exalted, Abyssal]

[Kadmus]

I have also added a link to the Exalted world map to the first post of the thread. (Also here: Exalted 3: Mapping Tools )

The prologue is set a little bit north-east of Fajad. (around the little fjord by the forest you can see if you zoom in).

 

[Kadmus]

Chapter 1: Nameless

Arise, my Midnight. Seek my agents in the West.

Her eyes snap open, and then shut again involuntarily at the sting of salt water. She comes back to herself, settles into her body like an old robe that she's worn long enough it fits her almost perfectly. She is wrapped and bound, something pressed down on her, and her mouth and eyes filled with salt water. She sucks in an involuntary breath, filling her lungs with ocean, but it does not hurt; it does not hinder her. She struggles against her bindings, muscles and cloth and rope alike creaking with the exertion, until something snaps and tears and suddenly she is floating free, only the drag of the canvas shroud restraining her now.

She is not deep; light filters through the waves overhead, and long seaweeds grasp towards the sun around her. She kicks towards the surface, fighting against the shroud, and breaches it with no small effort. The shore is only a few hundred metres away, and she has always been a strong swimmer. With every forceful exhalation, water jets from her mouth, and with every inhalation her lungs bubble and groan. The sand under her feet is coarse and sharp as she staggers up the beach to collapse above the tide.

She is not cold. It seems impossible, lying on the northern beach in sea-drenched clothes, but she feels no chill on her skin. She rolls onto her back and stares at the sky, tracking the wispy high clods that scud across the heavens. She is here. She grasps a handful of the sharp sand and squeezes until it breaks skin, the pain and blood grounding her. She is here.

She is dead, but she is here.

She sits up after a long few minutes of silent contemplation, and takes stock. She is dressed in the robes she died in, tattered and torn and bloodstained. She has a cord passed through her septum, the last stitch performed for a sea burial to make sure the deceased is truly dead; she snaps the cord and pulls it free with a wince. Her canvas shroud is plain and undecorated, but questing fingers find Fai-ir's favourite earrings in her earlobe, and there is a soggy wreath of flowers around her neck. She should be offended, that they ignored her blood and right and did not cremate her, but she knows it is not that. They loved and respected her, so they sent her off as one of their own, with gifts and care. She cries for a few moments, alone on that beach, as everything comes crashing in and she fully understands what she has done.

She is dead, but she did not move on.

The sun makes her wince, and only the shadow of the shroud, pulled over her like a cloak, can push away that pain. She sits there for almost an hour, staring out at the ocean and processing what has happened to her. She doesn't feel Exalted. She doesn't feel much at all, not the cold air on her skin or the heat of the sun on her face. She can feel something, though, something deep and dark and solemn, nestled in her chest and stomach where once a beating heart lay. She has felt Essence before, in blazing fire and rushing water and trembling earth, but she has never felt this. It is almost the absence of something, except she knows it is not that, because she has felt the absence of Essence, has lived it for thirty years, and it does not feel tangible the way this does.

She stands, bare feet gripping the sand with clenched toes, throws off her shroud, and takes a ready stance. The sun hurts, now, but she can live with pain. She begins her forms, and marvels as they push Essence the way they are supposed to. A leaping axe-kick takes her four metres into the air, hits the beach, and leaves a crater blasted out of the sand a metre deep. Clawed fingers swoop through a series of lightning-fast slashes, and she moves faster than she ever thought possible. It is not the way they are used by the Dragon-blooded, but even this strange Essence is Essence, and it moves much the same. She shifts her motions as she goes through the techniques, accommodating the differences, until she is comfortable with the way she moves.

She's been smiling so wide it hurts the whole time.

She finishes, back in her ready stance, but it is different now. Looser, calmer, more open. She never realised how tense she had always been until this moment, how much she was holding herself back. Death has freed her, and it forces a laugh from her at the thought; she'd always half-believed that would be the case. She'd just never thought she would survive death to know the difference. She has left everything behind, and can start again, a new woman. She can even choose a new name, one not bound to centuries of oppression and pain and the endless war between those who bear it.

Even thinking it makes her stumble, now. That name is dead, and the woman who bore it went into the ocean wrapped in canvas with a stitch through her nose to make sure she was dead, too.

She looks around again, for the first time taking in her surroundings properly. The coast stretches off in both directions, pale sand and stranded seaweed and washed-up, gnarled wood. Behind her, the land rises in tall granite cliffs, those gold-flecked rocks she loved so much present here as well. She can see the tips of pine trees peeking over the lip of the cliff, and they are not as snow-dusted as the ones by the monastery. If she was buried just away form the town, the currents would have washed her down towards Fajad, but she does not know how long she was in the ocean. She listens to the wind, tracks the sun with a stick and some stones, and tastes the ocean; she can, at least, fix directions in her mind. To get to Fajad she will need to head south.

And she has to get to Fajad, if she wants to follow her new mistress' request. No-one can take the Western Ocean in anything less than a deepwater ship, and from Fajad she can book passage to Wu-Jian; from there, she can get most places further West.

The only problem is that she is penniless and completely alone. She's never had to earn money, never cared about it or learned about it, either. She can sail a ship and navigate by stars, but she cannot ask for wages or find a job.

Well. She has to face one problem at a time, she supposes. She wraps her shroud around her shoulders, and sighs at the relief from the pain of the sun, ties it off at the neck with the cord from her nose, and starts climbing up the cliff to get a better view of the place she's found herself. It's remarkably easy, that dark Essence fuelling her muscles to propel her five metres a push, and soon she finds herself at the top, surrounded by pine forest and birdsong and with bleeding hands and feet that do not hurt anywhere near as much as they should.

She aligns herself to the south, and starts walking.

What is her name, now?

[] Risala Seaborn
[] Righteous Fist Destroys The Wicked
[] Dark Waters Cover The Dead
[] Write in. Make it as simple or ridiculous as you like - Abyssals tend to be very, very dramatic, and long names tend to get abbreviated to two words in casual conversation.


How is she to book passage?

[] She can work as a sailor, surely?
[] A monk may beg for alms. Perhaps that will grant enough?
[] The ocean floor holds many treasures. Maybe she can find some?
[] Write in.

