With your insight, you'd helped your home city of Grieve deftly avoid many problems, advising the queen in ways to usher in an age of prosperity. In the course of your duties, you've tricked mighty lords of Faerie, turned away black-hearted alchemists, treated with the dead, and kept both the greedy agents of the Realm and the shape-shifting agents of the Silver Pact at a safe distance. You'd even started to sort out your own personal life, which was perhaps your most impressive achievement.
Now, you wake, to a world where it seems no one knows you and nothing you have done exists. With strange and arcane power you'd never heard of before crackling beneath your fingertips and the benefit of experience, it's clear you have a task to do: you're going to have to save your homeland a second time.
Before you went to sleep that fateful night, things had been going so well. The so-called "Grieve Miracle", an economic resurgence centered on the city of Grieve, was showing no signs of slowing down. Ships from Uluiru, Icehome, Chanos, and even further afield would arrive and depart daily, students and sages alike making the journey to Grieve's newly burgeoning universities, and the major powers of the region were kept safely at arm's length, each unable to move for fear of the others pouncing on them. Queen Shield Glory knew how much of this was the result of your efforts, and she had rewarded you amply.
Most of this was visible from the balcony of your mansion. You watched as the sun went down, enjoying the cold winter air and a hot spiced wine equally, content to see the purposeful chaos of the port and the evening activities of the populace at large. For a few minutes, one of the tame lynxes that are Grieve's sacred animals came by, and you gave the large cat a few friendly head-scratches before it went about its business. As the wine ran dry, the sun's light faded, and a crescent moon began to emerge, you finally hit a point where you were beginning to be uncomfortably cold, so you abandoned your cup on the table for one of your servants to handle later and went back inside your bedroom.
In stark contrast to the cold outside, it was warm and cozy in here, with one of your alchemic eternal lamps casting a dim red glow, enough to navigate by without disturbing sleep. You padded silently through deep, rich carpets from Whitewall, set your glasses on the nightstand, gently peeled back silk covers provided by Aum-Ashatra himself, and slipped into a bed still wonderfully warm. A slight grumbling accompanied the last, as you let in a little cool air, but only a bit--not enough for the grumbler to be awake. You smiled as you settled in. You'd exhausted your companion early in the afternoon, but that just meant you would wake tomorrow to someone already composed and ready for the day.
When you woke, you knew instantly that something was wrong. Rather than a warm bed and a loving embrace, you woke up shivering. Rather than your bedroom, you woke in an alley stuffed with garbage. Rather than fumbling for your glasses on a table, your eyes and ears and even your nose took in more than they ever had before in your life. Unfortunately, given the smell. Even your clothes were off: you were in one of your daily-wear outfits, not the sleeping robes you'd gone to sleep in.
When you scrambled to your feet, your body responded with impossibly smooth grace. When you rushed to the alley's mouth to figure out where you were, a mind clearer than ever before recognized half a dozen of Grieve's old landmarks in the distance, and absolutely none of the new construction was right. Most of it wasn't there at all.
That was when you knew everything was wrong.
You don't remember much of the next three days, as you desperately worked to wake up, fight off some sort of mental attack, or dispel an illusion. At that point, you gradually forced yourself to accept, at least provisionally, that you were in a world that was at least somewhat real. If nothing else, you were unbelievably hungry and thirsty.
Buying some tea, bread, and grilled veggies from a street vendor with some of the silver coins you still had on you felt like giving up, but it also felt like a warm and filling meal.
Thus fortified, you begin to quietly observe the city around you, and are appalled.
The Grieve that you, your companions, and the Queen had built is gone (or perhaps, a treacherous voice in your head whispers, it truly never was) and in its place is... something else. Grieve is smaller, less grand, less welcoming. The expanded docks, the foreign quarters, the universities, they don't exist. Your mansion is a different building, smaller and more heavily fenced in, with several armed guards standing around. You don't try to go in, at least not yet, when walking in the street past them did not spark any recognition.
Even the sacred lynxes are less friendly and more standoffish. You see a few, in the distance, but none of them let you approach.
Perhaps the worst thing is the whispers you hear. There's talk of a White Elixir, which you first hear of when you see a man with the mien of a soldier stalking down the street, a two-handed sword stored across his back and, for some reason, a parasol hefted to keep him shaded from the wan sunlight. He has the mark of one of Fortitude's gangs sewn onto his ruana, and a truly pale complexion to his face.
"Look at it, love. Bloody bandit afforded it," you hear a tailor say to another woman in her shop, likely her wife. You're across the street, pretending to consult a book you don't need to read just now, but you can still hear it. "Can't believe we're sellin' bloody immortality to just any foreigner with some coin, before it goes to all the decent folk of Grieve." You aren't able to hear the other woman's response.
You keep your ears open after that, picking up a few other discussions of this miraculous, if ruinously expensive, draught that is supposed to bestow true immortality on those who drink it.
This, more than anything, is the most wrong thing that you have heard since waking up in this nightmare. To dispense with any false humility, you are the greatest alchemist Grieve has ever produced, and you know this promise is impossible.
Which means that it's a lie covering for something worse.
This is exactly the sort of thing that you never let get a toehold in your city.
You've spent enough time exploring this world that's somehow managed to lose all the grandeur it once had. You're ready to rip the mask off and uncover the truth. There's one obvious place to start: your teacher.
You were a bright kid growing up, but the truth of the matter was that you were still a relatively mortal human. However, there are stranger and stronger things than mortals in the world, and you'd found one that had seen a spark of potential in you, which you had used to be in the right place at the right time with the right skills.
So, unexpectedly, you're going to have to go back to the place where things first began. When you see your teacher, She will know what's going on, and doubtless help you fix it.
You repeat that to yourself, trying to believe it.
[] You look for your martial arts sifu's dojo
Under the tutelage of the old Wood Aspect named Tantalizing Fruit Untouched, you mastered supernatural martial arts that put you head and shoulders above almost any mortal and even a few god-blooded. Tanta's training regimen has always been odd, but effective. The few graduates she acknowledges have all gone on to do great things in the surrounding lands, but not always moral ones. Tanta never seemed to judge based on that, only ability. You are a Spring Getimian, favoring Force in your approach. Your Close Combat is set to 5.
[] You return to the temple of your old conversation partner
You have always relied on a quick tongue and easy smile to accomplish your goals. While you know your way around a blade for when that's not enough, this was very often all that was needed. Steeped Leaves, goddess of public deep talks over tea and coffee, taught you much of what you know, and much of the rest you bargained from her in the form of various blessings, which gave you the edge you needed against some more-than-human verbal sparring partners. You are an Autumn Getimian, favoring Finesse in your approach. Your Presence is set to 5.
[] You seek out the not-so-tame raksha that taught you sorcery
In the North, faeries and the dead are often hard to distinguish. Not so for Ice-Rimed Orchid, a terrifying prince of the fae, who is partially bound by some long-dead champion's geas. Orchid is mercurial but vivacious, and her Freehold is mostly safe for those who obey the laws she imposes on her land. Under her otherworldly instruction, you became one of the few mortals able to use sorcery, which stood you in good stead over the years. You are a Winter Getimian, favoring Finesse in your approach. Your Sagacity is set to 5.
We will be learning more about our protagonist's original world as the quest goes on. Depending on the vote, some votes for how things were may be "which of these things were true" and some may be "all of these were true, but which one is relevant/uppermost in your mind". This vote is the former: it defines a major element in a way where the others aren't true.
To Save Your World, Again is run using the Exalted Essence system, using the Kickstarter draft manuscript, along with a few clarifications that have come out since then, the Milestone change, and my own homebrew.
