This Too Shall Pass [Exalted, Abyssal]
- Thread starter Kadmus
- Start date
Chapter 1: Chainbreaker
Kadmus
Dragon's teeth are surprisingly hard to sow
- Location
- Devon
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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.
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.
- Location
- Singapore
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?
Thirteen Schools
Kadmus
Dragon's teeth are surprisingly hard to sow
- Location
- Devon
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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.
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Time for there to be fourteen schools. Or considerably fewer.
This feels like the most aggressively "has been Exalted for five minutes" choice.
This feels like the most aggressively "has been Exalted for five minutes" choice.
- Location
- Singapore
[X] Time to join up with one of the schools, and bargain for higher status.
- [X] 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.
It'd be hilarious to join these liars and make their lies reality.
- [X] 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.
It'd be hilarious to join these liars and make their lies reality.
[X] Time for there to be fourteen schools. Or considerably fewer.
Chapter 1: Foundation
Kadmus
Dragon's teeth are surprisingly hard to sow
- Location
- Devon
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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.
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.
- Location
- Bed
[X] Smuggling.
I haven't thought of a name for the gang just yet, but I wanted to vote this for one simple reason:
We can, with this as our modus operandi, easily argue that we are doing way more good than harm. Smuggling only hurts those who benefit from the taxes, and, like, who cares about them? In this way we can continue to maintain the moral high ground, which gives us a solid amount of power and justification for our actions.
...Okay fine I also just like the aesthetic of smuggling and think it's cool.
I haven't thought of a name for the gang just yet, but I wanted to vote this for one simple reason:
We can, with this as our modus operandi, easily argue that we are doing way more good than harm. Smuggling only hurts those who benefit from the taxes, and, like, who cares about them? In this way we can continue to maintain the moral high ground, which gives us a solid amount of power and justification for our actions.
...Okay fine I also just like the aesthetic of smuggling and think it's cool.
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
House Nissar's just a petty crime family with enough Exalted blood to let them play Dynast, anyway. Fuck them.
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Darik29
Verified Delicious
I really do want murder thrown in there, if mostly because as an Abyssal death should always be our focus. But i can see general smuggling being a decent start.
That said, we are an Abyssal. A Deathknight.
If the name of our gang isn't hilariously chuuni i will be disappointed
That said, we are an Abyssal. A Deathknight.
If the name of our gang isn't hilariously chuuni i will be disappointed
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
They're not so picky about in what order, though.[X] Smuggling.
It's official Neverborn policy!
Per Chivalry of Death, she probably should have spared at least one, so that the tales they spread strike the fear of death into the hearts of all who meet them. On the other hand, she's still learning. And this is Mud, it would probably be redundant.
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Black Tide
[X] Smuggling
[X] Smuggling