 

[Kadmus]

Chapter 1: Wreck

Wisdom Drowns The Faithless Penitent enters Fajad as the sun sets, after four exhausting days of travel through hilly pine forest, taiga-turned-swamp, and an underwater walk across the strait separating Jazrafel, the island Fajad occupies, from the mainland . Her shroud is mud-stained and starting to tatter around the edges, and her clothes are no better; for all that she can jump three times the height of a man and punch through trees, she cannot walk on water for more than a pair of steps, or pass through thick brush without catching her clothes on it. She's been able to see the Needle, the mile-high spire of solid rock in the centre of Fajad, for the past two days, but it has only taunted her; no matter how long she walked, it seemed to get no larger.

The heavy wooden gates are gilded with abstract patterns, and they are wide open as she approaches, just one of the stream of peasants and beggars washing through the city. She keeps her hood up and her head down as she passes through. There is an Immaculate temple here, and many other Dragon-blooded to boot. She has no desire to run into an acquaintance or a relative. She lets the crowd dictate her footsteps, following the flow through the merchant quarters near the gate and down towards the docks, where taverns and brothels and less-savoury establishments spill light into the approaching dusk.

Realm naval vessels wallow next to merchant carracks and hundreds of smaller fishing boats. It smells like salt and fish and rotting seaweed, with the strong undertone of burning blood and hair that fills the entire city. Fajad rests on the back of a buried monster, and the entire city stinks of its body. The wagons that, even now, carry barrels filled with its blood and lymph and other, stranger fluids do not help with the smell, which grows stronger as they pass. She stares out at the ships, noting down in her head which ones look like they take passengers, and which to avoid if she wants to get to her destination.

There are a few likely suspects, but she is in no condition to approach a captain at the moment. She is filthy and dishevelled and, even if she were clean, she has no money. She has also not slept for the past four days, and, while she feels she could go longer without rest, she is still tired. She has been too focused to stop, and too worried about what will happen when she closes her eyes to dare it. She can go a little longer, though, and does not want to try to sleep in the city. She is here for a reason. Money and passage. She has to remember that, through the noise of the crowd and the stink of life all around her, deafening and choking.

She pushes through to the waterfront itself, and stares out at the ocean. No people under the water, not here, but she knows there is a god who claims the area. Her best bet is to head out along the shipping lanes until she finds some cargo worth bringing back to the surface, or a strongbox full of jade or silver. She scowls. She has never wanted to concern herself with money. It is a sin against the Dragons to covet it. She may be dead, and half her faith proclaimed a lie, but she cannot shake it off with only a thought.

Her ears filled with the raucous partying of sailors and her mouth with the stink of the living city, she turns around and leaves. The gates are just about to shut, but the guards are eager to see a beggar out of the city and herd her and a mob of others away with sharp blows from the butts of their spears. The others set themselves down just outside the walls, the downtrodden and the poor ignored now that they are out of sight, and Drowned Wisdom feels sick at the sight of it. The world is broken. She knows this, but every time she sees more proof it dries another splinter into her.

She hurries away, slips beneath the waves and hides herself amongst the seaweed and the rocks, tucked into a cave that is little more than a crack in the seafloor she noticed on her trip across the strait. She closes her eyes, and lets herself rest, weightless. She does not dream. She wakes, no more rested than when she closed her eyes, and begins her search in the light of the morning sun, filtered through the water until it is barely more than a glow.

She fills her lungs with water and her robes with stones, so that she can stay on the seafloor more easily, and walks the route that hundreds of ships follow every year. It is slow and tedious and with every day she spends, getting deeper and deeper, ever further from the sun, she gets ever more tired. Fish shoal overhead and whales sing hundreds of kilometres away and strange, many-legged things squirm past her knees, but she finds nothing for more than a week. She has to fight off an overly-inquisitive shark at one point, and leaves it with broken teeth and a missing eye, a fair trade for a wound to her side that gapes open now, half a hundred neat slits carved into her back and abdomen, not bleeding but not healing, either.

She is a corpse, and she is never allowed to forget it.

The first find she makes, ten days in, is a small, fast caravel, broken in two against a low bank of sediment. It must have been down there for decades, at least, and she is not optimistic about her chances, but it is a good sign. She makes her way to it, in those long, arcing jump-steps she has grown so used to, leaving little plumes of sediment in her wake, and enters through the break. The ceilings are so low she has to keep herself bent almost in two, as she pushes her way past slimy tube worms and razor-edged shellfish, carefully negotiates around crabs waving warning pincers as big as her fist, and explores the vessel.

It was carrying something intensely valuable on a weight-to-money scale, and perishable, she determines. Probably an exotic food, judging by the barrels now filled with dead shells and the crates empty of anything but seawater. The crew quarters hold only an irate eel, twice as long as she is tall, and she has to wrap dead hands around it and break it in seven places to get past. Her grip is implacable and the eel does not even manage to bite her. She barely notices the fight. The captain's cabin brings more disappointments. The desk is half-rotted and the drawers filled with the mushy remnants of papers and maps. The safe is rusted open, a gaping void that was probably emptied before the ship even sank.

She sighs, water into water, and keeps walking.

It takes three more wrecks and another ten days before she finds something worth all the effort. A pleasure cruiser, massive and elaborate, sitting pretty on the sea bed, almost as though it is about to lift up and sail away on the surface. The wood itself is inlaid with gold and gems, and those alone would probably net her enough to book passage, but she holds off. Something like this would carry passengers who could never be seen in public without their own body weight in jewellery.

She sets foot on the main deck, and is immediately beset by something invisible. It opens a rent in her shoulder and slashes open her cheek, but she circulates that black Essence to her eyes and it snaps into clear focus. A thing of many chitinous legs and hundreds of waving whiskers, knife-edged claws and a thousand empty black eyes, stares at her, and her shredded flesh dangles from one of those claws. She grips the deck with her toes and forms her hands into blades, fingers clamped tight together and thumbs tucked against the palm. They exchange the next flurry in the space of a breath, and now that she can see this sea-floor elemental she can fight it on even terms. Essence edges her fingers, letting her touch and sever and tear at the thing, and she rips free six legs and a dozen whiskers with precise, merciless strikes. She takes a crushing blow to the chest in exchange, and it sends her reeling backwards with a flash of remembered agony.