No familiarity with the system is expected or required. While I will be playing out the mechanics, the story should still be a story, something that I hope you can enjoy. There will be spoilered sections with rolls and mechanical explanations; you are free to skip them if desired, but I will also try to ensure that they can be used to help readers get a grasp of the system. This is one of the role-playing systems I've had the most fun with, and I want to share that.
This quest is centered around a type of Exalt known as a Getimian, mortal heroes who come from a world that never was, a destiny not made a part of reality. Through a mechanism almost entirely not understood by the people in the setting, sometimes these never-were heroes incarnate in the real world, with memories of what could have been, the ability to warp Fate, and Exalted power they never had in their memory.
Charms:
Craft Excellency (You can put a lot of dice towards creating things)
Fate-Unwinding Denial (When someone denies your social influence, gain significant leverage over them)
Jade Leaves a Trail (When investigating a situation, gain bonus information)
Quickening the Forge (Crafting ventures are sped up dramatically)
Sorcerous Initiation
- Shaping ritual: Truth through Lies (gain bonus Will when using Stunt Dice for Dramatic Edits or Instant Training)
- Known spell: Flight of Separation (you turn into a flock of bird to fly to a named destination)
- Known spell: Peacock Shadow Eyes (hypnotize your target with enrapturing magic depths to your eyes)
Merits:
Ally 5 (Ice-Rimed Orchid, a mercurial fae prince who has accepted you as her student again, and tasked you with creating an interesting story for her in Grieve)
Resources 1 (there's always a few more silver coins deep in your pockets, the least echo of the wealth you once commanded... sometimes it has faces or dates that don't line up with this Creation, but of course silver is still silver)
Virtues and Intimacies:
Major Virtue: Ambition (Make Grieve as it should be)
Minor Virtue: Justice
Finishing Touches:
Essence: 1
Motes: 2/2 Flowing, 3/3 Still
This post will be updated with changes to our protagonist's sheet, a section on the cast of the story, and any other informational elements I decide to put here. The first few threadmarks will pick a few of the key elements for our protagonist, and I will extrapolate the rest of the details to avoid bogging down too much in character creation.
One of the worst things you have lost is the network of bound demons and conjured elementals that you had made use of. Having such otherworldly servants help you was always important: an agata could ferry you, a blood ape could fight for you, or an ember sparrow could provide the heat needed to not freeze. None of them seem to exist any longer, which already cuts your effectiveness by half... but is, at least, a relatively solvable problem. If you summoned them once, you can summon them again, once circumstances permit. This is a problem you can leave for later.
In a way that is both a frustration and a relief, leaving Grieve is the most normal things have been for you since you woke up in this world. The guards give a routine once-over on carts or large burdens, just verifying that things seem legit and that any relevant export stamps are properly applied.
Of course, that system was old before you were born, so it's not really too weird to see it still here.
Regardless, you have a reasonably nice outfit, a Grievan look to your features, and bear nothing obvious on your person, so when you stroll out at a casual walking pace, no one even challenges you.
Grieve itself stands at the north-western edge of a peninsula; it holds the (significantly more navigable) southern pass of the two between the Great Western Ocean and the White Sea. This alone is enough to give your home major amounts of wealth and power. However, Grieve also has two major land routes: there's the Black Shale Road heading east, which passes through a terrifying mountain pass before it joins to Gethamane and Whitewall. There's also the Basalt Column Road heading south, which allows relatively quick access between the port of Grieve and ports along the northern edge of the Inland Sea while avoiding the dangerous Mourn Archipelago to the west.
All of this looks roughly like you remember, save for the somewhat lighter traffic. Outside of Grieve's walls, there's a collection of smaller communities that owe fealty to the main city and survive by offering services to travelers, there's various small camps that shift as nomadic tribes migrate close and then move away to be replaced by others, there's the hard-scrabble farms, orchards, and grazing fields that supplement fishers' takes to feed the people... and then, perhaps two miles from the city gate, there is her section.
No one could possibly mistake Ice-Rimed Orchid's freehold for a mundane land. Climbing up a hill to the south-east of Grieve there is a sharp divide. No people, no animals, and no plants save the thinnest of grasses approach within thirty feet of the freehold. Just barely within the freehold, suddenly there is a copse of conifers, thick and green and healthy, crowded impossibly together and each stretching at least sixty feet into the air, towering above any building out here. Thick, thorny vines with no mortal kin climb up the trees and stretch between them, creating a dense tangle that is both wall and maze.
Yes, this is exactly as familiar to you as ever.
There's only one easy entrance to the freehold, and you approach it. As you do, a hobgoblin pulls itself out of the ground. It's built something like a wizened old man, but on a one-third scale, with too-long arms and too many teeth. You don't even blink. This is just like you expected. "My mistress bids welcome to all who wish to visit her," it announces, approximating a bow. "The expected code for guests is written on the woods; I require verbal confirmation that you can read written Skytongue."
"I come as a guest, with all due courtesy for the glory of Ice-Rimed Orchid, and I am able to read written Skytongue." You recite familiar words. If you do not, the hobgoblin will physically try to hold you back until you either leave the freehold or it has the chance to recite the entire list of guest rules. It speaks annoyingly slowly, too. However, since you say as much, it bows again and steps back, before sinking back into the muddy ground it rose up from.
The guest code is written on trees, one rule carved into each tree that stands beside the main path. The rules are ever-shifting, but typically not too onerous. Instead, when Orchid doesn't feel like visitors, it's more common for the whole freehold to be wrapped in layers of impenetrable thorns, an extremely blunt way to prevent any mortal from approaching.
You pass "No guest shall raise hand nor voice to another, save in defensive response", "Guests will bring no cold iron into the freehold", and "Guests will not shroud their left ear with cloth", along with the other normal rules in about a typical place. There's one tree that seems to have no rule on it when it should. You glance back over your shoulder as you pass it. Written on the reverse side of the tree is "No guest shall bring pearl or sapphire into the freehold, save as a gift for Ice-Rimed Orchid". You smile at that one. Apparently, Orchid has found a new style she wants to explore.
Orchid has lived on these lands for longer than there has been a Grieve, and it's always been easier and more valuable to treat with her than to try to fight against her. Disobedient guests are almost always punished in line with the actual level of the offense, so visiting her freehold is an acceptable dare for young children to prove they're not scared, a valuable trading opportunity for merchants of sufficient caliber, a safe place for young lovers to explore each other's bodies where disapproving family can't reach, and (for your specific case) a place where sorcery can be taught.
Once you are past the guest code, the freehold opens up; there are countless paths and branches, clearings of all sorts. Some of them have humans, in others there are panjadrums or hobgoblins or other fae creatures, and in some you can't see anyone at all... at least, at first glance.
You ignore most of them, though you try to keep an eye out for any of Orchid's most notable servants, such as the cataphract Silver Stained Red who defends both her honor and her interests with equal zeal. Seeing none of them, you press on, ducking into a space between thorn-vines which looks too small for a person until you're already committed to squeezing in. This is the way to the private section of the Freehold, so you murmur the pass-phrase as you go along.
This path deposits you right in Orchid's seat of power. Here, the giant trees leave space, and the sun shines brightly down on the clearing all day, regardless of normal lines. Half-forgotten glamours, priceless treasures, the bleached bones of defeated foes, and all manner of forgotten luxuries both mundane and magical surround the edges of the glade.
