Come to the twin cities of Tylos and Kavzar, the greatest in all the world, and try and survive their cursed fate of ruin and collapse into the evil of Skavenblight.
Warhammer Fantasy: Thirteen Tolls - An Apocalypse Quest
- Thread starter Graf Tzarogy
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Character Creation
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Lo, fair Tylos, and handsome Kavzar, the greatest works of man. Blessed children of brave Tylos and Wise Myrmidia, the twin cities, true home of justice, art, and glory. Behold, and weep, for theirs is the future, and every good and happy thing.
Ding-dong.
See the Casbah, where Tylos's blue-bloods play. In every gold-topped marble tower-fortress of the aristocracy, beautiful maids, and strapping fellows. There, three: a young man, in his silken toga of pure white, his counterpart, in crimson, and the girl between, in her blue gown, dripping with amber and pearls. See the two princelings draw blades – what honor they have! A duel – the blue strikes, the red parries; the lady swoons, there's another slice – and red blood on red cloth signifies the victor. How virile! How strong! How great!
Ding-dong.
See the Pall, under Kavzar, the realm where the sons of Skavor pursue their arts. Endless dwarves in endless tunnels, digging ever deeper. There, Fafnir Fogfather, the current Patriarch, and Senator of the district, stand still as stone. He mines, not with the uncouth pick and shovel of their traitor cousins, but with his people's art – elementalism. Before him, metal and stone part easily as snow and, as if plucking a flower, he pulls from the deep a diamond bigger than a man's head. He scoffs, hands it to a waiting apprentice, and plunges forward with a gesture, his magic making his petrified legs slither along the floor, further into the dark.
Ding-dong.
See Summerland, the home to the Brotherhood of Molder. Here, harnessers of jade and amethyst winds have made a garden the Everqueen green with envy. In every corner, a burbling fountain; above every path, a trellis in bloom – roses, orchids, magnolias. The trees and bushes are always rich with fruit, sweet and lush, for any citizen to eat. The tyranny of nature has been well and truly broken – with the mastery of growth and time, the brothers ensure Summerland's greenhouses and slaughterhouses offer a harvest each and every day, a banquet for everyone, always.
Ding-dong.
See Elftown, its amphitheatres and open squares, its many lamps of green and gold and silver. Here, those who disdained the idiot conflict of Phoenix Kings found refuge, their cities of Tolaire and Thantis Tor joining Tylos's empire. Now, the sons of Naggarond and Ulthuan may dance together under the same stars and share a lembas loaf as they did a thousand years ago. What amity! What harmony! What a miracle the sons of Tylos have wrought!
Ding-dong.
See Thunderdome, its factories, its glorious Maelstrom! A tower of woven steel, topped with a great glass globe, through which the mages of the Lodge of the Harvest Moon hoard their captured clouds, making every day in Tylos as beautiful as that came before, the thunder of the heavens turned to man's aims, weather but a matter of will. Behold the Great Exhibition of All Industries, where every convenience – the daguerreotype, the tempest prognosticator, the illusionary telegraph – all the wonders that the wielders of Azyr and Chamon might make manifest with the honest toil of labour, free and unfree.
Ding-dong.
See Little Khemri, where a Nehekaran can stand tall, unbent by the machinations of Nagash. Here, the obelisks stand tall, the rites preserved. At the Great Pyramid, two Ushabti guard the hallowed dead, where a tomb priest, unmolested carries on his sacred work, sating the gods: Ptra, Asaph, Khsar. Sphinxes line the streets, and slaves wave ostrich fans at the occupants of gilded paladins. If one squints, one really might mistake the Skavi for the Great Vitae, at this kingdom in exile in peaceful Kavzar.
Ding-dong.
See Temple, the home of the Cleansing Flame. These sons of order, worshippers of the true gods: Alluminas, Astasis, Daora, Solkan, Viydagg. Here, men are made well from the witch and daemon. In rooms of transparent gold, the exorcists work to expel corruption internal, while along polished, silver streets, consecrators maintain the wards that protect Tylos from any evil external. Masked preachers stroll, extolling the wisdom of the Supreme Pontiff of the Mystic City, sacred words of flame and light that create – no, ensure purity, happiness, and peace.
Ding-dong.
See the Cloisters, and the anarchy of the world. Everything is here to be bought and sold: truesilver charms, chimera pelts, crystal balls, starwood staves, Indic spices, Belthani leatherwork, wyrdstone, Lothern wine, seal pelts, ilthmar tableware, magic rings, great stag meat, potions of beauty and love, tame mammoths, Cathayan jade, wych elm wands, dancing swords, enchanted mirrors, dragon bones, obsidian bricks, runed axes, ogre blood, eel hides, Norscan brass, tiles from Saphethion, Nekeharan statuary, books from Ghrond, gromril tools, ivory chess sets, Belthani slaves, wutroth furniture, elvish nuts, obsinite, seven-hundred sixty five varieties of cheese, and whatever else you might ever have need for.
Ding-dong.
See Circus and have a lovely time! On advertisement this week – the Grand Hunt. See for yourself if the barbarian is any better than an animal. Twelve gladiators will fight for their daily food – twelve beautiful does, against twelve savage wolves imported directly from Athel Loren. See the primal savagery, the drama, the struggle – and be glad you are a citizen of Tylos, warm and happy in your seat. Tickets only 15 denarii, children under sixteen summers free.
Ding-dong.
See the Brass Quarter, and the height of Kavzarian manhood. See the soldiers march in beautiful array, the legions of the twin cities, who have conquered Tilia, and Stalia, and Armoria beyond. Behond their high plumed helms, and shining armour, enchanted to ward off any blow. Each man is armed with flaming sword, blessed by a priest of Order, and carries in his pocket a flask of Summerland nectar, enough to heal any wound. Invincible, greater than any Dwarven throng or Elven platoon. Let the Elder Races fight their war of beards and vengeance; in the meantime, man will conquer the world.
Ding-dong.
See the House of Tyleus, on its island in the Skavi. Neither of western Kavzar, or eastern Tylos, it, the ancient seat of the divine couple, is a realm all its own. There are happy youths spent, in the countless thermopoliums, and the Golden Gate, a casino beyond all others. You can make your fortune in the House of Tyleus, or lose it too, and for none is this so true but the freedmen that rule the isles manifold delights. For the House is sacred ground – any slave that touches it is free, by order of the Great. Only in Tylos and Kavzar, is man so generous to man to even allow a slave to rise!
Ding-dong.
See Pleroma, at the centre of all. Another island, another kingdom, but this one is not for the low. Pleroma is only for the highest of the high, and brooks no false humility. Here is the TOWER, the tallest of all, under construction for ninety-nine years, and almost complete. Here, the Senate meets, and discusses the destiny of peoples and nations. Here, the Endless Font, the last, best, gift of Myrmidia, gives forth its endless bounty of magic and wonder. Here, the Princeps Suttar, the greatest man in a city of great men, wearing his crown of golden horns, works towards his greatest masterpiece – a topping of the tower, and the fulfillment of a momentous destiny. Here, the bells ring to mark the hours of the greatest cities that have, are, and ever will be. Glory to Kavzar, Glory to Tylos, Glory to us!
And you, traveller?
Who might you be?
WHO ARE YOU?
[-] Name (write-in) [Roman or Byzantine-themed, preferably, and male]
WHAT ARE YOU?
[] a solider, out for vengeance.
You are a disgraced noble, betrayed by a lover an age ago. Your name ruined, you made in anew in blood as a legionnaire across the length and breath of the Tylosian imperium. You've only returned because of a letter from a friend you thought lost, asking for protection, and promising revenge.
Hitman: You have a talent for violence; all acts involving direct physical harm to a person are [ORDINARY] instead of [RISKY].
Leaden Tongue: You say what you mean, and you mean what you say. In the masquerade that is Tylos-Kavzar, this is a problem. All acts involving common persuasion are [RISKY] instead of [ORDINARY].
[] a free man, looking for family.
You are a former slave, separated from your sisters, and forced to work in the household of the commander that had destroyed your life. He was a venal, stupid man, and died quick and brutally thereafter – but his heir, his aged mother, was, for a slaver, soft-hearted. With only a minimum of flattery, and her quick demise, you're free, and with a fair sum of money from her estate. Now you return to the heart of empire to find your little siblings.
A Man of No Ordinary Means: Your "fair" sum is more than most in Tylos-Kavzar can hope to make in a lifetime. Additional actions unlocked due to your effectively infinite finances.
Manumitted: You are a former slave. This wins you as much accord as it does opprobrium. Actions involving the Tylosian upper class are [RISKY] instead of [ORDINARY]. Actions involving slaves, or freedmen are [ORDINARY] instead of [RISKY].
[] a preacher, following a sign.
You are a follower of the God Morr. For all your days, you've maintained a quiet ministry in the country, trying not to attract the eyes of the zealots of Temple or the blasphemers of Summerland. But your Lord has sent you a message – every night, you have fallen out of the Great Tower in your dreams, to die drowning in rat-shit and rubble. For your God (and for your sleep) – you return to the cities of a misspent youth.
Eyes of the Great Custodian: Morr gave you the gift of sight. You have strong witchsight. You have no ability to cast magic, but this will open up many actions, and provide significant narrative advantages.
Non-Euphoric: The worship of gods outside those of order is, in Tylos-Kavzar, at best gauche, at worst, actively persecuted. Actions involving yourself with wizards are [RISKY] instead of [ORDINARY].
~
AN:
Hello, and welcome to Thirteen Tolls, a Warhammer Fantasy quest set just prior to the Doom of Kavzar/Tylos. First, I'd just like to give a thanks to the imitable Boney of Divided Loyalties, which introduced me to Warhammer Fantasy in the first place and who in great part inspired this Quest. Second, some ground rules.
Regarding mechanics, this is going to be pretty light. The quest will be organized around turns, during which the PC will have five actions, out of a list of many. These actions will be split into three parts: [ORDINARY], [RISKY] and [VENTURES]. The first are guaranteed to succeed, the second will have a fifty percent chance of going well, and a fifty percent chance of going badly, and the third are a special type, which instead of having an immediate result, will consist of an interlude, during which various [ORDINARY] and [RISKY] choices might be made. This will hopefully make more sense once the first turnpost is up; this is just here to make the character selections above make sense.