She grits her teeth through the rage and descends upon it with the fury of a tidal wave. It comes apart in gouts of ghost-white sediment and a glut of Essence, and she opens her mouth wide to suck the power right out of the water. She feels more awake than she has in weeks, refreshed and ready to take on another foe, despite her arm hanging half-severed and her smile that reaches all the way to her ear on one side.

More elementals stir, and she smiles even wider.

She emerges from the ocean a week and a half later, her robes little more than rags, her shroud re-purposed into a sack. Her once-shaved head is now covered in a short tangle of dark blue hair. She is carrying enough money to make a Dynast green with envy, her own severed arm, and the pride of a successful mission. She needs someone to sew her back together, new clothes, and passage to Wu-Jian.

Who repairs her?

[] The best healer in Fajad. She can afford it, and money can buy all sorts of silence.
[] She does. It's just like repairing clothes, right?
[] There's a back-alley surgeon somewhere. She can find her.
[] Write in.

What does she wear?

[] Robes in funeral white, in the style of the Realm.
[] The fine fur-trimmed and silk-embroidered clothes of a wealthy corpse from north of Fajad.
[] Write in. It must be associated with death and I will veto anything too over the top (for the moment).

Who does she book passage with?

[] The Guild ship about to leave. There will be drugs and slaves and wealthy merchants on board, but it will make the trip quickly and at a reasonable price.
[] The independent merchant ship carrying a load of furs and other non-perishable goods. It will take longer, but is cheap and only has the crew and merchant on board.
[] Write in.

 

[Kadmus]

Chapter 1: Passage

It is an involved process, what she wants from Fajad. First, she has to hide her new wealth - and her arm - back underwater, pinned down with a rock to keep it from washing away, in the cave she rested in her first night there. Then she has to take a handful of silver, hide it in her chest wrappings, and enter the city as a beggar once more, with half her head wrapped in strips of cloth to hide the damage. She has to go from one low-society shop to another, gradually working her way up the chain until she is wearing clothes that won't get her instantly sneered at or spat upon; simple and coarsely woven, but good enough to fit in amongst the normal residents. This takes her an entire day, and she spends the whole time with a throbbing headache from the sun and the press of people, but she forces a smile and a polite attitude despite it.

That is just enough to get her to the point that she can rent a room in one of the shabbier inns on the dockside. She spends three nights camped out in various bars, talking to people and spreading a little money around, getting to know the locals and feeling out who to avoid and who to approach. She is seeking people to be avoided, really, because they are the ones who will have the information she needs. It's an old, rusty set of skills, working a room and acting like she's one of them, but she's been taught how to blend in as a monk, and it's not so different, in the end. She gets more sympathy for her missing arm and her bandaged face than she is expecting, but she doesn't appreciate the comments about her marriageability. Death has given her no more interest in that sort of thing than she had in life. Her headaches don't improve, but she enjoys the company when they aren't propositioning her.

She finally manages to get into contact with a local organisation, a gang of pickpockets, racketeers and leg-breakers who operate in the warren of twisty alleys and side-streets behind the dockside. She knows it will take her a while to get into their good graces, so she begins her other plans at the same time she starts trying to ingratiate herself with them.

First, she retrieves more of the money and visits some seamstresses. She has measurements taken, cloth ordered, and robes stitched, ready for collection when she deigns to appear. No questions asked except for payment, and that she delivers in advance, with extra for silence. Not so much that the buying of silence itself is suspicious, of course, but enough to keep mouths shut. This, at least, she is fairly well versed in; no Dynast is allowed to not learn how to give and take appropriate bribes. She also gets hold of departure manifests for the ships willing to carry passengers, and works through her options while the sun burns overhead, spending her nights lurking in dark alleys and gossipping with criminals.

They are reluctant to give her any information, at first. She finds that the dark pulse of Essence in her chest can be woven into her words, with a little effort, and those words dig into her target's brain like maggots, laying eggs that hatch into bad ideas and poor decisions. It doesn't make them do anything that they might not do anyway, but it certainly gives them a little push. Her forehead bleeds through her bandages sometimes, leaving a rusty stain across half her face, but that just makes her look either more terrifying or more pitiful. Either way, she manages to slither deep enough into their confidences that they point her to a trustworthy chirurgeon.

She shows up at their house the next night. They are a stick-thin, nervous individual, with long spidery fingers and too-large eyes, and they watch Drowned Wisdom with apprehension as they serve her tea.

"I am told you are the best person to talk to if I require discreet surgery," she says, fingers wrapped around the hot mug. She does not drink.

"Yes," they say. "I do… business… with a few people."

"I will pay triple your normal rates for absolute silence," she says.

They gulp, and their spidery fingers clench into fists. "Alright. I- I can definitely do that."

Drowned Wisdom places a bag of silver on the table, and it hits the wood with a very heavy thud. "Absolute silence. Tell me if you need more money, but be aware that this is a one-time payment."

"Oh, I know, uh- I know better than to try anything like that, I assure you," they say. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

She retrieves her arm from the bag by her chair and sets it on the table in front of her. The chirurgeon stares at it.

"That's a dead arm," they say.

"Can you reattach it properly?"

"Yes, but- it'll kill you, or just rot right off, if you're lucky," they say, looking at her as though she is mad. Perhaps she is.

In reply, Drowned Wisdom unwraps her head. The wound marring her cheek is still there, still as fresh and unbleeding as the moment it was inflicted. It has not healed. It has not rotted. The chirurgeon stares.

"There are more like this," Drowned Wisdom says. "I need them stitched up enough to be presentable, at least. Better, if you can manage it."

"I- alright. What's wrong with you? Is it infectious?"

She pauses for a moment, then smiles. "Only in the sense that everyone gets it in the end," she says. "But you are not at risk of it, do not fear." And she twists her Essence into those words, lets them sink in, lets them squirm around in their brain for a while.