You take in none of it, for Ice-Rimed Orchid herself rests at the center of it all. She's perched on the back of some mostly-transparent giant wolf, clearly a creature of glamour in the process of being created. She was facing away from you, but as you approach, she leans backwards, her knees still atop its back and her face with its thin elfin features upside-down near the ground. She's grinning at you. Of course she is. She's dressed in furs, like normal, and her midriff and even her navel are scandalously exposed, like normal. Were it not for the pointed ears, the vast depths of experience that can be seen in her eyes, and the fact that she's constantly surrounded by small magical signs, it would be easy to mistake her for a rebellious young adult, only a little younger than you yourself.
Yes, it's a normal and welcoming reunion after the insanity that was Grieve itself. It continues to be this until she speaks.
"Who," asks Ice-Rimed Orchid, "Are you? And how is it you're able to waltz straight through my lands so easily, stranger?"
You're brought up short by this. "Orchid," you say, trying to keep panic from your voice. "It's me. Please don't tell me you can't recognize me without my glasses." You pause, then correct yourself. "Actually, please tell me that's all it is." You know there's a pleading note in your voice.
Orchid unhooks her legs, falls in a heap on her head, and adroitly picks herself up off the ground as if it didn't hurt. It probably didn't. She circles you for a moment, then snaps her fingers and a pair of glasses manifests on your nose: a creation of glamour, not a real object. It's not quite the right design, and you don't need them, so you pick them off. They melt into a rainbow of tiny particles, blown away on the wind. "A fascinating mystery indeed," she says. "You profess to know me. Your weight on the wind is much like my own. Answer me true, or I shall know you as an intruder." Your blood runs cold at that threat. Intruder is the opposite of guest. "What am I to you?"
"Teacher," you say. "You instructed me in sorcery. With that, I--" You bite off mentioning any of your exploits, since she had just told you she doesn't know you. "You opened my mind to sorcery, and I learned much from you."
The fae prince nods, turns her back on you, and takes a few steps away. "You are either truly disconnected from reality, or believe you are telling the truth," she says. You don't untense at all. You know what she's about to say, because you know Orchid. "So prove which one it is. I know already how I would teach sorcery to you. Cast the first spell I taught you, or die where you stand!"
As she whips around, you sense the flows of Essence in the world already warping as her will crashes down, readying herself to negate your expected spell--and she had better be able to negate it. Instinctively, you're reaching out the same way, and shaping the first spell you'd ever learned.
What shaping ritual did Orchid teach you? Shaping rituals are bonus ways that sorcerers and necromancers can generate and store Will, the resources used for casting spells in Essence. The mechanical effect is a small bonus, but much can be made of seeking to arrange events to give yourself this extra Will. The more difficult or dangerous the task, the more Will it typically grants. [] Emulation of the Fair Folk
Like a raksha, you feed on the ambient emotional energy of others, with yours feeding your spells. When others experience emotional change without you causing it, you gain bonus Will.
[] Soul-Perfecting Elixir
When you have the opportunity to gather unusual ingredients that can expand your mind (such as those found in a freehold) and distill them into an elixir, you gain bonus Will.
[] Truth through Lies
When you spend stunt dice for instant training or a dramatic edit (ie, when you spin something into conveniently being ready), you gain bonus Will, having lied to reality successfully.
What spell did Orchid teach you first? Don't think that this answer has to be a combat option. Think of this, instead, as a list of the tools you most instinctively reach for. That can be, but doesn't have to be, straight violence. As a special note, the first AND second choices here will be added to our protagonist's sheet; the highest-placing one is just the one learned first.
[] Beckoning That Which Stirs the Sky
When you call, vast chitinous limbs appear in the sky, weaving weather like spidersilk. You cannot affect major disasters, but you can command normal weather as you please.
[] Evil-Eye Binding
With little more than a glance and the effort needed to crush their resolve, you can make a target unable to communicate about a topic you intend; if they persist, they will be interrupted by vomiting up maggots.
[] Flight of Separation
You explode into a flock of birds, escaping from almost any restraints; you fly swiftly to a point within ten miles and then reform into you. Travel as birds is usually subtle, as well.
[] Flight of the Brilliant Raptor
You conjure an eagle-sized bird of red-and-white jewel flame, a war sorcery suitable for obliterating squads of foes or attacking fortifications. It does not have a 'low' setting.
[] Peacock Shadow Eyes
You overwhelm a person's will with eyes of many-colored flame, forcing them into a trance where they are vulnerable to you instilling new thoughts and beliefs, and leave no memory of your efforts.
[] Wood Dragon's Claw
You shape one your arms into a terrifying melee weapon of living wood, a personal transformation to make you suddenly a terrifying foe up close. And, yet, you bear no obvious weapon...
'Maybe if I stab myself in the heart, it will give me additional power somehow,' you think to yourself, incongruously, before you decide to not use sorcery against a dangerous fae sorcerer who has promised to kill you if you don't use sorcery, while standing in the heart of her domain. This sounds like a good way to get her to help you, which was, after all, the whole point of coming out here.
Despite a significant amount of high-speed thought, you can identify no problems with this plan before, somehow, you find that you're bleeding really heavily. 'This seems entirely unfair,' you think to yourself, even as you waver and fall to the ground, the already cold world going dark to match it. 'The theory was so sound, so I don't know how anything went wrong with the execution of this very smart plan.'
Winning votes:
- Flight of Separation
- Peacock Shadow Eyes
You immerse yourself in your mind, reaching through the truth to a lie and then through that to a deeper truth. Delicately, you pick through the threads of reality that this reveals to you, mental fingers stretching to touch a power to change this to a form you like better. Most specifically right now, the form you want reality to take is for you to burst into a cloud of mockingbirds, because doing so will let you secure Orchid's aid instead of her ire.
The basic roll in Exalted Essence is Attribute (basically a type of approach to things) + Ability (a broad skill) + any relevant modifiers + 2 dice if the player "stunts" the action, which essentially means to describe the effort in any sort of way more interesting than the very most blatant. These dice are d10s, and a 1-6 is a failure, 7-9 is one success, and 10 is two successes. Getimians have a unique benefit where they can get a bonus success based on balancing their internal alchemy; I won't be getting too deep into the exact rules, because that's what the book itself is for.
Most rolls are against difficulty 3, and the expected value is that two dice will usually give about one success, so getting 6 or 7 dice on a roll means that, typically, you'll succeed more often than not: you don't need huge dice pools or multiple Charms to feel competent at a task. You can also basically always add the two stunt dice; this is one of the important edges that PCs can employ, giving them a strong baseline ability to succeed at basic heroic tasks. However, more dice are always better for trying to achieve great things.
In this case, our protagonist rolls to Focus Will with Finesse+Sagacity+stunt for 11 dice total, and adds 1 automatic success. Our protagonist gets 1 Will for meeting the base difficulty of 3, and 1 more for every success past the third one.
8, 1, 10, 9, 6, 4, 2, 3, 3, 9, 10 + 1AS = 8 successes, resulting in 6 Will.
Next turn, we cast Flight of Separation by spending 4 of this banked Will. Full success in the sorcery!
You succeed, quite quickly in fact. The flows of sorcerous power are never fully reliable, but typically it would have taken you a breath longer to pull this trick. You don't worry about the why just yet, just embrace it. Your mind fractures into pieces as your body does, turning from a singular point of view to dozens of individual pieces, each piloting a little bird.
Flight of Separation, this spell, requires you to name a destination. In this case, you've just selected the other side of the clearing. Before you can do so, a sticky net of sorcerously-conjured thread appears over you, dropping and catching all the birds that make up you. It takes a moment to react. It's hard to think when you're a flock of birds. Once you do, you revoke the spell, and revert from being a bunch of birds trapped in a net to a human who can just peel a thin net off of yourself.