Regarding Warhammer Fantasy canon – this is going to be a kitchen sink. As is known, Warhammer Fantasy is a mess of contradicting lore – see Kavzar/Tylos having two separate names. I will be grabbing bits effectively at will, with no consistency per edition. If it was in Warhammer at some point, it is probably true in quest, unless the quest contradicts it.
Finally, regarding expectations. This is a quest about the Doom of Kavzar-Tylos. That is to say, the city will fall. This is a story about the apocalypse, and nothing the PC can do can change that overarching fact. However, what exact form that Armageddon takes, what happens to the people of Kavzar and Tylos, and what the PC does as Tower is completed and the bell tolls thirteen – that's up to you.
When the ship sinks, are you a human, or are you a rat?
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Turn One - Hierophant
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] Xenophon
[x] A preacher, following a sign
[x] A preacher, following a sign
Disgust.
That's what you feel, as you realize you're back on top of the Tower, a horrid revulsion that makes every muscle cringe and your mind whirl with the strength of your hate. You retch and vomit on to the waiting city a torrent of sewage that burns your tongue with its acrid stench and venomous taste. Another wave of nausea hits, and you barf again – as boom! A crash of green lighting hits the spire you clutch. Just clutching on, you instinctively bite down and with a sickening crunch, your mouth fills with blood and bone. You spit up on the floor what was buried inside you – a rat, mutated beyond belief, horns growing out of its back, legs, nose – now a mangled corpse. You cough, and cough, and there is only more hair, more bile, more sickly-sweet rot.
Below you, chaos reigns. A veritable phantasmagoria marches on the Tower. An old man rides a dying bull, becoming younger as he sups blood from its neck. Weeping Myrmidia guides a legionnaire who whispers to a skull. A scorpion follows, dripping blood from its tail. An elven lady dances lightly to an unseen tune, five corpses chained to her waist dragging behind. A giant cockroach skitters after her. Behind, is an old dwarf, petrified up to the neck. His body is wrapped with explosives, for which he holds the trigger in his mouth. A golden eagle flies above, laughing as it drops marbles of perfect light that shatter on the revelers. A man, his skin sloughing off to reveal malevolent green crystal, holds a dove in a cage of swords. Nagash presents the bleeding head of a sphinx. A tall, red haired man staggers forward, bound in thirty chains, his back stabbed through with fifty kitchen knives, in his hands, thunder, trapped in a jar.
You hear a screech behind you, like a rusty hinge. You turn. Where there was one dead rat, there are now thousands, and from that charnel house a hooded figure is pulling themselves free, screaming. They rush at you a hand extended – to strike? To warn? But before you can react – before anything – you feel from behind a stab in the back, through your flesh, through your spine, through, with a sickening whine, to your very soul.
You fall. From the Tower, the bells ring. They strike thirteen. You wake up.
The sun shines through your window. Your sheets are soft and clean. You can hear traders shouting outside. You can smell eggs and bacon, wafting from downstairs. You taste blood and iron on your tongue.
It's another beautiful day in Tylos and Kavzar.
Some headlines from the Twin Cities, from the newspapers left in your room.
Article: WARPSTONE BANNED - After the catastrophe at the Battle of Nova Gramona where a Wyrdstone weapon "Morr's Breath" was turned against our brave soldiers through the perfidy of an enemy weather-witch, General Vocula has announced a total ban on the usage of the substance. Rumors that the weapons inventor, Hieronimus Ovidius (Senate candidate for Thunderdome), might be charged with manslaughter have so far been unsubstantiated …
Article: A NEW DICTATOR - The Princeps Suttar announced today that Aquilifer Gnaeus Marius has been granted the title "Ratcatcher Dictator" and given plenipotentiary powers to deal with the pest problem that has lately plagued our twin cities' sewers. He's acted quick – the Aquilifer has put out a call to all trappers, bagmen, trash pickers, etc. to present themselves at sunset at Adipiscitur Plaza…
Article: PETRIFICATION DAY - The Sons of Skavor would cordially invite all citizens of Tylos and Kavzar to join them in the Glimmering Realm to celebrate and mourn the great sacrifice of their Great Ancestor. The service will last three to five hours, and refreshments will be provided…
Article: ON THE STUPID AND GREEDY SENATORS - If only to further prove the ignorance and incompetence of the Senate regarding the sorrows of the common people, bread prices have risen for the sixth straight month. These fat-cats on their country estates blame a lack of slave labour, but that they're unwilling to spend a dime to hire real, proper Tylosians is no excuse to starve…
Article: TO THE ESTEEMED XENOPHON, PRIEST OF MORR - Welcome home. My father was so glad to tell me of your return. Do come see me – I think I've got a lead on that old dream we both had.
-M.
…you don't know who sent this. Attached is a ticket to the Grand Theatre of Pleroma, for a show this week – the opening night of "the Righteous Spear".
TURN 1 - Fifth Day before the Kalends of Araggio
A turn is one week, or eight days. You can pick up to five [5] actions. Ordinary Acts are a guaranteed success, risky ones are fifty-fifty for a positive or negative result, and Ventures open up interludes.
ORDINARY ACTS
[-] Explore a district (write-in: Thunderdome, Summerland, the Pall, Elftown, Little Khemri, the Brass Quarter, the House of Tyleus, Circus, Academy, Cloisters, Casbah, the Shambles).
It's been a while. Better to get the lay of the land.
[-] Find permanent housing.
A subpar inn in the Cloisters between a lobster seller and a dance hall is no place for a priest of Morr. Better to figure out somewhere permanent to settle.
[-] Connect with the Cult of Morr.
The Twin Cities but host a single Morrite garden, Raven's Roost. Go to that necropolis and see what the Doomsayers and Shroudknights have to say to this poor brother.
[-] Visit another temple (Write-in: Ranald, Verena, Myrmidia, Ahalt, Shallya, Tyleus, Manann, Ishernos, Medhe, Cailledh, Margileo, Skavor, Nekeharan Gods, Elven Gods)
Morr is not a jealous god. Perhaps his divine wife or daughters might provide a clue – after all, this is half Myrmidia's city – or perhaps someone more exotic?
[-] Provide funerary services.
You have enough coin for perhaps the next month but could do with more. Someone always needs last rites.
[-] Research your dreams.
These cities are lousy with libraries. See if you can identify any of the symbology.
[-] Hire a servant.
Even the poorest Tylosian citizen can hire someone from the teeming masses of the Shambles just outside the walls. Useful if you want to sent messages privately or need someone to do chores. (opens sub-vote on what type of servant you'd like to hire, who, according to their skills, may perform certain actions for you)
[-] Look for a holy artefact.
If this is bad as the dreams seem to be, you'd feel better with some trinket. You can afford to be superstitious, you're a priest of the God of Portents.
[-] Go to Petrification Day.
This is the greatest festival of the Sons of Skavor and thus, the best chance to get to know them.
[-] Assess the political situation.
You know the elections for Senate are in eight weeks. That's about it for you and politics. You should probably rectify that.
[-] Pray.
O last friend, our lover true / might we know our way to you?
RISKY ACTS
[-] Investigate the Tower.
It has been haunting you so. The whole thing blazes with magic, inside and out. You doubt you'll be able to secure entry, but just a closer look might reveal much.
[-] Consult a Thunderdome soothsayer.
Blasphemers and idiot meddlers they might be, the Lodge of the Harvest Moon maintains what you argue is too many oracles to be reasonable, holy, or practical. It is, however, not outside the realm of possibility that one of them might have something useful to say.
[-] Visit the temple of the Gods of Law.
For what they lack in coherent doctrine or human compassion, the followers of the Cleansing Flames compensate with jealous zealotry. Something of value must inspire that faith.
[-] Enroll yourself as a ratcatcher.
You might have no practical experience, but your witchsight's good enough in the dark, and it's the stubbornest portent you have.
[-] Preach in the streets.
Gauche, yes. Loud, yes. But any press might be good press?
VENTURES
[-] Attend the opening night of the Righteous Spear.
What could possibly go wrong?
Too soon.
WRITE-IN
[-] ???
(If there's anything missing that you'd think be prudent for Xenophon, give me a shout and I'll assign it a category.)
AN: Thanks for all the interest! Moratorium for 24 hours to let some plans coagulate, please don't hesitate to ask if you have any questions.
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Vote closed
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn One Results (Part 1) - Rituals
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Plan: The Lay of the Land
-[X] Find permanent housing.
-[X] Connect with the Cult of Morr.
-[X] Assess the political situation.
-[X] Go to Petrification Day.
-[X] Attend the opening night of the Righteous Spear.
-[X] Find permanent housing.
-[X] Connect with the Cult of Morr.
-[X] Assess the political situation.
-[X] Go to Petrification Day.
-[X] Attend the opening night of the Righteous Spear.
Heavy falls the shadow of death. The temples of Morr are not typically popular places, nor are their priests. Yet as you lean to push open the wrought iron gates of the Garden of Raven's Roost, the total absence of anyone unnerves you. You've always found the Roost claustrophobic. Space is at a premium in the city, and in the Cloisters especially, so the graves here are crammed together, some literally atop each other, as families choose to save money by not buying a new plot, but simply building a new crypt atop the old. In fact, the Garden hardly bears the title – there's not grass nor trees to be seen, the only vegetation the essential black roses. But at a closer look – they're wilting. You've never seen that before – even in your parish, even with your adversarial relationship with gardening, you managed to keep the sacred plant of Morr ever-blooming.