The chirurgeon nods, pale-faced.

The procedure is, against all expectations, nothing but boring. The arm is reattached, neat stitches connecting muscles together on the inside, glue on the bone, and even smaller stitches around the skin. She can feel it and move it the moment it's pressed against the stump, which nearly makes the chirurgeon jump out of their skin, but they are a professional and they do a good job. She knows they have deep debts, from a gambling habit and a flirtation with drugs, and they are not as skilled as the best she could afford. But they are discreet, and that is worth more than money and pretty fixes. She is left with black thread across every wound, keeping her closed and more presentable; she's not going to be winning any beauty contests, but she is functional. She flexes her arm and moves it through its usual breadth of movement, and she is satisfied. She leaves another bag of silver on the table.

She collects her robes the next day, and, once she is clad in funereal white, her headaches ease a little. The robes cover her from chin to ankle, and the relief she gets from wearing them is worth all the funny looks she gets. They contrast her sun-starved brown skin in an unflattering manner, making her seem sickly and sallow, but she doubts that anything would really fix that; she's certainly not willing to bother with makeup. At least, with the stitching and the new growth of her hair and her new pallor she is less likely to be recognised.

It's almost insultingly easy, booking passage to Wu-Jian after all of that effort. The Guild vessel she chooses will get her there in under two weeks, far faster than her other options. She's already spent too long here, almost forty days all told, and she wants to get as far away from the monastery as possible. Her family will know what has happened by now, and a new Wyld Hunt will be coming through in search of evidence. A real Wyld Hunt, this time, and one that will question the townsfolk and read the air and taste the earth and chase two Anathema across Creation.

She does not want them to chase three.

So she packs up what is left of her salvaged wealth and her spare robes and the pair of fine steel tiger claws she purchased into a neat leather case, hefts it on her shoulder, and walks out into the sunrise to catch her ship.

Who else has booked passage?

[] Melodious Chord, a wealthy god-blooded merchant transporting his wares to Wu-Jian.
[] Junah, a hawkfolk entertainer on her way to perform for the satrap's birthday party.
[] Ice-Over-Snow, a taciturn teenager headed for the annual martial arts tournament held topside.
[] Write in.

 

[Kadmus]

Chapter 1: Ocean

The ship she has booked passage on is large and sleek, made of fine oak and with three masts. She has a cabin all her own, and it is this, as much as the speed of passage, that truly sold her on the idea. She only has to interact with others if she chooses to, for even her meals are brought to the cabin for her. She does not need them and does not eat them, for they taste like rotten leaves and sour, maggoty meat; this is not the cooks' fault, just her new state of being. She hasn't eaten since she died, and she doesn't really feel hungry. She tells them she has her own food, and they accept that, used to paranoid passengers and eccentrics alike.

She does leave the cabin every morning, though, to stand on the deck, out of the way of the sailors hauling ropes and trimming sail and all the hundred other things needed to keep a ship this size running. She waits in the weak dawn sunlight, feeling the ship roll beneath her feet and the salt in her nose, relaxing her muscles until she is ready. Then she begins, so slow and steady that an observer might think she was unfamiliar with the motions; nothing could be further from the truth, for the skill and control needed to go at the pace she sets is incredible. No muscle is out of place, her feet are perfectly set, and her hands go exactly where they are supposed to, despite the movement of the ship around her. It is no longer quite the Five-And-Fivefold Forms, the small adjustments she has made to tune the arts for her new Essence turning the movements a little more savage, a little more brutal. Never cruel, simply final. The nerve jabs and sweeps that would have disoriented and knocked down an opponent will now tear flesh and break bone.

She is watched, of course. The sailors who can afford not to pay attention keep an eye on her, nervous to be carrying someone so openly female into the West, where the Sea Mothers sink ships for such an affront, but the Guild pays bribes and hires assassins so that they do not truly need to worry about it. Most of the time, at least; no Sea Mother sinks a Guild ship a second time. Other stare because she is unusual, with her black-stitched cheek and white robes. One stares because they are fascinated.

They are a teenager, from the looks of it, though they stand a full two heads taller than Drowned Wisdom and have arms thicker than her thighs. The heavy furs and bone-ornamented headband mark them as a Northerner as surely as their white-blond hair and their sky-blue eyes. They wait patiently for Drowned Wisdom to finish before approaching, and they cross their fists over their chest in a polite greeting, which Drowned Wisdom returns.

"I am Ice-Over-Snow," they say, their voice a deep, mellow bass. "May I have the honour of an introduction?"

"I am Wisdom Drowns The Faithless Penitent," she says. "But you may call me Drowned Wisdom."

"My thanks," they say. "I am a martial artist, intending to compete in the tournament held in Wu-Jian. May I ask your opinion on my chances?"

This is familiar to Drowned Wisdom; even as an acolyte, others would come to her to ask for advice on their martial arts. She has time, and it is always a pleasure to meet and examine a new set of techniques.

"Demonstrate for me," she says, gesturing to the deck.

Ice-Over-Snow crosses their fists again and steps into the space, filling it far better than Drowned Wisdom did. They take a solid stance, deep and broad, and begin a blistering series of heavy strikes that shake the air. Deliberate, stomping steps and full-body punches, elbow strikes, and a number of clinching manoeuvres that would bring the opponent close to be crushed. An efficient, brutal style, suitable for a resident of the North, where those lacking either quality die in the snow. She is impressed; for one so young to be this good, they must have practised since they were able to walk, for hours a day. She certainly did.

The demonstration ends in a deep forwards strike with both fists, sweeping in to smash the foe on either side of the abdomen and rupture their organs or crush their ribcage. Drowned Wisdom nods, and replays the demonstration in her head to make sure she is correct in her assessment.

"Good. Your attacks have genuine intent behind them, and your motions are sure and precise," she says. "I am willing to spar, if you wish?"

Ice-Over-Snow's solemn face lights up in a smile, and they nod.