Orchid is looking at you with puzzlement as you do so. "Yes, this is much like I would have done. But I have never met you." Even though it's not the first time you've heard it from her, it still hurts. "Yet, I must conclude that you have good reason to believe me your teacher. Most curious. I gave you a name when I taught you sorcery, did I not?"
You nod. "Victorious Mockingbird," you say, by way of introduction. It's not the name you were born with, but by now it's the name you think of yourself as.
"Then I claim you as my apprentice again," she says, sitting back on the wolf-in-progress she's been working on. "Persistent Mockingbird." You bow your head, accepting the change in name. Names have power; the fae will not be your ally if you do not accept this token of her authority. "Now, Mockingbird," she says, steepling her fingers together. "Tell me more of our previous time together."
You sketch the broad strokes of your life out. It takes a little time, time enough that another of her hobgoblin servants interrupts with a mid-day meal. You demurr accepting the food until Ice-Rimed Orchid says the right things, enough for you to trust it. Thoughtlessly accepting a meal provided by Fair Folk can be... problematic.
You tell her of Grieve, of its splendor and wealth, of its power and independence. You tell her of the sorcerer who helped hold it together with training from the fae and alchemic brews. You tell her of Queen Shield Glory, who listened to her sorcerer and gambled wisely, and was blessed for it. You tell her of the graveborn twins, and their mighty swords, who served as both generals and champions. You tell her of the sly tongue and peerless head for numbers of the Balance-Sheet's Chosen. You tell her of the priest of Grieve, whose mystic intercession with gods ranging from the great Hin-Sai of the blizzards to the frail Hearth's Embers, who oversees hospitality in the immediate area, brought great blessings on your land. You tell her of the Tamer, whose beasts of burden and war improved safety and quality of life throughout the land. You tell her of the Pale Rider, who wanders woods and roads, who never stood aligned with you, but who did stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you in some dark times.
And, when you run out of words, you have Orchid looking at you with a sad and sympathetic eye. "I know only two of the names you shared. Queen Shield Glory is, indeed, still queen of Grieve, though different than you describe, and the Pale Rider is known to me. The others? Nothing." She shrugs. "So what will you do now?"
For a moment, the weight of the world seems to settle on your shoulders. Everyone is gone? Everyone is missing, your work is undone, and even memory has been wiped away. You take perhaps a minute to compose yourself. Orchid waits patiently, smiling slightly as she sees you struggling with yourself. "I need to find out some things," you say, finally. "First... what's this 'White Elixir'?"
"Ahhh, the sort of question that makes me believe you more." Orchid pats the wolf's lifelessly-still head with one hand, as she considers it. "It's a story that has spread so far that I cannot believe anyone in the area would not have heard of it. The White Elixir is said to hold soul and body in the moment of death, preserving the drinker against all but the most thorough of physical trauma or the light of the sun. Thus, neither aging nor poison nor disease will ever bother one who has consumed it. It was first revealed only a few years ago. Only a few alchemists in the city know the secrets of even a few steps of its brewing, and only a few of the merchants know for sure which ingredients are needed for its creation... and only the royal family is allowed to sell it."
You grind your teeth on hearing that. "It's not a real immortality, is it?" That's not a real question. "It's doing something much worse than that to its drinkers."
"Of course it is."
"What is the truth behind it?"
"I haven't spared it a thought." Orchid grins widely at your disapproving stare. "Mockingbird, I have lost track of how many generations of immortals I have outlived. For all that's been proven, the White Elixir might just improve physical stamina a bit and hide the passing of age for ten years, then cease to do anything at all. I could not possibly care less about the White Elixir if I fed my entire soul and all of my graces to the next hannya I find. You are correct that it can't do what it says, but I do not care what it does."
"Then I'll have to find out myself."
"Excellent." Orchid's smile becomes a little more predatory. "Regardless of what happens, I expect that you will create an intriguing story for me. Go, stir up trouble in the city, with my blessing. I'll give you support as you go."
She hops down from her wolf, and goes to root around the piles of discarded treasures that ring her clearing. "Let's see. You'll get more respect if you have a few more changes of clothes. You might need to fight. Hm..." After a moment, Orchid hands you a pack with a few essentials, a sword, and some simple armor for you. You accept it all. She waits patiently for a moment, but seems to lose interest when she finds you're not stripping down to put on the armor. "Anyway, go cause some trouble, then come back and let me know how it went."
She wanders off. You know that you've just been dismissed, so you go over what she's provided you. The pack contains nothing unexpected. The sword is a jewel-encrusted one-handed straight sword, something appropriate for a noble's child going off to play soldier. It's made of bronze, but seems functional and in good shape. The armor is a leather jacket that covers you from neck to knee, with enough give in its skirt to keep it from hampering your movements. It's threaded throughout with treated bone, probably something hefty like a siege lizard or river dragon, to give you a bit more protection when wearing it.
It's still a tremendous shock to you that even Orchid can't remember the true history of Grieve, but it's a relief in another way: if even she can't recall, you have no belief anyone else will remember. It's also an advantage: if she doesn't recognize all your allies and friends (and one true love, your treacherous mind whispers before you manage to silence it), then likely no one else knows their capabilities, either. You can whip up a terrifying force all but overnight.
That's your thought when you select which of your allies you go seek out first. You have no idea just then exactly how disappointing your reunion will be.
With this, our protagonist's sheet is actually complete, and can be seen in the Informational post. Persistent Mockingbird is actually close to completely legal; although Mockingbird is the only PC-equivalent here, I only really needed to swap out the secondary Merit (where I didn't have anything that made much sense to put in there) for an extra Charm (which I used to get a second spell, to represent Mockingbird being a talented sorcerer). These shouldn't logically be something that can get exchanged this way, but this just happened to be a good match. The spread of abilities, attributes, and Charms is me laser-focusing on stuff that I know will be relevant; this is me ensuring that this is as good a spread as possible for what I have prepared for the story.
There are a few game elements that I'm abstracting away a little bit: right now, I haven't filled in Intimacies, but will so so as they become relevant. Some "per session" stuff is getting handwaved as 'I'll know it when I see it.' There's a handful of similar stuff. You can ask about specifics if you have any questions, here.
Who do you seek out first? This is a case where all of these are true, but it tells a lot about Mockingbird to pick one over the others. Why was this pick the first one?
[] You seek out the graveborn twins, and find one drunk in a bar
Their father was a ghost and their mother passed when they were young, but these sisters took to the sword and made a name for themselves on the battlefields. At least, they did so in your memories. Here, you find only one, and she's in a dark place.
[] You seek out Balance-Sheet's Chosen, and find a broke gambler in a ditch
The Exigent you know, whose insight and bureaucratic skills were second to none, is nowhere to be seen. In his place, with the same name and face, is only a card shark, and not one talented enough to have anything more than a marginal existence.
[] You seek out the priest, and find only a grave, watched by a son
The talented bridge between the divine and the mortal is no more. He's long since dead and buried, his remains beneath an unremarkable grave. His son cares for the family tomb, but he does not seem to be made of the same stuff as his father.
Winning vote:
- You seek out the graveborn twins, and find one drunk in a bar
The oldest ally you'd had after Ice-Rimed Orchid had been the twins, Viktorija and Berenice. The two of them had had a mighty ghost for a father, and had been born with a great share of his supernatural power. When they'd outgrown the ability of their nomadic tribe to keep up with them, they had set out to chart their own course.
Together, they'd learned a style of supernatural martial arts known as Brilliant Peacock, joined and eventually led a mercenary company, and won a pair of small but decisive engagements.