You approach the Roost proper. It is a squat, grey stone building, meant to invoke the entrance to an ancient burial mound. A single pitch-black door with a silver handle sits within a recessed archway, the only entrance. Above the door, an hourglass, and the words "Memento Mori". If there's one thing you couldn't critique your brothers on, they do know how to cultivate an atmosphere. You knock, once. The noise echoes down, down, into the underground catacombs below. There is what sounds like a sudden pattering of feet, but no answer. You try the handle – the door's unlocked. You proceed down a sloping downward stone hall, unadorned. Candles sit in niches on the walls, but only one in every five is lit, casting the temple in an eerie, dim glow. You feel a dull dread. Has it happened, somehow? Are you too late? You Look, and there is but a small comfort – the Roost is free from corruption, still held in the soothing cool of your God's sanctification – this place is not totally lost yet to Morr. You arrive in the main hall, a circular chamber filled with simple wooden benches, and a small stone plinth for preaching and funerary orations. On it, as you approach, there appears to be a half-eaten dinner of bread and garum, with a cup still full of small beer. Beside is well-worn copy of the Black Book – not quite Morrite scripture, but a guide to the practices and operations of the Cult.
You lean down to pick it up to see what your absent brother had been reading, when you hear another patter, and then a giggle behind you. You swing round and see emerging from a side corridor that you know leads to the cells and mess halls something that might have been a Priest of Morr. It is an elderly bald man in ragged grey robes. They would have been embroidered with skulls and hourglasses, but those have all been ripped out, leaving open seams and loose thread. He stinks of unwashing and rotting meat. His face is a rictus, his mind a whirlwind of Shyish, but what draws most focus is his eyes – absolute pitch black.
"Ding dong!" he shouts, as he advances on you.
You take a step back, and your back hits the plinth. "Peace, brother!"
"Brother – no, more, no siree. A layman's life for me! He! He!". The fellow laughs. He's a foot in front of you
"My – er, my mistake, sir. Might you tell me where I could find one?" Subtly as you can, you grab the breadknife sitting behind you.
He rushes forward, an inch from your face, and jabs you, hard, in the nose. "Right there you are, right here! A brother without brothers – ha! – hardly a brother at all! A tasty morsel, though" and at that he moves even closer, his breath in yours, his forehead smushing into your check, his arms in a vague embrace. "I'm so sorry you have to be eaten. But better me than a rat!" And then he bites your nose.
You scream and flail, bashing the man in the head with your knife. You open a thin wound on his scalp, which bleeds hard. It does not improve his smell. In his daze, you take the opportunity to hoist yourself backwards up onto the plinth. You spill garum right down your robe, but you manage to scrabble to the back of the room.
The former priest's head is soaked in blood now. He stares at you with animal intent, repeating, sing-song "God-Meat! God-Meat! God-Meat!".
You grab the candle from the wall, getting ready to snuff it and use your witchsight to get around him in the dark. You're, however. stopped in your brilliant plan by the crash of metal. Rushing into the room is a blond teenager in the scale armour of a poor legionnaire, wielding a pitch-black greatsword buzzing with the chill certainty of the Lord of the Dead. With but a (clumsy) strike in the air with the blade in the air, a cold gale blasts through the room. The would-be cannibal collapses, as you feel a terrible wave of drowsiness that you just push away.
You are covered in blood and fish sauce, and a child is now holding you at sword-point.
"I Regret To Inform You The Hall Of Auguries Is Closed!" the boy shouts, for no apparent reason.
You try to reply, "I wasn't – ".
"Dreamtalking is also shut!"
"I'm not interested in-"
"Funerary services are suspended!"
"I'm trying to- "
"PLEASE LEAVE!" – the boy's face is animal panic.
You put your hands up. "For the love of- I'm a brother, please! Let me help you! What happened to the fucking Roost!" For added effect, you pull out your sign of office, which, thank Ranald, wasn't broken – a silver hourglass with purple sand, crystals of the Wind of Death.
The boy's eyes bulge at the time piece. "A brother?!" he says, his voice riding higher in alarm. He drops suddenly to one knee. "Forgive me, your eminence, forgive my indiscretions!".
"Calm, calm, man – my name is Xenophon, and I'm not an eminence. Please stand up."
"With your leave, your E- Sir Xenophon – if that's proper."
"I'm not a noble either – Xenophon is fine, I have no titles. What's your name?"
"Pelops, if you'd please, and this- "he gestures to his sword "Is Last Rest. Forgive me, I know it's not my place to correct you, I know – but am not sure you are aware, sir – er, sorry – Xenophon – but you are titled."
"I'm sorry?"
"Per Chapter Three, section six, point seven of Black Book. You, milord, as the only sane Brother of Morr in the Twin Cities – I'm just a Shroudknight, you know, a layperson – you're the Raven of the Roost!"
You have a panic attack.
…
After Pelops has helped you recover from the shock of your unexpected promotion, you manage to drag the full story out of him. Three months ago, the clergy of the Cult of Morr began receiving visions. This is approximately in time to when you began to receive yours, and from Pelops' description, they were substantively similar, albeit less detailed, though you're not sure that not just because the boy wasn't told those specifics. After several months of gradually increasing portents, the higher leadership elected to perform a Great Prophecy, a particular miraculous ritual specified in the holy text the Songs of the Raven. A great magical working, the laws of Tylos required permission from the Senate to perform. This was begrudgingly granted, though with protests from Thunderdome about the so-called "grossly inaccurate quasi-daemonic scrying". These were assuaged by having a representative from Thunderdome attend and verify the safety of the ritual, that being a Master Steward of the Lodge of the Harvest Moon, one Parlenius Patrocline, head of the Bureau of Future Financial Forecasting.
The ritual went badly. Whether this was because of practitioner error or explicit sabotage on the part of Patrocline is unclear. Pelops favors the latter explanation, as do you – Morr is not a god (unlike some others you could name) that smites. Regardless of the mechanism of failure, it resulted in a magical backlash that collapsed the lower catacombs where the working was happening. Patrocline survived, as did about a third of the ritual participants. Unfortunately, the latter had been driven, as you had so personally experienced, homicidally insane. Patrocline, fascinatingly, seemed fine, and had beat a hasty retreat to his Lodge. The six crazed brothers were confined to their chambers with what portion of the Cult remained.
Then, they did what Pelops in his innocence calls a "strategic retreat" and to you is rank cowardice. You are aware that the Cult does not attract the best and brightest the Twin Cities has to offer. Anyone with an ounce of magical talent is taken by the Lodge, the Flame, or the Brotherhood. Anyone with any money goes out to the colonies or into the civil service. Even for the poor, the army offers better and steadier wages. That tends to live you with the desperate, the idiots, and the bizarre (you would personally place yourself in the second category). Regardless, you thought they were made of sterner stuff than the dismal display you now witness, where they, to a man, abandoned the Cities, leaving the care of a million souls to a child not even formally in the order, who they only promoted to a knight in order to leave him behind. Pelops insists they drew straws, but considering you are the followers of the God of Prophecy, you doubt that was as fair as he insists it was. You understand the fear – both from the visions, and the legal consequences of being party to a magical disaster of that magnitude, and that they had, as an organization, been almost literally decapitated – but – by the Gods!
For Pelops himself, he's an orphan, sixteen "and eight months!" That's eight years below formal adulthood and citizenship, which explains the panic. He is technically a ward of the state, and to be assigned one of the famously unpleasant public homes for wayward children. You have promised not to report him, which, combined with his natural obeisance towards authority, seems to have earned his undying gratitude. He was one of the children the Cult traditionally agreed to raise for payment from the state, something taken up both for recruitment and to flag falling tithes. That had apparently been canceled some years after you left, after some complaints about vice from Temple, so he had been the last Ward of Morr.
He refuses to explain where he got the sword, which he insists you refer to not by the general noun, but by "Last Rest". It appears to be the only thing of value (besides the boy himself), left in the temple. Your wonderful brothers seem to have raided the place in their retreat, leaving a half-stocked library, and an empty treasury. The cells where the Cult formally made their residence has been turned into a makeshift asylum. The cannibal got out when Pelops went in to deliver lunch (which he cooks!) and had to break up a fight. He hadn't even realized Brother Sanguine had gone till he heard the commotion.
In total, what you have gained from your visit to your Cult are three things. First, a title. You are the Raven of the Roost, not merely a priest of Morr, but the priest of Morr within the Twin Cities. This doesn't mean as much as it used to, with no brothers and no parishioners, but does afford you the right to address the Senate, though not for Senators to actually attend, and will allow to effectively secure an appointment with any other religious leader in the city outside of Temple. Second, you have gained a mostly abandoned building and associated graveyard. The lowest level is collapsed, and the level above is mostly prayer rooms (one of which Pelops is sleeping in) and a badly run psychiatric ward. You could live here, you suppose, and it'd be free, but it wouldn't be comfortable (unless you could somehow remove your brothers), and if anyone was trying to find you, it'd be the first place they'd look. Third, you effectively have gained a ward. As a Shroudknight, Pelops has declared it his absolute duty to defend you, despite your protests, and so you now have a child bodyguard. Morr, please give me strength.
Follower Gained: Pelops, Boy-Warrior
Followers are characters willing to assist you on your quest. They offer you particular advantages on each turn, from performing certain acts for you, to making others less risky.
Pelops' Bonus: You can assign Pelops to one Risky act each turn. So chosen, he will allow you to reroll once if you fail on your initial attempt at that Act, as he and Last Rest protect you from harm. He may also be assigned to some Ventures (though not the showing of the Righteous Spear, as he lacks a ticket). Do be aware, however, that he may be affected by the negative effects of a failed Risky act if assigned. Child endangerment – for the cause?
In the following days, you attempt to locate some variety of alternate accommodation, leaving Pelops to his ordinary duties of tending to the brothers. You feel a little bad at leaving him to it, but he refuses to allow you to assist, declaring "the Raven is not a servant!" – and you have little desire to nurse your former brothers, so you carry on.
You contract the services of a broker called Eustachius. He has oiled hair and an unctuous smile and a toga so pink it is verging on, but not quite the purple that only the Princeps is entitled to wear. He refers to everything as "a wonderful opportunity for a clever investor like you". You hate him.