Drowned Wisdom steps forwards, and the pair of them dissolve into motion. She keeps herself limited enough to prevent injury, but she is pleasantly surprised to find that she does not need to restrain herself too much. Ice-Over-Snow is strong and tough and fast, and their art seems designed for them, taking advantage of their long reach and immense power. There are little gaps, chinks in their defences that can only be closed with experience and further practise, but with another few years of seasoning they will be an implacable opponent for any mortal. Drowned Wisdom blocks a few of the strikes, to test their strength against her own, and is again impressed. She initiates a grapple, seizes an arm and makes to throw, but they react quickly enough to counter it, and the fight goes through a rapid spin as Drowned Wisdom and Ice-Over-Snow counter-counter and counter-counter-counter, until Ice-Over-Snow misses their grip and is pinned.

"You are exceptional for your age," Drowned Wisdom says as she helps them up. "I would rate your chances highly if the tournament is age-banded correctly. You are under twenty, correct?"

She knows they are. It's something she can almost taste, now, as unnerving as that is - if someone is not yet full grown, she can tell.

"I have survived seventeen winters," they say, accepting her hand and letting her haul them upright. "I understand that there is a tournament for those under twenty-one, and then one for those over. The top four from the lower tournament are permitted to compete in the upper, should they wish."

"I would be surprised if you do not place highly enough," Drowned Wisdom says. "But I would advise against it. Those who reach too high have a tendency of getting their hands removed."

They look shocked.

"No true master would care," she continues. "But most who attend will not be true masters. They will see an upstart and wish to destroy them."

They sigh. "It is ever so."

"In five years, you will be good enough to sweep anyone aside, with a little luck," she says. "Do not throw that away for brief glory now."

"Your words are wise," they say, though they look disappointed.

"I will train with you daily, until we reach port," she says. "If you wish."

They just nod, eager for this rare chance.

"Very well. Take your initial stance, and I will correct as we go."

It brings a smile to her face, teaching once more. If she were able and inclined, Ice-Over-Snow would be a fine disciple, but it is likely they will return home with their winnings. Such is life.

The nights bring less joy. The sounds of the ship and waves and crew no longer drown out the sound of sobbing and the smell of unwashed, infected wounds. She has never really thought about slaves before now. They had always been just something that existed, a punishment for sins in this life or a past one, and she has never interacted with any. She can't avoid it now, though. There is no reincarnation, so there is no reason for them to be punished now, unless they are criminals. She knows most are not. She knows, too, that some of them will not survive to port without intervention. She can taste it in the air.

What does she do?

[] In death, at least, there can be a release from this suffering. She can feel the sickness lingering beneath her, and it can be pushed until it will kill every last one of them.
[] Chains exist only to be broken. She cannot save them here, at sea, but she can arrange so that they escape just before they make port, and the undercity of Wu-Jian is a place authorities fear to tread.
[] What does it matter? Everyone on this ship will die eventually. Slave, slaver, they are all the same in the end.
[] Write in.

 

[Kadmus]

Chapter 1: Break

In the morning, she trains with Ice-Over-Snow. In the afternoon, she rest in her cabin, trying to soothe her growing headaches and weariness with attempts at sleep and meditation.

At night, she wanders the ship. She passes the night-watchmen without a sound, and climbs over the railings. She peers in on the hold full of slaves, chained in long lines and wallowing in their own waste. She feels her blood boil, hears it thrum in her ears, and she knows what must be done. It's all so simple, now that she has resolved on it, and the only real challenge is forcing herself to wait until they are close enough to Wu-Jian.

Finally, finally, the islands loom on the horizon, buried under what seem to be endless towers of tenements and closely-clustered shacks, built atop grimy stone. Endless rope bridges and ratlines run from rooftop to rooftop, window to window, until the whole island seems to have been colonised by giant spiders. At the bottom, no sunlight has been seen for centuries, while those at the top lounge in their rooftop gardens. The wealthy don't even live on Wu-Jian proper, having instead colonised the gateway island, where once there were farms.

Drowned Wisdom smiles. They are on their approach, and Ice-Over-Snow is in their cabin, getting ready to depart. She ambushes them and ties them tight, then seals their door. She would rather not have to fight them.

The guards below decks try to bar her passage. She kills them, and breathes deep of the Essence released from their delectable corpses. Her headache eases a little. Her mouth waters. There is no alarm, not yet, for she is quick and quiet enough that the only noise was the wet snap of bone as she twisted heads around until necks broke. The guards do not carry keys to take them further into the holds, for there is no trust within the Guild. She offers a brief prayer for their souls, then she presses a palm to the dead men's chests, and they rise again, take up position on either side of the door as she instructs. You could almost believe they were still alive.

She punches the lock out of the door and walks into the upper hold, where she is surrounded by drugs from every Direction, silks and furs and jewels; she ignores it all. She descends again, and she can ignore the smell no longer. Despair and sickness, strangely sweet, and she knows that if she were still alive she would be vomiting. The tears and moans have long dried up, now, and all she can hear is the slosh of the waves against the hull and the counter-splash of the filth lining the bilge.

The slaves are still there, though. She can taste their life through the door, waning as it is, and she wastes no more time. She kicks the door open and strides into the hold, wading through the vile soup that comes to her ankles. The slaves, men and women and children and beastfolk, all sizes and ages and colours, cringe back from her entrance. They are sickly and exhausted and so bone-deep afraid that every motion makes them flinch, and she feels her head go fuzzy with rage at the sight. There are dozens of them, all of them people, all of them reduced to this.

All of them broken.

"But I love the broken, and the living, and the dead," she whispers, and it lights a fire in her stomach. She feels flushed and giddy.

"Do you want to be free?" she asks, not loud, but the question echoes. "Shall I break your chains?"

Silence falls. A woman stands, fierce and proud and still so scared of Drowned Wisdom that she shakes uncontrollably, but she stands, and she speaks.

"Yes," she says, her voice rasping. "I want to be free again."

Drowned Wisdom approaches her, and she smiles, and her forehead heats and stings and red trickles down over her face and into her eyes. She takes the chains in her hands and they bend and break like they're made of dry twigs instead of steel.

"Be free," she says. "Who is next?"