You still smile when you remember the first time you'd met them. They'd heard of a new sorcerer, and so both of you had been willing to wager working for the other, the two of them as confident as you of their own inevitable victory in a comparison. They had been so incredibly sure that no one could match them, save perhaps one of the Exalted. They laughed when you challenged them, that you thought you could fight with them for a full minute without injury.
It had been a near thing, certainly, but exciting, a way to test your new-found sorcerous powers. As the minute started and the two of them came at you with their great two-handed horse chopping sabers, you had burst into a cloud of mockingbirds, flying into the high branches of one of the old-growth trees within your marked-off battlefield, since they had been wise enough to ensure you couldn't simply run directly away from them for long enough to win. You'd taunted them from there. How, exactly, did they propose to climb all the way up to you in the time they had remaining?
Berenice had answered without a word: one swing of her massive blade had sheared cleanly through the tree's trunk and it toppled over. You went down with it as the both of them laughed, scrambling to avoid getting squashed and then rolling on the ground to try to burn off the force of impact. You'd looked up to find a smugly-grinning Viktorija almost on top of you.
You'd had just enough focused will and just enough presence of mind to pull on your other major spell. Hypnotized by the coruscating depths she'd seen in your eyes, Viktorija had paused, standing passively. Berenice had had to come up and slap her to break her out of the trance. By the time they'd pulled themselves together, your minute had passed.
It was enough; you'd won the bet, and with it, their services for a while. With their muscle and skill behind you, you'd been able to... well, that's a different story, really.
That's high in your mind, or rather minds, as you fly back to Grieve proper in the form of a flock of mockingbirds. You'll take any of your companions you can find, but if you had your way, there's no one you'd rather have watching your back than these two.
You reform just within the city walls, in a quiet corner at the back of a mostly-forgotten park. As you return to human form, a very startled lynx bolts out of a low bush and darts for some further-away cover. You give the sacred beast a small bow of apology as it leaves. From there, you set out across the streets of Grieve again.
You don't have a good way to search, nor do you even have a good mental map of this strange, new Grieve. You stick to just asking questions of people in the street, or vendors who would have a good vantage point and look like they keep an eye out. You're asking for any of your companions, but it's no surprise to you that you first hear about the twins.
"Ain't seen two of 'em," says the wainwright you're speaking to. He'd been standing outside his shop while his sons and employees swarm over a pair of wagons in the shop, preparing them for whichever long major travel road they will travel next. "But I did see one." He gestures with his chin, indicating a direction. "Struck me as curious, seein' someone with that white of hair who hadn't taken the Elixir, since she was exposed to sunlight and her skin wasn't pale at all. Had exactly the sort of sword you're describin', too." He's the sort of man who has achieved enough in life that he can get away with doing little, now, hence why he's out here, watching the street, having conversations, and making connections instead of working away with his family.
"Thank you for your assistance," you say, bobbing your head.
"Let me guess," the wright says, grinning down at you through his beard, which is just long enough for the braid woven into it to exist. "She owes you money?"
"Not exactly," you tell him, feeling a wave of sadness at this unexpected, small reminder of what you've lost. Money had ceased to be much of a concern to you before, and Berenice and Viktorija were respected commanders. The idea of someone chasing one of them around for debt collection would have seemed farcical.
"Lover's quarrel?" he suggests, and you realize then that he's going to want to get some juicy gossip in exchange for his help, and he won't be happy unless he gets something.
"Business proposition," you say, mixing truth and lie quite freely. It's just easier. You go for the most boring answer that you can get away with. "You know how it is: a little muscle is always smart when you move large goods around."
He lets you go after that, giving you enough detail that you find your destination easily enough.
It's a dive bar, something not far off the docks. Local fishers and long-haul sailors sit alone or in small groups, drinking cheap alcohol. A few of them are already drunk enough to be sleeping it off beneath tables, while friends drink more slowly above them. They should blink back to blearly hungover wakefulness in time to take turns as their friends fall out.
You've seen it before, but it's still unfortunate to see it now: people who see so little in their life that their solace is forgetting it entirely for a while. Some of the locals still have a spark of hope in their step: the owner, some of the moderately-attractive companions searching for someone with a little extra coin to exchange for company, and some of the locals who could be a single great catch from digging themselves out of their current problems.
It takes only a second to take that all in as you come inside, your eyes adjusting to the darker interior as you do. It doesn't hold your interest; what does is off to your right. Just past the main counter, there's hooks for coats, for those who don't keep theirs with them at all times. A single weapon stands out among the coats stored there, hanging from an eye-height hook by the ring at its pommel, with a very long handle--just above four hands in length--and then an even longer blade stretching almost to the floor. You know that weapon. It's a single-edged, straight sword that is not only designed to, but actually usable to, decapitate a horse and rider with a single swing. You know its distal taper and its weight, its history and the weathering on its grip where it is wielded.
That is absolutely the sword for one of the twins.
You take a single coin from a pocket and toss it at the one-eyed woman at the counter. You get back an earthenware cup with what's probably beer in it. Neither one of you say a single word to the other, which is probably for the best.
Credentials thus established, you pick your way through the establishment, looking for your friend. Or whatever she counts as now. You find her in the back, tucked in a corner that can't be easily seen from the door, but where she can still see her sword.
It's Viktorija, you discover, at a glance. The twins were always very close to identical. They only had two particularly notable ways for others to distinguish them: Viktorija favors her left hand and women, while Berenice favors her right and men. It's thus not a hard call to make when you see your white-haired old friend with her left arm curled protectively around a dozing young woman, and see her alcohol-fuzzed eyes scan up and down your form, though she is disappointed somewhat by the fact that your reinforced leather is designed with practical protection in mind more than good looks.
One of the basic, always-active powers of a Winter Getimian is to know people's status and position at a glance. Only nontrivial characters can even potentially conceal membership in clandestine organizations, though that can be anything from a religious tradition that isn't locally accepted to criminal organizations to the government's official spy rings.
As this is getting woven into a single narrative with the only major viewpoint character being a Getimian, I'm just tying this into things. Generally, you should trust that Mockingbird will be accurate with her readings of such things: only something major will call that into question, because this is genuinely a part of her basic skill set.
She looks a mess. Her hair is matted and oily. She's slumped partway down a bench, her upper back against the wall. She's got a few different stains on her clothing. Probably the worst is that there's no fire in her eyes: you're used to her looking fierce and confident and ready. Here, the most interest you see is gauging if you're going to give her the drink in your hands and save her a coin.
"Viktorija," you say, hiding the disappointment in your tone as best you can. "Fancy meeting you here." To her credit, she at least tries to un-slump on being addressed. "I'd been hoping to hire a couple of blades, but... where's Berenice?"
As you mention the name, Viktorija's demeanor changes instantly. The jolt of adrenaline sobers her up as efficiently as any elixir you could have brewed, and she shifts from completely disconnected to the world to a harder look. Her companion squeaks as Viktorija pushes her back and down, freeing up Viktorija's dominant arm. It's rough, certainly, but it's the best move to protect both of them if there's about to be a sudden explosion of violence. Your own hand falls halfway to the grip of your sword in response. You're not sure what, exactly, set her off, but you have a healthy respect for her ability to hurt you even though you're standing between her and her weapon.
Dimly, you realize that a couple of other people are watching you, now, not expecting violence but watching in case of interesting drama, most likely expecting perhaps a shouting match.
You don't know why her sister's name would set Viktorija off, at least until the ghostblooded woman growls a question: "Where did you hear that name?"
"Don't you usually work with your sister?"
"Not since she died, four years ago." There's still raw pain in Viktorija's voice. "In... no where near here. How do you know her name?" She shakes her head, violently, sharply, a quick motion to try to ground herself. "Did the Wardens of Silent Rest send you?"