The first seventeen places are located in the Cloisters or Circus, and are, without exception, the worst living arrangements you've ever witnessed. You are shown leaking basements, clear closets, and, at one point, just a palanquin, sitting out in someone's yard (which already had one resident!). After your displeasure is made clear, Eustachius misunderstands you in the opposite direction and takes you a variety of hideous manors in the Casbah. After contemplating why anyone would ever conceive of, much less build a drawer that added illusionary aromas to your silverware to "enhance taste profiles", you once again yell at Eustachius a bunch until he finally gets through his well-lacquered head that you want a place where someone might conceivable both want to live in and be able without an ancestral fortune.
The properties that fit that modest description (and only just) apparently number – in all the Twin Cities – three.
The first is a rather pleasant apartment in Elftown. The ordinary residents are out for a short sojourn to Athel Loren, albeit short for Elf-time, meaning a decade. The rent is cheap enough to not need you to have to struggle for money anytime soon, though the place poses some difficulties. Elftown has a curfew- the district is walled, and the gates sealed at 9pm. It will be very difficult to go out from here. Further, the remainder of the building is currently empty, but on inquiring with the doorman, you learn it is rented to a "Mordrin Fellheart" of Karond Kar. You've never met a Dark Elf, but you still can surmise it's a bit of an oddity to rent an entire building for no apparent reason half across the world.
The second is not technically a rental at all. Instead, it is a job position. The Senator for the Casbah, Jehdai Rubus Spania, or more correctly, his wife Suplicia, or even more accurately, their slave Morani, have advertised for an ornamental hermit. You are reasonably sure to get the position, insofar you are willing to give up your dignity as a cleric, which, considering the state of the Cult, is not much in the first place. You will get a fairly pleasant renovated artificial cave with bedroom, sitting-place and illusionary telegraph. You have no actual obligation to be present, merely give evidence of your existence to add mystery to the garden, bar at a particular event in two weeks time, a campaign party Suplicia is having for her husband. There, you are of course to read an obscure, tasteful text, and offer cryptic advice. In exchange, you get room, board, and a small stipend – not too bad, all things considered.
The third is canalboat in the Skavi. It is reasonably inexpensive, though you think you might have to take up some work in about a month or so to cover marina fees. It has the convenience of being locatable anywhere, so that you have no problem traversing the various districts at your leisure. It also has just a lovely, recently redone interior. As for counterpoints, it's terribly small, so you're unable to host or hide anybody, and bad weather would prove more difficult than the average residence to endure.
You could also stay in the Roost, which seems eminently questionable, though free and cavernous or continue staying in your hotel, in which case you'd need to take work this week or the next.
What do you choose?
[-] The Roost (Cloisters)
+ empty, huge, sanctified
- lunatic asylum on grounds, obvious
[-] 231 Summersong Road (Elftown)
+ cheap, clean, Elven make
- dark elves, curfew
[-] the Cave, Theboald's Hall (Casbah)
+ comfortable, stipend, hidden
- humiliating, required party attendance
[-] S. S. Sea's the Day (Brass Quarter)
+ movable, pretty
- tiny, weather-dependent, slightly pricy
[-] the Sultry Bastard Pub and Suites (Cloisters)
+ expensive
- convenient
You left the Cities because of politics of a sort and are loathe to return to them. Yet that fact alone speaks to their importance. If you hope to do anything in this place, you must know the players on the board. You purchase every newspaper and pamphlet available to you and set to work.
The Twin Cities sit at the heart of a modest empire, rule over which is divided between an institution and a man. The prior, the Senate, governs internal affairs - taxation, infrastructure, social policy. The latter, the Princeps Suttar, deals with that external – the army and foreign policy. Both are elected, albeit in alternating years, and for this year, the Senate. It must also be noted that the Princeps may usurp the powers of the Senate in a time of emergency, given if a majority of attending Senators declare such. This power has been used only once, under the Princeps Aulas during a war with Khemri three decades back.
Elections are based on universal male suffrage for citizens. That is, any man over the age of twenty-five (though in a curiosity, there is technically no rule against electing a woman to office), who either owns property within either of the Twin Cities or is the direct descendant of one who did. You, therefore, having the vote, but only because of your parents, and your children, if they were to ever exist, would not. Each of the five districts of Kavzar and Tylos elect a single member each, along with Pleroma the House of Tyleus. Further, the Senate upon election appoints a special non-voting thirteenth member that represents the imperium outside the City, who must be a non-citizen.
The Princeps has built his career from steady victories against the barbarians in Armoria and Talia, defeating various tribes, taking them into slavery and opening their lands for colonization. Various articles warn of rising tensions with the Elven colonies lead by Tor Alessi and the furthest branch of the Karaz Ankor in Karak Izor. As the War of the Beard has raged, and Elvish and Dwarven power waned, the Princeps has taking advantage by conquering their wealthy, weak client states. A risky strategy, but as long the siege of Athel Maraya by the Fivefold Throng continues, and the Princeps stays attacking humans, there is little risk of immediate escalation.
Within the Twin Cities, his Grace is well-liked among the populace for the wealth he has created and glory he's won. He is personable, known for delivering news of the loss of his officers to their families directly. He, at least officially, appears to take little to no role in domestic politics beyond his continued building of the Tower. All the Princeps prior have added to it, as is their right, though they are legally required to rely on personal wealth to do it. This affords them a certain secrecy in the nature of their projects, tending to be revealed only at the end of term what glorious art or magical wonder has been created, though they have been great; the great shrine to Myrmidia Perfecta and the illusory telegraph system were both the projects of past Princeps. The High Lord Suttar is however notable in just how much money he appears to be putting into this pet project, and the degree of confidentiality surrounding it – not a leak in all the papers you can find.
The Senate is comparatively fractious. It is divided into two great factions, the Reds and the Whites. The Reds were purged under Princeps Aulus during the last emergency, and have only recently regained their strength, hence the current Senate is dominated by the Whites. Their positions (and their opinions of their opponents) are best understood in their own words.
Article: WHAT WE BELIEVE
We populares or "Reds" have been subject to the most unbelievable calumnies from all sides, as the corrupt try to hold onto their gilded thrones in the face of the people's power. To ensure that every citizen is aware of our program, and not deluded by the inane mutterings of the optimates, we declare forthwith the following principles, which none can deny are the heart and soul of our every political act.
1. Work for Honest Pay
Every citizen of our fair cities must be able for a day's labour to put food on the table for him and his. To that end – a ban on the use of slaves within the Twin Cities. No longer shall barbarians take Tylosian jobs. Further, restoration of the grain dole, as during the time of the Princeps Aulus – free bread to every citizen, each and every day!
2. Land to the Solider
No longer shall the fatuous, slobbering officer class benefit against the common solider. We commend the Princeps in his humanity, but he must go further! No longer should veterans receive merely a "land certificate" that they can sell for pennies to a speculator. No! A return to direct land grants for all soldiers! If that means further war, so be it! The barbarian shall not prosper at the cost of the common man!
3. No Special Privileges to Wizards
No longer shall an accident of birth, some ineffable connexion to a Daemon-realm, mean glory and accolades. The Lodge, the Brotherhood, and the Flame must be taxed, and all the temples of all the Gods too. Why should they sit in floating palaces, while those below stumble?
4. An End to Alien Influences
We dare not name names, but we observe certain connexions with many in the Senate to the foreign courts of the Elder Races. We do not mean of course, our most loyal Sons of Skavor, who's antipathy to the hidebound and jealous nature of the Karaz Ankor is well known, nor our loyal Elf citizens. But it has been clear for some time as has been as if an occult hand was operating our politics, and we demand to reveal it, and see it be destroyed!
The truth will set you free. See our honest principles and vote Red!
Article: AGAINST THE TRAITORS
Do you want to protect your family, your property, your fatherland?
The duplicitous foreigner "Odo" schemes to take it all away, to have our cities populated by the destitute from ever corner of the world.
He means to enslave the solider through TENANT FARMING – with the state as landlord.
He means to destroy the household through ABOLITION – with Shambles rabble to be your servants.
He means to take us into WAR – with both Elves and Dwarves.
He means for religion to be DESTROYED – for the temples to Order to be taxed to fund vagrants.
Defeat this vile villain! Save our Cities from Red Disaster. Keep the Steady Course!
No New Taxes - Vote White!
Below is a chart of the current composition of the Senate (designated by italics) and their challengers. Both Fafnir Fogfather and Flavius Betto are non-partisan, as is the Princeps Suttar.
DISTRICT | RED | WHITE |
CASBAH | Olympiodorus Ooryphas | Jehdai Rubus |
LITTLE KHEMRI | S-nefer-Ka | Tariush of Quatar |
PLEROMA | Ditatis | Vigilius Rhangabe |
THUNDERDOME | Sebastianus Caerularius | Hieronimus Ollius Janius Ovidius |
SUMMERLAND | Mauricius Glycas | Orderis |
TEMPLE | John Philoponus | Marcus Glycas |
BRASS | Evaristus Comnenus | Kaginius Amor |
CLOISTERS | Mother Mercy | Martyrius Tzimiskes |
PALL | Fafnir Fogfather | Fafnir Fogfather |
CIRCUS | Theodosius Macrembolitissus | Nivet |
ELFTOWN | Illimitar Urifina | Vulluin Keacaryn |
HOUSE OF TYLEUS | Flavius Betto | Flavius Betto |
SHAMBLES | Odo "of the Daily Acts" | Constantine Staurakius |
♫
At the end of the week, you travel to the Glimmering Realm. The way down is by boat, through a series of ever-descending canal locks. The crowds are such you're forced to share your vessel, which is ordinarily meant for just two, you and the captain. Your co-passenger happens to be dwarf, though clearly not a Skavorite. He lacks the geometric "tattoos" – really, lines of embedded gemstones - that the local dwarves favored and seemed to be in some way essential to their curious magic. No, your fellow visitor's skin is unmarred, what little you can see, for he is wrapped in a thick black robe that seems to disguise a sword on his hip that glimmers out of the corner of your eye with some unfamiliar magic. He does not speak, even in greeting, and you do not engage him.