She works her way down the lines, breaking chains and dripping blood into the filthy water at her feet. Her hands are bruised and cut and she feels wrung-out and tired enough to sleep on her feet, but she is content with this. She is doing good, for once in her life, of her own choice and with her own hands. The freed slaves stand there, not really sure what to do, until a battered and whip-scarred lion-woman bares her fangs and limps for the door. The others follow, in a slow but steady stream of the sick and the injured, but they leave none behind. Those able carry those who cannot walk. Drowned Wisdom slithers through them to the front of the crowd, and halts them at the door up to the top deck.

"We are nearly to Wu-Jian," she says. "And I will clear your path to the city, if you will let me."

"I'll not leave this ship," the lion-woman says. "Until the bastards who brought me onto it lie dead in my claws."

Drowned Wisdom smiles wider. Her stitches are beginning to tear, and her teeth show through her cheek. She wants this. "I can steer us well enough to make landfall. Let's clean the decks, shall we?"

The lion-woman grins in response, and then they are flooding out onto the top deck. The slaves are tired and sick and weak, but the sailors and guards are taken by surprise and cannot match the sheer fury of the freed. Drowned Wisdom darts from fight to fight, slaying with raking, clawed hands and bone-snapping kicks. Her hunger grows. They lose some of the slaves, of course, for every side in every battle owes a tithe to the Underworld, but they stand victorious and blood-drenched before the sun is directly overhead. Her head aches and her hands tremble and her face is a red and sticky mask, but she is well enough to take the wheel, and the ship is simple enough to keep pointed in the right direction.

She knows this city from maps and long, boring tutoring sessions, from conversations with older relatives and the endless whining complaints of her sister. It is old knowledge, and half-useless, but she knows enough to take them in so that they do not attract Realm naval attention until it is too late. She lashes the wheel in place, collects her luggage, frees a furious and frightened Ice-Over-Snow, and laughs as the ship hammers into the dockside and beaches itself in a thunderous cloud of splinters and sand.

There is a guard response, but they come too late to catch anything other than shocked onlookers and a slowly-tilting Guild vessel, keel snapped, deck red, and holds empty.

What now?

[] Get the freed slaves settled and organised. Her very own gang!
[] Hunt down leads for any potential agents of the Weeping Daughter.
[] Figure out how to stop being in so much pain and so tired.
[] Write in.

 

[Kadmus]

Chapter 1: Chainbreaker

She knows that Mud is the furthest down one can sink in Wu-Jian and remain above water. A whole society established in and around the clogged and rusted sluice canals at the very bottom of the island-city, rickety buildings elevated on shaky stilts to keep them away from the filth and the vermin that infest every corner of the district. Ruled by gangs and criminals and pirates, and filled with the poor and the dispossessed and the outcast. Even the most daring Dragon-blooded rake wouldn't bother with it, for there is too little worth their while down here - unless they are a serial killer or worse, in which case it would be perfect. The stink of sour seawater and rotting mud mixes with the more human odours of unwashed flesh and open sewers.

It is awful, and it is the very best place they can go.

The freed slaves gorged themselves on the food and drink available on the ship, and it gave them enough strength to get this far; some of them thought further ahead and carry with them bolts of cloth and furs and refined drugs liberated from the cargo hold of their captor's ship. Drowned Wisdom carries Ice-Over-Snow still, across both her shoulders, much to the teen's frightened despair. They get many sidelong glances, but a ragged group of scarred and still-bloody men and women and children are not the sort of thing you want to remember seeing, if you live in Mud.

Drowned Wisdom is both satisfied and frustrated, glad to have freed the slaves and yet irritated with herself for her impulsive actions. She will certainly be tracked, now, and while she can slay skilled mortals with little effort, she does not like her chances against a true Wyld Hunt. She will need to keep a low profile, here; one Guild ship ruined and robbed will cause trouble, certainly, but more turmoil will bring down more trouble, and she will already have to keep her eyes open for Guild assassins. Her conscience could not let her leave them there, though, not with what she knew.

She plans as they march through ankle-deep silt and muck and kick rats out of the way, with no destination in mind other than 'away from the docks'. They head inland, taking random turns and twists through narrow alleys between the towering precipices of the man-made cliffs those who live above call 'home'. Mud gets even worse as they move deeper, further away from the limited light the outer edge of the city sees, into the twilight depths of the undercity. It's almost like moving through a very thick, very old forest; the only light is from buildings around them and the tiny slivers of sun that manage to pierce through the canopies and washing lines and awnings overhead. The residents start to look longer, and some even turn their heads to fully stare. They look away when she matches their gaze, but she knows they are now deep enough that Realm patrols are not the greatest fear of the inhabitants.

Good.

They walk a little further, some of the group starting to flag, injured or weak or carrying those who can't walk on their own, before she halts. It is a street like any other down here, narrow and filthy and lined on either side with the flotsam and jetsam that washes in with the tide. The buildings surrounding them are boarded up and covered in graffiti; there is no real evidence of life, here. She tears open the half-rotted boarding covering the main entrance to one of them, picked at random, and ushers everyone inside before she props the boarding back into place behind her.

She turns, and is met with a sea of expectant faces.

"You alright there, Chainbreaker?" one asks - the lion-woman who first left the hold. "You're looking a little wobbly."

Drowned Wisdom sighs, sets Ice-Over-Snow down carefully so that they can sit upright, and stretches, forcing the exhaustion back. At least this deep into the city there is no sunlight, and the deep, empty darkness is soothing. Her headache is still there, and the gnawing hunger that is settling into her belly can be ignored for now.

"I am fine," she says. "How is everyone doing?"

There is a vague grumble from the freed slaves, perhaps three dozen all told, but they seem hesitant to speak up. They still fear the lash, she knows. So she pushes up her sleeves and sets to trying to help. She gets people settled into the set of mouldering rooms they've broken into, organises a watch, and keeps an eye on everyone to see who they all turn to. The lion-woman. The woman who first spoke, back on the ship, still proud and fierce but with blood oozing through the back of her clothes. A boy not even into his teens, who tells jokes and stories and keeps them all distracted.