"Those weirdoes?" You can't help but jerk in surprise at the name. Outside Grieve proper, in some of the smaller communities spread throughout the land or tucked into tiny coves along the sea, the Wardens organize... a little bit. They're something of a cross between an ancestor cult and a protection racket: claiming to speak for ghosts and the proper passage of souls, they protect a few ruins, guard a pocket shadowland or two, and will lean on both ghosts and humans a little bit for "donations", which they use to enrich themselves and keep any ghosts from getting too much power. You know of them, but they're too small-time an outfit for you to have given them much thought. The Wardens did not bother Viktorija and Berenice's father, for instance, recognizing futility.
Viktorija considers your reaction for a moment, seeming to judge it genuine. She doesn't laugh, though, which is disturbing. You're so used to her and her sister laughing... well, all the time, really. Here, she relaxes slightly, allowing you to do the same. "Roselle, be a dear and go get my sword, would you?" Viktorija asks, and the other woman nods and goes to get it.
Once the two of you are alone, Viktorija considers you afresh. "So if you're not with the Wardens, then why are you looking for me? And how did you know my sister's name?" That question comes up again.
"I'd heard of you as very competent warriors," you say. "And I'm looking to get some muscle at my back, because I'm newly arrived in this Grieve and looking to make some changes around here."
Viktorija pushes some hair out of her eyes. "Dunno who would tell you that," she says, "but I suppose it's true." She grabs at the drink in your hands, and you let her take it. She drains it in one swallow. "Sometimes, at least. And I've been in Grieve for a couple years now, even if I still haven't saved up enough for the White Elixir yet."
You nod, accepting that. "I confess to a certain interest in the Elixir, myself," you say.
She scoffs. "You and everyone else in the world. Immortality is always temptin'." You follow Viktorija's eyeline over your shoulder and half-turn so that you can also see Roselle, who is struggling to manage the giant sword. It's not that it's terribly heavy--it's only about eight pounds, nothing like the god-weapons some Exalts wield--but it's still something that needs to be handled with care, and it's awkwardly long, and this establishment is not really set up for easy navigation while carrying something like this.
"I suppose it is," you agree, turning back to Viktorija, then venture something a little further. "But what if I had something of an inside track on finding something here?" It's clear that a major part of sending Roselle to grab the weapon is giving you two a moment of candid discussion without Viktorija's paid companion able to listen in, which could put Roselle in danger if you were some villainous type with something you didn't want getting out. As much as it's painful to your core to see Viktorija reduced to this, there's something there that catches your attention. No matter the why, Roselle is under Viktorija's protection, and she takes that seriously.
To put it another way, your friend is still there, even if she doesn't know you. You consider her reaction to your fishing effort.
In Exalted Essence, all effects that influence another's actions go through their Resolve. Resolve is calculated from a base level that is connected to the Integrity skill (representing how firmly set one's beliefs are) and then modified by Virtues (one's major ways of thinking about the world) and Intimacies (things one cares about). If an effect beats Resolve, one gets the basic requested outcome. Extra successes can be spent on additional effects, from Read Intentions that helps one know specific Virtues and Intimacies to Persuading the other to do specific things to Instilling new beliefs. If a target is unwilling to accept some effect, they have the ability to take a Hard Bargain, instead, where they choose between giving up something related or giving the other three extra dice. There's also "unacceptable" influence that doesn't require a roll: if one is playing an Exalt who is known for invincible swordplay, and a drunk stumbles into the street and waves a pointed stick saying "gimme your magic heirloom sword or I'll stab you with this", no amount of good rolling on the drunk's part could possibly make that succeed.
This system works both ways; in play as an RPG, this does require everyone to get on board with how this works, and Essence has good guidance on how to make sure nothing goes to a point players wouldn't enjoy playing out.
Compared to other Exalts, Mockingbird is only middling in terms of using social influence, as a result of the first vote in this quest, but she's still well above average compared to anyone else. Here, both Mockingbird and Viktorija are angling to try to read the other's intentions.
Mockingbird's Roll (Finesse + Presence + stunt + 1 automatic success from being a Winter Getimian):
1, 6, 6, 4, 3, 1, 4, 6, 5 (zero rolled successes, +1 auto, not enough to beat Victorija's current Resolve of 2... wow, dice hate you today)
Viktorija's Roll (6 dice)
2, 8, 3, 6, 8, 10. (4 successes, equalling Mockingbird's Resolve of 4. Viktorija's effort here was specifically to verify that Mockingbird is legitimately trying to recruit her, and she feels confident in that, now. Of course, she has no particular reason to favor Mockingbird.
"You think you do, huh? Well, I'm sure you could retain me for a small ongoing fee, then." Viktorija names a price that's wincingly high. You nod, and have to just hope that the seemingly-endless coins you find in your pockets don't dry up, or that you find another source of income.
At this point, Roselle arrives and sets the sword on the table between you two as gently as she can. It hangs off both sides. Viktorija lifts it casually with one hand and does a lazy loop in currently-unoccupied air with its squared-off tip. "I'll start tomorrow, then. Hey, what's your name, boss?" Now she does give you a smile, and she looks like the old Viktorija again, apart from the stains and bad hair.
"V-Persistent Mockingbird," you say, correcting yourself as you give the name.
The sword is casually set across the table again. Viktorija hikes an eyebrow at you. "Persistent Mockin'bird? That sounds like the sort of name that that Fair Folk out there would give." Ice-Rimed Orchid is somewhat famous in Grieve.
"She's my teacher," you confirm.
The ghostblood barks a laugh and embraces Roselle with one muscular arm again. "Poor you. So, Mockin'bird, you said you were interested in the White Elixir. What sort of 'in' do you have on this thing?"
It's very apparent that giving one answer is much better than trying to explain all of what's going on. It's also possible that whatever you say is going to get spread around until it gets into the ears of someone in power. It takes only one whisper for that to happen, sometimes, and not only Roselle but a few people at other tables might have an ear open and find something to gossip about. Hopefully, it will take weeks, if ever, for anyone to notice; it's not like you're announcing yourself to whoever has messed with your city. So, sighing internally, you explain.
How do you present yourself to Viktorija? [] Talented Alchemist
You may not have recovered your alchemical laboratory yet, but you can still whip up a few small miracles from almost nothing to prove yourself, and it's extremely intuitive why an alchemist might be investigating the Elixir. Of course, rivals are rarely welcomed... [] Weird Sorcerer
Everyone knows sorcerers are weird. Reveal that you've been initiated into the mystery of sorcery, and few people will dig any deeper, but on the other hand, sorcerers are always in demand and fascinate many. This is revealing an awful lot of your hand, however... [] A Previous Friend
Something snaps inside you, and you have to explain who you--and Viktorija, and Berenice--were before. She won't believe you, and you fall into a Melancholy Fugue. This manifestation of the Getimian's Great Curse grants a personal milestone, meaning that while this scene went as badly as it could have for you, you at least feel somewhat refreshed afterwards. Milestones can be exchanged for various character advancements later; one way to think of this is "flub the scene, but gain 1 experience".
You consider the question, then respond with one of your own. "Have you checked under the table carefully?"
Viktorija's brow creases and she shakes her head. "Why?"
It takes a moment of concentration, and a certain degree of effort as you dig around underneath the table, informing the world as firmly as you can of what you're expecting to locate. It thus takes only a few seconds before you pull out another earthenware cup with some beer in it. You set it on the table, near where Viktorija and Roselle already had a few of their own, and then Viktorija took yours to join their number. The ghostblood considers it for a moment. She picks it up and downs it in one gulp, so at the very least she doesn't think anything is greatly amiss with it. Or she really needs another drink.