The captain of your vessel, as is required by custom and law, is a Son of Skavor. You take your opportunity to study him. He is dressed, as most of his people, in a short tunic and leggings, with a thick cream cloak over one shoulder, fastened with a silver-and-obsidian pin. Embroidered on all his clothes are what one might at first take to be sequins, but are in fact, tiny gemstones – rubies and sapphires and topazes. What visible skin you see is decorated similarly – tiny red beryls form a strange shape each cheek: a triangle with a bottom that extends past its vertices, above which is a five-pointed (but uneven) star. His hands are gloved, but you think his fingertips are stone. He directs the ship through Dwarven sorcery. At the head of each of the boats is a gold mounting, in which he places a quarterstaff taller than his head, made of pure marble. The canal is cut thinly enough that edges of the quarterstaff touch both walls. Then, with but a gesture (a point forward), the edges of the pole meld into the wall, and then the staff lurches forward, dragging the boat along behind. Later and deeper into the cavern, when the walls widened, the Son of Skavor removed the pole, but then tapped one end to the wall. With another gesture – a come hither – he drew back the staff, with the stone of the wall following, so that it was now thrice its length. He then dipped it into the water, where it must have touched the bottom of the river you were progressing down, where it again began to drag forth – though with perfect smoothness – forward once more. In all of this, he said nothing. Instead, he hummed in a way difficult to describe; part physical, part magical – a single, deep, unsettling note, joined in endless, echoing chorus by all his brothers and sisters in front and behind.
You are shocked by the size of the chamber called the Glimmering Realm. It was the size of an entire district above, and probably large enough to host most of the Cities standing shoulder to shoulder. It is also almost unspeakably beautiful. The all the walls and ceiling were covered in a rainbow of crystal, the smallest the size of a horse. Hysh-lamps of polished brass had been hung throughout the room, making the gems glitter and spark, rendering the roof a glorious kaleidoscope, which reflected in the great lake below, then back from the crystals above, and below once more… The total effect was rather like standing in a room composed entirely of rose windows, all perfectly backlit by a glorious summer sun.
Scattered throughout the great lake were small islets, on which smaller crystals grew. Carved into these stones were little niches, lit by wax candles, in which petrified dwarves stood, each with their names carved above them. Every one, without exception, rested straight and tall, with the same inscrutable almost-grin on their faces, as if they were awaiting some pleasant surprise. Each island held a separate clan, the living members of which lavished with grave goods. Never have you seen such a quality of precious metals and stones – weapons and jewelry and tools – each masterfully made and placed caringly by its eternal caretaker.
At the very centre of the room was what appeared to be an endless pit, lined with a golden-dam wall, on which runes were written in diamond that you could not read, though they hurt to Look upon. Above the pit, hung on a gromril chain was what you would best describe as a throne of silver steel. Sitting on that throne was the Dwarf you had only seen in history books – Skavor the Great! The True Ancestor sat frozen eternal on his seat, turned to a stone so pale it seemed almost translucent. His eyes were shut, his face beatifically calm, his beard neatly braided, flowing down just past his knees. In his hands, he cradled a twelve-sided golden object, almost like a game die that hummed so loud with latent magical power it nearly drowned out the noise of anything else in the room.
The boats circled the pit. Your fellow passenger finally issues a grunt of interest and fixes his eyes on Skavor. Your captain, once he secures the boat by turning the mounting and resecuring the bargepole, then magically binding that to the lake floor, does the same. You quietly sip your provided mead (the promised refreshment) and wait for the service to begin. No less than a quarter hour later (during which not once has your fellow passenger, nor the captain broken their twin stares), horns ring out, as appearing out of the pit itself on a spike of raised earth that merges at his hip is Fafnir Fogfather, Grand Master of the Sons of Skavor.
He shouts. "HAIL, DAWI!" It echoes through out the room, the hum suddenly going silent at his great gravelly boom.
The room replies, with equal enthusiasm: "HAIL, GRAND MASTER!"
"We are here today to remember, to remember the Great Ancestor! HAIL SKAVOR!"
"HAIL SKAVOR!"
"Remember his wisdom and his courage! Remember how he told his family the future to come and watched as they failed to listen! Remember how he made ready to save his people against the daemonic horde! Remember how he went down to the deep earth and learned to make his flesh one with the world!"
At that, the whole cavern rumbles as Sonsm pulling off gloves and boots, dip their petrified extremities into the water and yank with all their occult power to connect themselves to the stone.
"Remember how he taught his children, and how his family ignored his learning! Remember how that saved them when the Great Wall fell! Remember how he was punished with exile, for the crime of living!"
You think you hear you co-passenger scoff. The rumbling quiets. Fifty boats have docked at the great golden dam around the pit, and a hundred elderly dwarves are helped off, each petrified up to their neck. Fafnir, in perfect silence, rises, bows deeply before the petrified Skavor, and then takes the artifact from his unmoving hands.
"Remember that injustice! Remember our vengeance! Remember that grudge!"
The elderly dwarves, with obvious effort, manipulate the stone of their frozen bodies to join hands in a perfect circle.
"We honor you, Great Skavor, and will see what was lost returned!"
He raises the crystal above his head.
"KHAZUKAN KAZAKIT-HA!" Fafnir screams, echoed by every dwarf in the chamber.
There is nothing – and then a deep, dark crashing from the pit, like the earth itself screaming in pain. It gets louder and louder, the sound of stone being ripped asunder. You see the dwarves encircled are rapidly petrifying, the stone rising up, past their chins and mouths and eyes.
You turn, as you hear your co-passenger has unsheathed he sword. He has risen up behind the captain, as if ready to attack him. He only just pauses when he notices you see.
Just then, there is sudden, deafening CRACK! and then a piercing whine as a huge plume of blue divine flame blasts out of the hole. The heat and steam blasts great waves across the lake, knocking everyone back, you and the captain and the other dwarf collapsing in a crazy pile of limbs; the sword falls into the lake, unnoticed.
You just rise to see Fafnir unfurl the great barrier of crystal he drew from the roof to protect himself and Skavor. Everything below his hips has been vaporized – drops of hot magma drip from his body where blood might drip from a man. The petrifying dwarves surrounding the pit have been melted into a great mass of black obsidian glass. Your captain is missing his fingers, them having shattered off with the force of the great explosion.
There is a moment where there is nothing but the sound of hissing steam.
Then Fafnir with a twist of his fingers draws a new set of legs out of a shining purple crystal on the roof, and begins to chant, soon joined by every Son in the chamber.
"We remember and will avenge. We remember and will avenge. WE REMEMBER AND WILL AVENGE!"
…
When you return to your inn room much later and empty your pockets, you find a small metal card. On one side is carved a Dwarven Rune – a square without a bottom side, topped with two triangles, and then a symbol that might be a plant or a fountain. On the other is an address in the Shambles. You look at it and think.
The captain of your vessel, as is required by custom and law, is a Son of Skavor. You take your opportunity to study him. He is dressed, as most of his people, in a short tunic and leggings, with a thick cream cloak over one shoulder, fastened with a silver-and-obsidian pin. Embroidered on all his clothes are what one might at first take to be sequins, but are in fact, tiny gemstones – rubies and sapphires and topazes. What visible skin you see is decorated similarly – tiny red beryls form a strange shape each cheek: a triangle with a bottom that extends past its vertices, above which is a five-pointed (but uneven) star. His hands are gloved, but you think his fingertips are stone. He directs the ship through Dwarven sorcery. At the head of each of the boats is a gold mounting, in which he places a quarterstaff taller than his head, made of pure marble. The canal is cut thinly enough that edges of the quarterstaff touch both walls. Then, with but a gesture (a point forward), the edges of the pole meld into the wall, and then the staff lurches forward, dragging the boat along behind. Later and deeper into the cavern, when the walls widened, the Son of Skavor removed the pole, but then tapped one end to the wall. With another gesture – a come hither – he drew back the staff, with the stone of the wall following, so that it was now thrice its length. He then dipped it into the water, where it must have touched the bottom of the river you were progressing down, where it again began to drag forth – though with perfect smoothness – forward once more. In all of this, he said nothing. Instead, he hummed in a way difficult to describe; part physical, part magical – a single, deep, unsettling note, joined in endless, echoing chorus by all his brothers and sisters in front and behind.
You are shocked by the size of the chamber called the Glimmering Realm. It was the size of an entire district above, and probably large enough to host most of the Cities standing shoulder to shoulder. It is also almost unspeakably beautiful. The all the walls and ceiling were covered in a rainbow of crystal, the smallest the size of a horse. Hysh-lamps of polished brass had been hung throughout the room, making the gems glitter and spark, rendering the roof a glorious kaleidoscope, which reflected in the great lake below, then back from the crystals above, and below once more… The total effect was rather like standing in a room composed entirely of rose windows, all perfectly backlit by a glorious summer sun.
Scattered throughout the great lake were small islets, on which smaller crystals grew. Carved into these stones were little niches, lit by wax candles, in which petrified dwarves stood, each with their names carved above them. Every one, without exception, rested straight and tall, with the same inscrutable almost-grin on their faces, as if they were awaiting some pleasant surprise. Each island held a separate clan, the living members of which lavished with grave goods. Never have you seen such a quality of precious metals and stones – weapons and jewelry and tools – each masterfully made and placed caringly by its eternal caretaker.
At the very centre of the room was what appeared to be an endless pit, lined with a golden-dam wall, on which runes were written in diamond that you could not read, though they hurt to Look upon. Above the pit, hung on a gromril chain was what you would best describe as a throne of silver steel. Sitting on that throne was the Dwarf you had only seen in history books – Skavor the Great! The True Ancestor sat frozen eternal on his seat, turned to a stone so pale it seemed almost translucent. His eyes were shut, his face beatifically calm, his beard neatly braided, flowing down just past his knees. In his hands, he cradled a twelve-sided golden object, almost like a game die that hummed so loud with latent magical power it nearly drowned out the noise of anything else in the room.
The boats circled the pit. Your fellow passenger finally issues a grunt of interest and fixes his eyes on Skavor. Your captain, once he secures the boat by turning the mounting and resecuring the bargepole, then magically binding that to the lake floor, does the same. You quietly sip your provided mead (the promised refreshment) and wait for the service to begin. No less than a quarter hour later (during which not once has your fellow passenger, nor the captain broken their twin stares), horns ring out, as appearing out of the pit itself on a spike of raised earth that merges at his hip is Fafnir Fogfather, Grand Master of the Sons of Skavor.