They do not look to her for guidance. She is a stranger and ostensibly wealthy and she has powers they do not understand. She has powers she does not understand. She has been dead for fifty days, and she barely knows anything. She is not part of them and never could be, and she tells herself that she does not wish to be included.

She ungags Ice-Over-Snow, instead of thinking further on it, and squats next to them to have a quiet talk.

"I do not wish you harm," she says, and she knows it must seem like a mad lie with the way her hands and feet and face are covered in blood, already gone past red to black.

"I don't understand," they say, and they look so young. "Why did you do this?"

"None are free until all are," she says, and it surprises her how vehement she sounds. "Could you live with yourself if you had the power to do this, and did not?"

"But they're just slaves," they whisper. "They aren't people. Why do you care?"

She closes her eyes and lets the pain pass through her.

"Despite your words, you are young," she says. "So I will ignore it this once." She leans in closer, almost nose-to-nose with them, and breathes cold air over them. "I do not wish to have to kill you. Will you remain silent on all of this, if I release you?"

"Who would believe me?" they say. "Some madwoman single-handedly freed fifty slaves and killed the entire ship's crew and then rammed it into the docks?"

"Yes or no, Ice-Over-Snow," she says, and she can feel that cold settle into her chest as she steels herself.

"Yes. I will remain silent," they say, half-sobbing. "I'll take it to my grave."

"Very well," she says.

She unties them and leads them outside. The two of them stand there for a moment, and she feels that old familiar hurt throb in her heart as she sends them away without a word. It hurts just as much being the sender as it did being sent. Is this her fate, now? To form attachments and sever them as soon as they become inconvenient? Ten days on the ocean are nothing, but she felt that there could have been more, there, a disciple or a friend. She lets herself just stop for a few minutes, stood there straight as a post in her white robes with her bloodstained hands. A drunken pedestrian takes one look down the street and runs away screaming about ghosts.

She heads back inside, and begins to arrange her next steps. Wu-Jian is, she knows, ruled in name by House Nissar, a cadet branch of House Peleps. The satrap is a Sesus. Neither power centre truly rules the island, though; that privilege belongs to the Thirteen Schools, crime syndicates that happen to wear the trappings of martial arts traditions. She is certain that they are currently in the territory of one of them, and is torn on how to proceed. In the end, it isn't really her choice. She perches on a windowsill, and the three she noted earlier come over of their own accord.

"May I have your names?" she asks.

"Feast-Of-Plenty," the lion-woman says.

"Kalaria Selinn," says the other woman.

"Juk," the boy says. "You some sort of god?"

Drowned Wisdom shakes her head. "No. Just… different," she says. "I wanted to ask you all your opinions."

"Ask away, Chainbreaker," Kalaria says, sounding weary.

"What do you all want to do from here?" she asks. "I do not wish to decide for you. I am happy to assist however you think would be best."

That seems to stun them into silence. Feast-Of-Plenty rubs her wrists, old manacle scars clearly visible. Kalaria sits on the floor, ignoring the mud and filth, and leans her elbows on her knees. Juk steps forwards and give her a cheeky, empty grin.

"I don't care," he says. "I'm already dead, so why not just enjoy it? So long as I get food and a place to sleep it doesn't matter."

"I think he speaks for most of us," Feast-Of-Plenty says. "But not all. I would like to have… warm beds and fresh clothes and to sleep at night knowing I'll wake up tomorrow."

Juk scoffs, but Drowned Wisdom can see the look in his eyes. He doesn't want to want that, because if he does he can only be disappointed.

"I want to kill as many fucking slavers as I can," Kalaria says, finally, eyes half-closed with sleep. "But if I can't have that then I want to be fucking untouchable."

"What do you want, miss not-a-god?" Juk asks, and takes another step closer.

"For there to be no slaves," she says, soft and weary. "To destroy the Realm. To break every chain binding everyone until we are all free." She sighs. "But I think I should start smaller than that. I would like for all of you to be happy and comfortable."

"You got a plan?" Feast-Of-Plenty asks. "Because I've never been further West than Fajad."

"A few. We could try and get into one of the major gangs here," she says, ticking off options on her fingers. Juk takes another step closer. "Or set ourselves up as a rival organisation. We could try and find people jobs, or try and sell off the items you retrieved from the ship and book passage elsewhere. I could leave you to your own devices, if you wish."

Juk kneels next to the windowsill and rests his forehead on her knee, without warning. "You're cold," he says. "I think you're lying to us, Chainbreaker. You must be a god."

The others look at him with a sort of resigned pity. Drowned Wisdom tentatively places a hand on his head and leaves it there. She feels the sudden urge to snap his neck, and it takes everything left in her to stop herself from violently recoiling.

"We should set up and kill anyone who opposes us," Kalaria says, staring at Juk. "Right?"

"I think we should try to join up with someone," Feast-Of-Plenty says. "I'm sick of having to fight for every scrap."

"Once everyone is rested, can you ask them all what they would like?" Drowned Wisdom says. "I think there should be a consensus on this. I feel responsible for you all but I do not want to make decisions for you."

They all nod, even Juk, and she finally allows herself to close her eyes.

What do they decide?

[] Time for there to be fourteen schools. Or considerably fewer.
[] Time to join up with one of the schools, and bargain for higher status.
[] Time to let them go their own way, and for Drowned Wisdom to leave them.
[] Write in.

 

[Kadmus]

So there are originally 13 schools, can we have a list of their profiles or would that only be revealed when we choose to join or form our own faction?

Click to shrink...

We have information on 3 of the 13, with the intention that the others are created as needed for your game. I haven't detailed any of the others, and I'm happy for people to use their own ideas here for schools, if they want to join up with one.

The 3 we have info on are:

Ocean's Endless Slumber, who practice Seven-Limbed Tempest style. They are very murder-cult-y and have an annual sacrifice festival that involves drowning their enemies.

Thousand Waves Break The Shore, who practice Prince-Eating Mendicant style. They're anti-Dragon-blooded revolutionaries, but they're secretly funded by the Guild.

The Blood, who practice Roaring Iron style. They're a bunch of charlatans who pretend they can drive off spirits and fae but are just pretty good actors. They also use lots of firewands.