When she sets down the empty cup, she looks at you. "How'd you do that?"
You shrug. "Well, it could have been there, so I made sure it was. Fairly straightforward, really." You pause. "For a sorcerer."
This sort of dramatic edit is allowed with using stunt dice to modify a scene slightly. Narratively, it could be the fact that your character knows the type of rare plant to weaken a mountain god's curse, or it could be that there's something there that you need to be there: a convenient awning, a back door to the restaurant, or just the right fruit to impress the shah. In most cases, it's probably best used as noticing something or making use of the environment, but given Mockingbird's sorcerous bent, here I'm using it to more directly magically edit the scene; this is specifically the sorcerous initiation of Truth through Lies in use.
This also means that our protagonist banks 2 Will.
Viktorija grunts, and looks under the table. "Got any more hidden under there?"
You fight the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration. "No, if you check first, then we know it can't be there, so it doesn't work. And I can't reorder the very fundamental fabric of Creation itself just to keep you boozed up. It doesn't work like that." There's complicated reasons why it doesn't work like that, but no one ever wants to hear the full explanation for why a sorcerer can't do something.
"Can I have an advance on tomorrow, then?" Your nascent headache doesn't improve any, but you hand over a few coins. Whenever you fish in your pockets, you can always find a few, it seems. Some of them go to Viktorija's companion. "Roselle, go ahead and get another round for you and me. If Mockin'bird wants one, she'll give you one more." You do not give her one more.
"Sorcerer," Viktorija says, almost musingly, once you're alone in the crowd again. "That's a weird trick. Not many sorcerers in town. I imagine I could count all of 'em on one hand, with at least one finger left over, and that's includin' you."
You nod, leaning forward. "It is. But it's a skill that means I have a unique perspective. The White Elixir is obviously magic of some description. Understanding it, that's worth more than just drinking a dose. That's power and wealth." You're shading the truth slightly, but that's all technically correct, and Victorija leans forward a bit to meet you, too, in a spirit of intrigued conspiracy. "There's four pieces of the puzzle, and we'll dig at all of them."
You whisk a writing quill, some ink, and some low-quality paper out of the pack at your side, all gifts from Ice-Rimed Orchid. "First," you say, sketching a few brief symbols that indicate the docks, "There's the matter of the ingredients. The royal family aren't fools; it's not going to be as simple as looking for every odd thing that comes into the city. They're going to be disguising some shipments, probably buying some false leads that they can make other use of, things like that. But we can find the real ones.
"Second," you draw a simple cauldron, "There's the mundane portions of its creation. It's going to be something involving distilling the ingredients down together. There's many potential ways to prepare such things, but this is the simplest portion of the whole effort. It's likely got a variety of steps, and the requirements could be fairly exacting, but even a quick glance at the set-up should get us most of the way there, especially if we can narrow down the ingredients either ahead of time or afterwards.
"Third, the complicating factor," you draw a couple of constellations above the cauldron, as the heavens are often used to symbolize the supernatural, "There will be some magical portion of its creation. No telling what, yet: it could be brewing it only at astrologically meaningful occasions, or need ingredients from the Wyld or Underworld, or need a sorcerer itself, or any of a dozen other details. This is where I uniquely come in." That gets you an accepting grunt from Viktorija, so you know she's following along.
"Last, the distribution." You draw a crude person; you're in a hurry and this is hardly being made for its artistic value, so your person barely has fingernails marked out and only the barest hint of true depth and correct clothing folds. You draw arrows from the docks to the cauldron and stars, then from both to your figure. "Easily forgotten, but important. It's always possible that there's some set of rules that cover who it can affect. Arranging for only a limited supply and tightly-controlled auctions could be a way of disguising its limitations. We need to know that, too."
As you finish, Roselle returns, and Viktorija absently has another drink while she looks at your outline. "You're weirdly good at drawin'," is her first conclusion.
You aren't quite sure how to react to that. "I... I like to create nice things when I can."
"Right. So, when you go pokin' around, there's going to be people who take offense, and that's why you need me." You nod. "You came to the right girl. No one is going to beat me at swordplay unless they're an Exalt." She considers. "So don't do anythin' stupid when we find stuff. I get double-crossed, I'm going to come down all murderous."
"Viktorija, I can honestly promise that I have no intention of doing anything untoward to you at all, regardless of what we discover."
She thinks about that. "You almost sound like you believe that." That's when Roselle climbs into Viktorija's lap again, with a certain playful intentionality on her face. "But that sounds like a tomorrow thing. I'll see you then for my first day of work, boss."
You sense that that's about as much as you're going to get out of Viktorija tonight, and leave before anything gets too awkward in front of you.
That same evening, some ways away
"We take more than we give," the Shadow whispers to the one known as the Pale Rider. The Shadow is only in his mind, and he knows that, but it doesn't make it any easier to ignore. "It's a wonder anyone tolerates us at all. They'd realize they hate us if we ever imposed any more than we do."
The Pale Rider doesn't respond to the mental voice. He usually tries not to. It only gets worse if he gets in an argument with the thing that lives in his head, which knows his every thought and never makes a slip when it contradicts him to point out what it's seen.
He talks, instead, to the horse he is riding. "You're still doing good there, girl, right? I'm not too heavy? You're not tired yet?"
The horse, being a horse, doesn't talk back to him. It occasionally makes complicated horse noises, but not in response to his questions. "I'm sure the mare would tell you it would dislike you, too, if it could," the Shadow continues. "You take her into so many dangerous situations, and you hardly ever have any sugar cubes for her. Even if you did, it would be bad for her teeth, wouldn't it? We can't even care for a horse without causing problems." The Pale Rider doesn't respond, but he does consider. Tomorrow, perhaps, he should walk alongside the mare, instead of riding her. But that would force her to walk terribly slowly, wouldn't it? Would that actually be better?
Either way, he's definitely about to dismount and go about his evening routine when the tone of the Shadow's voice changes. "Danger," it says, and this time the Pale Rider listens.
He's in one of the high, thin forests that are in the hills around Grieve, many miles to its south-east. There's always a few hamlets and thorps in such places, earning a marginal living, but he is nowhere near any of them at the present. There's just somewhat broadly-spaced trees, a fair amount of scraggly ground cover that will impede a lot of motion and... something else.
It looks like a giant wheel, taller than a man, as it rolls through the forest, weaving between trees to come closer to him. As it gets closer, it falls on its 'side', and its 'rim' flexes away, each of eight spokes and the appropriate part of the rim proving to be a tentacle covered in a stony hide, surrounding a bulbous central body that, itself, looks much like a boulder. The Pale Rider doesn't know for sure that this is an elemental, but the idea of some strange thing out to kill him, well, that he has grown used to from hard experience. It makes sense, with what a burden he can be... but he can't just give up.
As the rolling rocktopus fixes a stony gaze on him, the Pale Rider takes a deep breath, settles a little further into the saddle... and the shadows flex. The shadows are already long, as the sun is low on the horizon, but suddenly every shadow within a stone's throw of the Pale Rider twists, writhes, and stretches out new long fingers towards him, regardless of any sane rules of optics. A second later, and it goes further: shadows peel themselves off of the ground, off clothes, off treetrunks, off leaves, and fly towards the Pale Rider, congealing into a quarrel of shadow, resting there for only an instant before he hurls it like a javelin.
Two tentacles of stone are held up to block the magical bolt. The impact knocks it back, but its rocky hide holds up to the force. It takes only a moment for the rocktopus to regain its balance. It tilts back up on its side, trying to roll after the horse and rider.