He shouts. "HAIL, DAWI!" It echoes through out the room, the hum suddenly going silent at his great gravelly boom.
The room replies, with equal enthusiasm: "HAIL, GRAND MASTER!"
"We are here today to remember, to remember the Great Ancestor! HAIL SKAVOR!"
"HAIL SKAVOR!"
"Remember his wisdom and his courage! Remember how he told his family the future to come and watched as they failed to listen! Remember how he made ready to save his people against the daemonic horde! Remember how he went down to the deep earth and learned to make his flesh one with the world!"
At that, the whole cavern rumbles as Sonsm pulling off gloves and boots, dip their petrified extremities into the water and yank with all their occult power to connect themselves to the stone.
"Remember how he taught his children, and how his family ignored his learning! Remember how that saved them when the Great Wall fell! Remember how he was punished with exile, for the crime of living!"
You think you hear you co-passenger scoff. The rumbling quiets. Fifty boats have docked at the great golden dam around the pit, and a hundred elderly dwarves are helped off, each petrified up to their neck. Fafnir, in perfect silence, rises, bows deeply before the petrified Skavor, and then takes the artifact from his unmoving hands.
"Remember that injustice! Remember our vengeance! Remember that grudge!"
The elderly dwarves, with obvious effort, manipulate the stone of their frozen bodies to join hands in a perfect circle.
"We honor you, Great Skavor, and will see what was lost returned!"
He raises the crystal above his head.
"KHAZUKAN KAZAKIT-HA!" Fafnir screams, echoed by every dwarf in the chamber.
There is nothing – and then a deep, dark crashing from the pit, like the earth itself screaming in pain. It gets louder and louder, the sound of stone being ripped asunder. You see the dwarves encircled are rapidly petrifying, the stone rising up, past their chins and mouths and eyes.
You turn, as you hear your co-passenger has unsheathed he sword. He has risen up behind the captain, as if ready to attack him. He only just pauses when he notices you see.
Just then, there is sudden, deafening CRACK! and then a piercing whine as a huge plume of blue divine flame blasts out of the hole. The heat and steam blasts great waves across the lake, knocking everyone back, you and the captain and the other dwarf collapsing in a crazy pile of limbs; the sword falls into the lake, unnoticed.
You just rise to see Fafnir unfurl the great barrier of crystal he drew from the roof to protect himself and Skavor. Everything below his hips has been vaporized – drops of hot magma drip from his body where blood might drip from a man. The petrifying dwarves surrounding the pit have been melted into a great mass of black obsidian glass. Your captain is missing his fingers, them having shattered off with the force of the great explosion.
There is a moment where there is nothing but the sound of hissing steam.
Then Fafnir with a twist of his fingers draws a new set of legs out of a shining purple crystal on the roof, and begins to chant, soon joined by every Son in the chamber.
"We remember and will avenge. We remember and will avenge. WE REMEMBER AND WILL AVENGE!"
…
When you return to your inn room much later and empty your pockets, you find a small metal card. On one side is carved a Dwarven Rune – a square without a bottom side, topped with two triangles, and then a symbol that might be a plant or a fountain. On the other is an address in the Shambles. You look at it and think.
♫
Your final occasion for the week is your attendance at the Righteous Spear. You mention this offhand to Pelops, who declares immediately that you should wear your "formal regalia". You have no idea what this means till he runs back from some ancient storeroom and presents a costume you're not sure any priest has worn in a century – a silver crown with black roses done in obsidian, and then a thick cloak of thousand of ravens' feathers. You must make a choice – if you wear this, you will unmistakably be The Priest of Morr. That has the benefit of status, but the disadvantage of recognizability. You could also simply dress generically formally, which would make you effectively anonymous, for better or for worse.
How do you go to the Grand Theatre?
[-] In full costume.
[-] In a plain white toga.
AN: Please enjoy! No plan vote this time. If there are any other questions about politics, the Sons of Skavor or the Twin Cities in general you think Xenophon would reasonably know, don't hesitate to ask.
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Turn One Results (Part 2) - Overture
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] The Roost (Cloisters)
[x] In a plain white toga.
[x] In a plain white toga.
It's only because you walk that you notice the picket. Pleroma might be an isle only half a league wide, and sickeningly clean, but you were still cursing the effort you had to take to keep your formal toga clean as you picked your way to the theatre, keeping your back to the Tower as much as you could. You felt a stab of vertigo every time you looked at it, and tonight, you couldn't afford to vomit. But you shuffle on, and eventually reach the golden gates of the Great Amphitheatre, illuminated by bright red illusionary letters that declared to all "Tonight: The Righteous Spear!" as a floating comedy mask laughed and a tragedy mask sobbed. But to get to in, you had to cross the road, which was unfortunately blocked carriage to carriage owing to some dispute up ahead with some balding member of the Brotherhood of Moulder screaming at the operator of a magic carpet cab. So you loop around to the side entrance, which no self-respecting aristocrat would think or dare to use.
There, by a small wooden door, is an odd gaggle of five people. There is a young man with bright red hair, a blue tunic and pants, with a lightning-bolt pin that signaled he was a Hand of the Lodge of the Harvest Moon, a sort-off catch all category for wizards, for whatever reason had fallen off the cutthroat ladder of personal advancement in Thunderdome and were reduced to effectively manual labour – cloud-catching, smelting, electric work. To his right and left were two other men, though older, in similar blue tunics (a uniform?) covered by leather aprons. Laborers too, you thought. The latter was carrying a flag – the deep crimson of the Reds. The three were in intense conversation with the two main actors in tonight's show – Junius, the most famous dramatist in the Twin Cities, and his wife, Melissa. He is almost underdressed; clearly about to go into costuming; she is in a thick grey travelling cloak. There is a thin smell of a flowery perfume in the air.
You only catch the end of the conversation. The redhead says, with enough passion to make him shake "Why not tonight? They're all in there – all the bloody bastards– come on, you said you'd let us, why the hell are you getting cold feet now?"
Junius, comparatively, seemed perfectly calm. That made it only odder that within him was more Shyish than had been in Brother Sanguine, albeit mixed with scatterings of divine energy that you associated with those who had recently prayed. He said "Because I regained some sense, Gregorius. We- you- the cause needs to be safe. Go home." And at that word, a miracle. The scatterings join into a shimmering golden thread that issues forth from Junius and wraps tight around and then sinks into the younger man's soul. The rage suddenly drains from the wizard's face, replaced with an unnatural solemnity.
"As you like, Junius. Come on boys." He whirls on his heel and walks off into the city, his companions confusedly following. As they leave, Junius sighs, then turns to his wife, and gives her a deep kiss. They stand a while, embracing. But then they notice your arrival and break apart.
"Ah! Welcome to the Grand Amphitheatre!" Melissa says.
"Thank you," You reply, presenting your ticket. You're surprised it still smells, and then you realize the scent on the air is the same that was on the original letter.
You look up, shocked, but Junius is still perfectly placid while Melissa beams, the very image of a good hostess.
"Master Xenophon!" she chirps "Oh, we're so happy you're here tonight".
Your name isn't on the ticket.
"So am I?"
Junius speaks.
"You won't be."
Melissa blanches, but then recovers, forcing a laugh.
"Oh, dear – what he means is that it's a tragedy tonight – twice over, you know, because I have to miss it."
"Why's that?" you ask.
She gives a smile – all teeth.
"A death in the family.".
There is a beat of silence. She grabs her husband's hand, gives it a squeeze, and lets go.
"Well, have a lovely night!" Melissa of Pleroma says, and then walks out into the city dark.
At this point, you're wondering if the doom foretold was that everyone in these fucking cities would only be able to speak in sinister generalities. Junius seems in no hurry to clarify, as he takes advantage of your shock to breeze past you and into the theatre. You rush to follow, but by the time you get into the grand lobby, crowded with hundreds of guests, you've lost any sight of him.
"Wine?" a waiter asks. You take a glass and chug it.
…
You consider leaving but think better of it. No one said anything explicitly threatening - perhaps Junius was just sad because of his wife's departure. Sure. Also, the canapes were pretty good, and you were sick of eating only bread and figs with Pelops to drag out your savings. It was the Grand Amphitheatre, in Pleroma! What threats could their bloody be, bar an irate aristocrat. It was going to be fine. Absolutely fine.
Having perfectly regained your confidence, you choose to do that most terrifying of tasks – mingle with the upper classes. You awkwardly sidle up to the first conversation that is not about how hard it is to find good slaves nowadays or who someone's aunt's sister's brother's cousin's daughter married, interrupting a chat between a person wrapped in an illusion so thick you can't actually see him past the waves of Ulgu and an Elven woman in black mourning silks.
"Rather good turnout!" you say.
"The Princeps is due, so rather better than that," declares the illusion, who might have grey hair. "I am not sure we have met." He (?) bows. "I am the Senator Nivet of Circus, and my friend" he gestures to the Elf "is the Lady Tophania" She curtsies and asks "And you are?"
"Xenophon of … Terramorta" you say, indelicately substituting your adopted parish. "I am new to the Cities, er – just visiting for a funeral" Great save, really.
The Lady Tophania gives a gasp of horror. "My deepest condolences! You know, I just lost my dear husband – his heart just stopped working – can you believe that! – just fell down dead and it was so very hard. He was always so supportive, looking after my finances –" Nivet laughs at that. "even doctored me himself. I just think – I must be strong! I just think of him watching me and – ah, it's what makes me go on! You really must try date cakes – they really did cheer me. Oh! And Daffy's Elixir, to stop your cheeks puffing up; grief's not an excuse to look bad. And shopping – a new wardrobe is particularly important, to be respectable and - "
You are mercifully saved from further advice on funerary protocol by a shout from the other end of the lobby. Two members of the Cleansing Flame seem to have drawn weapons on each other, while a third holds them apart. A short bald man wearing red robes embroidered with thousands of eyes in gold thread and the ten-pointed iron crown of the loyalists of Solkan has summoned a flaming sword so hot it blazes blue. He is screaming "BLASPHEMY!". His opponent, wearing robes of the same color, but unadorned, has summoned a glowing Hysh net between his hands in a cat's cradle, while shouting "THE WARP LIES!" Between them, an ancient woman in robes that might once have been red, but have faded to a dull pink, holds up a single crystal key, from which a great transparent dome blooms, blocking her and the debaters inside. From her issues the power of LAW, a magic that always makes your teeth ache and your stomach churn as all that is Morr within you cringes from the merciless light. She appears to start scolding the others, as you watch their magic visibly weaken trapped in the dome, the sword sputtering, the light fading.