 

[Kadmus]

Chapter 1: Foundation

It's strangely quiet, this deep in Mud. The thick layer of filth over everything muffles the noise of life around her, and the cramped alleyways make sound echo strangely. She can hear the sea as though it is just on the other side of the nearest buildings, but the squabbling of the traders and boisterous cheer of the drinkers in the market at the end of the alley seem a hundred miles away. Perhaps it's just her. She's tired and her head pounds in time with the waves on the rocky shore.

They have moved three times in as many days, avoiding patrols of gangsters and martial artists and once even the Realm. She has been scouting and talking and worming her way into the confidences of those vulnerable hangers-on who orbit around the Thirteen Schools like trash at the edge of a whirlpool. It's harder than it was back in Fajad, between the pain and the exhaustion and the filthy clothing she has to bear with, but she thinks it might just make her fit in better, too. She's been finding out who is weak and who is strong and where they are either.

The Thirteen Schools may be the biggest fish in the ocean, here, but they are not the only ones. They have ten times as many little competitors, gangs who hold a street or two, and it is here that Drowned Wisdom and her allies have set their sights. The freed slaves are nowhere near fully recovered, but there are enough of them that it doesn't matter, especially with Drowned Wisdom's assistance. Those able to fight are gathered around the street market, with their knives and swords from the Guild ship hidden under rags and stolen blankets.

The Golden Siaka Society has an optimistic name, and its members dress to try and fill the part, cheaply-dyed yellow sashes around their waists and sharp teeth on leather cords around their necks. They rule this street market, and the people for a street in every direction, with an iron grip, twisting arms and breaking legs and taking what they are not given. They allege that they are providing protection. Drowned Wisdom sees only the rough-woven scourges they use to strip skin from muscle. Despite their presence, scowling and scarred young men and women on every corner, she is not worried. Her claws are tucked into her belt, clearly visible, and her people are ready for her sign. The street market is bustling and trade is brisk, if angry, and the tides of human life washing past her make her skin crawl, but that will be fixed soon enough.

The Society is based out of a gaudily-decorated set of rooms that face onto the market, but no amount of bright paint and badly-disguised wood can conceal their true nature. They are desperate and poor and hungry, just like everyone else down here, but they have turned that against their own families, dragging everyone under the waves by trying to climb over them into the sunlight.

Time for them to feel her hand around their ankle, and for her to tug.

She steps delicately through the crowds, and drifts to the Society's front door. The young toughs stood outside sneer at her, move to push her away. She is stood upright and dignified one moment. She takes a single deep step, her arms move in tandem, and they both die. Her claws have found a neck and a heart, and she barely pauses to contemplate their bodies before she opens the door and steps in.

Behind her, she can hear the commotion as the other Society members see what has happened and begin to swarm towards her. She knows her allies will be slitting throats and dragging stragglers into narrow alleys in the confusion, and she relishes the look of shock on the face of the gangsters lounging about in the front room for a single instant before she moves. She flows between clumsy punches and angry whip strikes, claws ripping the life out of everyone she passes. Four bleed out behind her, in a symphony of wet gurgles and weak thudding death throes. As men become ghosts, she breathes deep, and she can feel the edge of her exhaustion ebb.

The easy victories do not last long, though. She flicks the blood from her claws and then the door leading deeper is smashed from its frame and hits her side-on, sending her staggering back. Her footing is steadier in the spreading blood, and she tosses the door to the side in time to intercept the next attack. She fends off a spear and a sword and a whip in quick succession, but she has to make it a fighting retreat, pushed back under the weight of the co-ordinated assault.

It is the main force behind the Golden Siaka Society, the Golden Siakas themselves. Two women and a man, triplets with slick blond hair and sneering gold eyes and snarling serrated teeth, spreading out to surround her. Their sashes are actually woven with metallic thread, and their necklaces bear real siaka teeth, and their strikes are heavy enough to make Drowned Wisdom concentrate for the first time today.

She smiles.

They test back and forth for a few moments, probing and countering and manoeuvring; she does not want to let them past, and they wish to encircle her. They pause for a long, tense moment, assessing, and Drowned Wisdom moves first. She takes a spear point to the shoulder in exchange for three fingers and an eye, and disarms the swordswoman by trapping the blade in her ribcage, and from there it is inevitable. Less than a minute later the last Siaka dies quietly, both lungs shredded by steel claws.

Drowned Wisdom tugs the sword from her body, and goes to reinforce her allies. There isn't much left for her to do, though; there were fewer than twenty gangsters in the Society, and she killed half of them alone. The market is nearly empty, traders and customers alike knowing better than to be around a gang war. Only the freed slaves remain, bloody and grim, and the cooling flesh that used to be the Golden Siaka Society.

Juk scurries up to her, hollow smile on his face, and sets a bloody yellow sash in her hand with a reverent bow. It's followed by seven more, borne by as many freed slaves, and the cloth feels cool and heavy in her hands. Soothing.

"Chainbreaker, Siaka-slayer," Juk says, soft and quick and feverish. "We spilled blood today."

She nods, and clenches her fingers around the sashes. "This is our place, now," she says, loud enough for them all to hear. "Your place. Food and beds and coin."

"I'll go fetch the others," Kalaria says, her hands slick with blood and a smile splitting her face. "Good plan, Chainbreaker."

It wasn't. She is no tactician, and 'kill everyone' is not a plan, but it worked well enough here. The fighting was the easy part, though. The challenge will be moving fully into the space, taking over and doing things their own way and not turning into just another Golden Siaka Society. She didn't free slaves so that they could turn and enslave those around them.

She returns to the Society rooms, checks through them for any surprises, and just manages to collapse into one of the overstuffed armchairs before sleep takes her.

What will the gang be called?

[] Write in.

How will they make money? (Pick as many as you like)

[] Racketeering.
[] Smuggling.
[] Drugs.
[] Murder.
[] Write in.

 

[Kadmus]

I'm sorry to say that at the moment, between a lack of time and a lack of energy I can't currently continue this quest. I hope you've enjoyed what I managed to get written, and I'm sorry that I can't keep it running at the moment.