"Keep going, girl," the Rider says, leaning over the horse's neck. As if she understands what he means, the horse darts forward, twisting deeper into the woods, to where the thicker undergrowth and numerous thick tree limbs would harm the rolling rocktopus's ability to keep up with them.
As the Rider glances back over his shoulder, he finds that he's gained a little distance on his pursuer, and with another sweep of his hand, shadows again leap to his palm. This time, a tree trunk gets in the way of his shot, and while his attack thus doesn't touch the elemental, as the wood detonates, it still drops a thick mass of foliage in the path it tries to roll through.
Tripped, the rocktopus practically falls over, and shifts from its wheel form to a nest of tentacles. With startling agility, it crawls over the twigs and wood, crunching some of them down as it climbs over them, still forcing its way forward. When it gets clear, it hurls itself straight at the Pale Rider.
He leans back as three of the stone-covered limbs reach for him. Two he avoids cleanly. The third catches him across the cheek, but he's close enough to avoiding it that it only scrapes his cheekbone. He straightens back up as his horse backs away, trying to keep away from the elemental creature.
A symbol is on his forehead, now, a symbol of a dead god picked out in subtle shadow. "Cease," he says. This time, the shadows do not come to his hand, they simply cluster under the rocktopus. Now, he's centered and focused, and when they surge upwards from the ground, there is no defense. The torrent of black bursts up and into and through and out of the rolling rocktopus. A moment later, the tips of some of its tentacles fall to the ground, twitching slightly, before hardening further into true stone, as dead as any normal rock.
Breathing heavily, the Pale Rider considers his pack, the small cut on his head, the state of his horse, and the mess this brief scuffle has made of the forest.
"Good girl," he tells the mare, which doesn't respond beyond taking a few aimless steps to check out a bush. "Now let's make camp. There might be an apple I can give you, if it's not so withered as to be worse than nothing." He slides down, dismounting and grabbing for the reins again. "We might be able to get something nice for you, once we reach Grieve. I'll do what I can, I promise."
There are two types of attacks in Exalted Essence: withering and decisive. Both are, in fiction, serious efforts trying to win the fight, but withering attacks are exchanges of techniques, glancing blows, feeling each other out, and similar. Decisive are the big attacks that could turn the tide of the fight either way. Action movies and shonen anime map quite well to this split: there's the flashy stuff we enjoy the chance to watch, and the moves that the story tells us are serious and could shift the course of the fight.
Withering attacks build up Power, an abstract representation of your advantage in the fight (and will always grant at least a minimum amount of "Overwhelming" power, even on a miss). Decisive attacks, if they hit, deal significant health damage, but they require a certain minimum Power total to use: the attacker must wager at least as much Power as the target's Hardness, which is a representation of how hard they are to damage, and a successful decisive attack's damage is still reduced by the target's Soak.
There's many elaborations beyond this: you can build power by maneuvering for advantage, spend it to knock enemies down, different Charms can modify every step of the process, environmental factors and range bands matter, there's a tactical game to play with how initiative works, and more. It's got a lot of interesting moving parts, and I'm not going to be giving a full explanation because that's most of a chapter of the book, not counting the Charms chapter at all.
The other important element that comes up with this fight is the Build Power action. Swinging a weapon isn't the only way to gain Power. When it makes sense in the fiction, it's possible to generate Power for yourself or your allies by outmaneuvering around foes, rallying or inspiring your side, taking a moment to focus, etc.
Pale Rider's withering attack:
5, 3, 6, 7, 8, 8, 10, 1, 10, 6 = 7 successes + 1 accuracy vs 5 defense, gain 3 Power
Rocktopus uses Outmaneuver to Build Power:
4, 1, 2, 6, 8, 3: failure.
Pale Rider's withering attack:
4, 7, 8, 1, 8, 5, 1, 2, 6 = 3 successes + 1 accuracy vs 5 defense, gain only Overwhelming (3) Power
Rocktopus's withering attack: 10, 6, 5, 1, 10, 4, 10, 9, 4 = 7 successes + 1 accuracy vs 5 defense, gain 3 Power
Pale Rider's decisive attack (wagering 6 Power): 10, 10, 2, 5, 5, 9, 9, 3, 7 = 6 successes + 1 accuracy vs 5 defense, hit and 2 bonus successes are added to damage
Pale Rider's damage roll (6 Power + 2 bonus successes) 7, 10, 7, 4 9, 8, 4 9 = 7 successes + 2 damage = 9 damage. Reduced by Soak of 3, for six damage. The Rolling Rocktopus had only six health levels.
Rolling Rocktopus is defeated!
Sometimes, the combat log may be a little further afield from the text of the story; I reserve the right to refluff it if it makes for a better read. This time, it happened to line up pretty well!
It's early the next morning that you meet back up with Viktorija. The large woman looks at least a little more together, after what you have to hope was a good night and the possibility of steady work now. Her outfit's still stained and more than a little ratty, which makes your fingers itch with the want to touch up her appearance a bit, but that would be a little too much to impose right now.
She gets a breakfast at the same place you met her, which means it's a little crumbly bread thing from whatever grains were cheapest, some pickled... something vaguely vegetable or fruit, and a beer. And a second beer, of course.
Once she is sufficiently boozed up, and once you've pecked a bit at a similar breakfast, you set out again, with Viktorija at your back. It's comforting to have her there again. You can hear the clank of her chainmail, which from what you've seen is a lot better cared for than her poncho, and you can still tell exactly where her sword is at all times. Everyone else tells you that. Anyone else on the street tends to have their eyes fixed on it, so that's very easy to tell.
"So what's the plan, then, boss?" Viktorija makes a horrible sucking sound, you think trying to clear some food out of her teeth.
"Investigation."
"Sure, sounds good. I can play 'bad guard' real good if you need it."
"Maybe I will," you allow. It still feels a little bad for her not to follow that suggestion with a laugh.
Ventures are one of the more interesting elements of Exalted Essence's system. It's a sort of flexible, one-sizes-fits-most method for extended efforts, from a hurried once-per-turn effort to open a mechanism before a mighty foe catches up to whispering effectively among a queen's court to find people's true allegiances to spending months of downtime crafting a magical weapon to running a long overland journey.
Mockingbird's first venture here is investigating some of the circumstances surrounding the creation of the White Elixir. There will be a series of scenes finding things out. What approach is taken is going to change what could be found out... and may change what sort of fallout could come from a poor roll or series of rolls, as well.
"Where're we starting, then?"
You allow yourself a small smile.
[] "We're going to be the middlemen on a shipment of ingredients."
Most of the ingredients for the White Elixir come through the port, on the many ships that come through Grieve. That isn't a secret. The contents of each cargo are a secret, of course, but many potentially-corrupt hands have to touch them. If you can find the right spot, you can hopefully learn not only something of the ingredients, but also the brewing of the White Elixir. This is exactly what the whole secretive process is set up to prevent, however, meaning this is a high-risk/high-reward approach.
[] "We're going to just go and bid on the next auction for the Elixir."
You don't expect you can shake out enough loose coins to legitimately win the Elixir auction, but if you come in and announce a large bid, you can at least pose as a mysterious high-roller and learn something. As long as you don't actually win, you shouldn't have to prove anything you don't have, and in the meantime you'll learn something about how the final product is distributed, and maybe who's who in this current Grieve.
[] "We're going to rob someone who's taken the Elixir already."
Only the wealthy can afford it. Robbing some foreigner can look like a random street crime, and it will give you a chance to investigate its effects up close while you make off with some paltry amount of funds so it looks legitimate. You have no idea what you'll find, but it's going to be relatively low-key unless you get someone with a surprising amount of tricks up their sleeve.