The Lady Tophania whispers to you. "That's Mistress Marvos, the Grand Consecrator. Those two that are being disciplined like schoolchildren are two of the Flame's finest "Patriarchs of Truth" - Floridus Ennius – head of that new rehabilitative asylum, you know the one – and Angelus Spania, my nephew and Keeper of the Prison of Mirrors –oops" she winks at you "that's confidential."
"Hysh always makes one unbearable" says Nivet. "Not surprised daemons flee from it. I would too."
"He's an elf?" you ask, admittedly indelicately. You didn't realize elves could be bald. Or that short. Or grow (bad) moustaches.
"No. I married a man." she notes, with a delicate shrug of your soldiers. You've never heard of an interspecies match before.
"They're angling for her position" the Senator notes.
"And that is?" you say.
"She is Temple's representative to Myrmidia's Spring – I am not sure someone from the colonies would be aware – the great font of magic beneath the Tower." He sighs and even through the layers and layers of illusion, you see a deep frown. "She is doing a bad job."
Before you can ask why, there's a blast of trumpets, and what seems like a whole legion of soldiers troops into the lobby, clearing a path directly to the Amphitheatre. Then, through the double doors strides the Princeps Suttar.
He looks younger that you thought he would be, perhaps thirty-five at most, though with Moulder age treatments, he may well be far older. He has handsome; dark brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and a cleft chin, with wavy blonde locks that fall down past his ears. He is in ceremonial armour; a gromril muscle cuirass, on which is engraved the legendary marriage of Tyleus and Myrmidia. From his shoulders and hips are ilthmar pturges, and at his side hangs his legendary truesilver sword, Bellerophon. On his head sits his horned crown of office, the barbs of the dragon Tyleus slew to found the Twin Cities, set in gold. All of this is enormously enchanted, the full rainbow of magic blasting out from him – but you really Look and see that beyond all of his panoply, his soul is extraordinarily, shockingly radiant; brighter, bigger, realer than any you've seen – even your own.
Lord Suttar waves, but speaks to no one, and proceeds to his box, his guard following. The rest of the audience takes that as a signal to proceed to their seats, so the great exodus begins. You check your ticket, and follow, ready for the show to go on.
…
Who do you find yourself sitting next to?
[-] By Mistress Marvos, in a box directly beneath the Princeps.
[-] By the Lady Tophania, in the front row.
[-] No one at all, as you sneak backstage.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn One Results (Part 3) - Crescendo
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You sit. You are the Audience.
[RISK: Break the Fourth Wall – Tails (Failure)]
Jephthah, a great general
Idomeneus, brother of Jephthah
Adah, wife of Jephthah
Selia, daughter of Jephthah
Old Slave, servant of Jephthah
TIME: Dusk.
JEPHTHAH
Old man, come out. Come out!
Hurry up!
What stars are those
That move across the sky?
Alas!
This silence mocks me, slave
As does this cloying peace
What glory have I promised
And what little we have won!
What warrior can I be fighting nothing?
That gods play dice with the lives of men
Is the font of my grief.
See before you fifty legions
Fitted with all accustomed pomp
Their standards, each
Topped with golden eagles
Ready to march to war.
But all is still and silent!
And ill stars converge to mock me.
The prophet Xenophon spoke to me in despair
Saying we would win only ignominy.
That the God had taken offense
At our grandiose aims
To conquer all
And had forsaken us.
One way alone could we keep our honor.
To Sacrifice on the altar
my own daughter to Him
And my army shall find battle.
At that instant, my heart filled
With shame and horror comixed
I moved to make a loud proclamation
To dismiss the army and avoid cruel brutality.
But cannot face my loss alone.
I cannot write away my destiny.
Yes, taken the reigns
And shake them – send them back!
Go out! Run! Hurry now!
Forget you are old!
(He hands the letter to the OLD SLAVE)
(the OLD SLAVE goes out)
No mortal man has happiness
To his end – we are all born
To our own grief.
(JEPHTHAH goes out)
…
(IDOMENEUS and the OLD SLAVE enter, quarrelling, the prior armed with a spear)
IDOMENEUS
Keep your place, or you'll pay for it.
Nor had you the right to carry a message
That would bring evil and ruin to all.
IDOMENEUS
This stick will beat you to bloody pulp.
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(the OLD SLAVE falls)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(THE ACTOR PLAYING THE OLD SLAVE lies bloody and unmoving)
(JEPHTHAH enters)
JEPHTHAH
What is this, a brawl?
Right at my own door?
Do you think I would
Shrink from your eye?
I see the letter – give it here.
What treason is this?
You won't allow me to rule my own men?
You frame your lies neat.
I hate a honeyed tongue.
You know what Xenophon spoke.
You know the cost of our sweet dream.
This enterprise, against law, right,
And the child I fathered, each day, each night
Would wear me out in grief.
JEPHTHAH (shouting)
You unman me!
You unmake me!
Brother!
JEPHTHAH (stiffly)
Here it is. You have won the challenge.
I now face the trial of my defeat.
Go to the army, but take all precaution
That my wife learn nothing of this,
Till after I have seized the child and
Sent her to her death.
And you, who are our guests,
See that you guard your lips.
(JEPTHAH and IDOMEMUS exit)
…
(JEPTHAH and SELIA enter)
(the OLD SLAVE'S body remains)
SELIA
Father, how many days since I saw you last!
But now, seeing you again
I am happy!
Are your troubles calmed?
Is the way cleared?
SELIA
But why do you call me
To this camp of men?
A messenger came in all due haste
But was mum on your meaning.
I don't understand
Father – I don't understand.
You're going away – far away from me!
But if only our journeys could be one!
A new home for me you're making Father
Where will it be?
Oh yes, of course.
We must sacrifice to heaven.
Shall I ready the altar, ready myself
To dance, round and round?
JEPHTHAH
Forgive me, child.
And forgive me, God, for this self-pity.
(He turns)
Who comes now – a woman!
Woe!
Lord, your punishment is swift!
(ADAH enters)
(THE ACTOR PLAYING IDOMENEUS enters, with bloody spear)
THE ACTOR PLAYINJG IDOMENEUS
All is well.
(THE ACTOR PLAYING IDOMENEUS and JEPTHAH go out)
…
(An altar appears. The OLD SLAVE's body is mangled in the mechanism.)
(JEPTHAH and SELIA enter)
JEPHTHAH
I love my child.
Know that.
Bind her.
(IDOMENEUS enters with a rope)
JEPHTHAH
What dirty work.
O child, here is my compulsion absolute.
Behold the armies, their armour bright
Their spears arrayed in even lines.
All rely on me
To lead them to their glory
But none shall be found
No cities sacked
None laid low
Until, as the prophet Xenophon has decreed
I make you the victim of this sacrifice.
Terrible it is to me, to dare this thing.
But terrible too, not to dare it.
O child,
Fate turns to you, to me, and now
It lies in us to set her free.
IDOMENEUS
It has been foretold.
O noble heart.
Is it not that right I mourn your death?
I will come with you.
Let me touch your gown.
Oh, my love.
You are going, then?
THE ACTRESS PLAYING SELIA
Aah! It's really burning! Help me! Please, help me!
(She catches flame)
THE ACTRESS PLAYING SELIA
Aah! HELP! NO! NO! NO! GODS! MOTHER!
(She screams and burns and burns)
...
(IDOMENEUS stab SELIA'S corpse in the heart. He is sprayed with broiling blood, his skin puckering and peeling. His spear pulses and grows red hot. THE ACTOR PLAYING IDOMENEUS turns as he catches flame, bows, and falls down dead.)
(THE ACTOR PLAYING JEPHTHAH picks up the spear.)
THE ACTOR PLAYING JEPHTHAH, JUNIUS
O Goddess,
You who joy in human blood,
Now be our guide
Give to this spearman
A crown of victory
And touch these cities
With glory everlasting
Amen.
(JUNIUS throws the spear)
The Audience applauds and cheers.
Show's over.
You awake.
The spear flies above your head.
You twist to watch its perfect course.
It flies towards the Princeps, steady as a swift, even as the swing of a pendulum.
You raise your hand – to what?
There is a crack of magic.
The spear changes course.
Down.
Below the Princeps.
Down.
Below his box.
Down.
And strikes Mistress Marvos dead.
Someone screams.
And chaos reigns.
…
You are in your seat. You remember exactly what happened in the play, having watched it happen in front of you. As soon as you sat in your seat, you were compelled by a magical force from an unknown source to simply watch the play, regardless of what happened, a spell only broken with the drama's ending.
Junius is still on the stage. He is in a deep bow. Around him are the corpses of his fellow actors. The stage and curtains are also on fire, and increasingly so.
The audience is screaming, and beginning to stampede for the exists. The Princeps has been dragged out and away from this box by his guards. The Lady Tophania is looking at you with some interest, seemingly immune to the total anarchy around her.
What do you do?
[-] Go for Junius.
[-] Run.
AN: Is this a blatant Warhammer rip-off of Iphigenia in Aulis? Yes. Please forgive the indulgence (and all credit due to Charles R. Walker's translation, from which the above is heavily drawn). If you have any questions about the situation in the theatre, I'm happy to answer them, though be aware that what Xenophon knows is limited to his so far fifteen seconds of conscious awareness since the end of the production.
[RISK: Break the Fourth Wall – Tails (Failure)]
YOU WATCH.
Dramatis Personae
Jephthah, a great general
Idomeneus, brother of Jephthah
Adah, wife of Jephthah
Selia, daughter of Jephthah
Old Slave, servant of Jephthah
THE RIGHTEOUS SPEAR
SCENE: In front of the tent of Jephthah, amid an army camp.
TIME: Dusk.
JEPHTHAH
Old man, come out. Come out!
Hurry up!
OLD SLAVE (entering)
I'm hurrying – and I'm not asleep,
Mercy! Time's a vise for the old.
JEPHTHAH (pacing back and forth)I'm hurrying – and I'm not asleep,
Mercy! Time's a vise for the old.
What stars are those
That move across the sky?
OLD SLAVE
Why Talios, denier.
The stubborn goat that rebukes all comers
What'soever their grand designs.
JEPHTHAH (stopping still)Why Talios, denier.
The stubborn goat that rebukes all comers
What'soever their grand designs.
Alas!
OLD SLAVE
My lord, what ails you?
Why have you been rushing up and down
Outside your tent – there is peace
And quiet in the camp – none
Move save for your command.
Can we not go inside?
JEPHTHAHMy lord, what ails you?
Why have you been rushing up and down
Outside your tent – there is peace
And quiet in the camp – none
Move save for your command.
Can we not go inside?
This silence mocks me, slave
As does this cloying peace
What glory have I promised
And what little we have won!
What warrior can I be fighting nothing?
OLD SLAVE
I don't like words like these.
You were begat, not to have all good things.
No, it is necessary and fated
That you be glad and that you be
Sad too.
What the gods will comes true.
But it is not some mere
Obscurity of valour that ails you
In your hand I spy a letter
You've been writing and tearing them
Each time with sharp tears.
O Lord! Tell of your woe.
Idomeneus picked me for your service
Because I was honest.
JEPHTHAH (explaining the situation) I don't like words like these.
You were begat, not to have all good things.
No, it is necessary and fated
That you be glad and that you be
Sad too.
What the gods will comes true.
But it is not some mere
Obscurity of valour that ails you
In your hand I spy a letter
You've been writing and tearing them
Each time with sharp tears.
O Lord! Tell of your woe.
Idomeneus picked me for your service
Because I was honest.
That gods play dice with the lives of men
Is the font of my grief.
See before you fifty legions
Fitted with all accustomed pomp
Their standards, each
Topped with golden eagles
Ready to march to war.
But all is still and silent!
And ill stars converge to mock me.
The prophet Xenophon spoke to me in despair
Saying we would win only ignominy.
That the God had taken offense
At our grandiose aims
To conquer all
And had forsaken us.
One way alone could we keep our honor.
To Sacrifice on the altar
my own daughter to Him
And my army shall find battle.
At that instant, my heart filled
With shame and horror comixed
I moved to make a loud proclamation
To dismiss the army and avoid cruel brutality.
But cannot face my loss alone.
I cannot write away my destiny.
OLD SLAVE
My sweet lord, my good lord
Hail your wisdom and your grace
And your mercy most profound!
I have not envy of the powerful
Who must carry the sky on their backs.
But let this worm take the burden.
And deliver your words to the men.
Whatever slings and arrows are flung for this
I consider a worthy sacrifice.
JEPHTHAHMy sweet lord, my good lord
Hail your wisdom and your grace
And your mercy most profound!
I have not envy of the powerful
Who must carry the sky on their backs.
But let this worm take the burden.
And deliver your words to the men.
Whatever slings and arrows are flung for this
I consider a worthy sacrifice.
Yes, taken the reigns
And shake them – send them back!
Go out! Run! Hurry now!
Forget you are old!
(He hands the letter to the OLD SLAVE)
(the OLD SLAVE goes out)
No mortal man has happiness
To his end – we are all born
To our own grief.
(JEPHTHAH goes out)
…
(IDOMENEUS and the OLD SLAVE enter, quarrelling, the prior armed with a spear)
IDOMENEUS
Keep your place, or you'll pay for it.
OLD SLAVE (shouting)
You had no right to the letter I carried!
IDOMENEUSYou had no right to the letter I carried!
Nor had you the right to carry a message
That would bring evil and ruin to all.
OLD SLAVE
Give it!
Give it!
IDOMENEUS
This stick will beat you to bloody pulp.
OLD SLAVE
For my master, a worthy sacrifice.
(the OLD SLAVE lunges forward)For my master, a worthy sacrifice.
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(the OLD SLAVE falls)
OLD SLAVE
Aaargh!
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)Aaargh!
THE ACTOR PLAYING THE OLD SLAVE
Stop!
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)Stop!
THE ACTOR PLAYING THE OLD SLAVE
Help!
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)Help!
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(IDOMENEUS strikes him)
(THE ACTOR PLAYING THE OLD SLAVE lies bloody and unmoving)
(JEPHTHAH enters)
JEPHTHAH
What is this, a brawl?
Right at my own door?
IDOMEMUS
Look upon my face, Jephthah
And listen to my story.
JEPHTHAHLook upon my face, Jephthah
And listen to my story.
Do you think I would
Shrink from your eye?
IDOMEMUS
Your shrink from much
If this letter is true.
JEPHTHAHYour shrink from much
If this letter is true.
I see the letter – give it here.
IDOMEMUS
Never.
JEPHTHAHNever.
What treason is this?
You won't allow me to rule my own men?
IDOMEMUS
No, it is your mind that is treacherous.
One day, you plan one thing,
Another day another.
Tomorrow you will shift again.
JEPHTHAHNo, it is your mind that is treacherous.
One day, you plan one thing,
Another day another.
Tomorrow you will shift again.
You frame your lies neat.
I hate a honeyed tongue.
IDOMEMUS
Brother,
A disloyal heart is false to friends
And a thing of evil.
Now you I want to question
To see from whence this madness sprung.
Have you forgotten when you were eager
And anxious to lead us out
To win glory unrecorded
And to shake the world?
Eager for command,
You won power then, opened hearts,
By granting to every man what they wished
To set be set apart.
From the barbarian,
from the mob
You gave them destinies!
And now you seek, on your judgement alone
To take back your gift
And send us cringing home?
From all, you become nothing!
JEPHTHAHBrother,
A disloyal heart is false to friends
And a thing of evil.
Now you I want to question
To see from whence this madness sprung.
Have you forgotten when you were eager
And anxious to lead us out
To win glory unrecorded
And to shake the world?
Eager for command,
You won power then, opened hearts,
By granting to every man what they wished
To set be set apart.
From the barbarian,
from the mob
You gave them destinies!
And now you seek, on your judgement alone
To take back your gift
And send us cringing home?
From all, you become nothing!
You know what Xenophon spoke.
You know the cost of our sweet dream.
IDOMEMUS
For one life
You let the barbarians, even the basest,
Slip from our grasp and make our name a mockery!
How many men
Have we yet tread
How many, by your command
Have run into the gale
And been swallowed up by fate?
And you balk at this cost
No less then you have asked yourself?
JEPHTHAHFor one life
You let the barbarians, even the basest,
Slip from our grasp and make our name a mockery!
How many men
Have we yet tread
How many, by your command
Have run into the gale
And been swallowed up by fate?
And you balk at this cost
No less then you have asked yourself?
This enterprise, against law, right,
And the child I fathered, each day, each night
Would wear me out in grief.
IDOMEMUS
For our country, a worthy sacrifice.
You are a warrior!
Boast and puff yourself up!
If you do not.
I have other means, and other friends.
For our country, a worthy sacrifice.
You are a warrior!
Boast and puff yourself up!
If you do not.
I have other means, and other friends.
You unman me!
You unmake me!
Brother!
IDOMEMUS (smiling)
What I do,
I do for us all.
What is a life but a candle's flame
Measured against the sun of
eternity?
What I do,
I do for us all.
What is a life but a candle's flame
Measured against the sun of
eternity?
Here it is. You have won the challenge.
I now face the trial of my defeat.
Go to the army, but take all precaution
That my wife learn nothing of this,
Till after I have seized the child and
Sent her to her death.
And you, who are our guests,
See that you guard your lips.
(JEPTHAH and IDOMEMUS exit)
…
(JEPTHAH and SELIA enter)
SELIA
Father, how many days since I saw you last!
But now, seeing you again
I am happy!
Are your troubles calmed?
Is the way cleared?
JEPHTHAH
Child,
Seeing you, I am happy too.
Child,
Seeing you, I am happy too.
SELIA
But why do you call me
To this camp of men?
A messenger came in all due haste
But was mum on your meaning.
JEPHTHAH (putting her hand on his forehead)
There is a long parting soon to come
For the both of us-
SELIAThere is a long parting soon to come
For the both of us-
I don't understand
Father – I don't understand.
JEPHTHAH
I must equip and dispatch the armies
I am still hindered and held up.
But I will leave with all haste and soon
Before the turn of these wicked stars.
SELIAI must equip and dispatch the armies
I am still hindered and held up.
But I will leave with all haste and soon
Before the turn of these wicked stars.
You're going away – far away from me!
JEPHTHAH
No, daughter, your situation is like mine.
You're going on a long voyage – leaving me.
SELIANo, daughter, your situation is like mine.
You're going on a long voyage – leaving me.
But if only our journeys could be one!
A new home for me you're making Father
Where will it be?
JEPHTHAH (driven to speak what he has hidden)
It is not for a girl to know all these things.
But first – right here – we must offer homage to the God.
SELIAIt is not for a girl to know all these things.
But first – right here – we must offer homage to the God.
Oh yes, of course.
We must sacrifice to heaven.
JEPHTHAH
My dear daughter, my lovely one – so pious and so pure.
O rosy cheeks! O golden hair!
You are more right than you know.
SELIA (smiling)My dear daughter, my lovely one – so pious and so pure.
O rosy cheeks! O golden hair!
You are more right than you know.
Shall I ready the altar, ready myself
To dance, round and round?
JEPHTHAH (embracing her)
What burden I lay upon you!
What would I give
To lose these spearmen, lose my pomp
To stay here
But I cannot close my eyes forever
As now they water – damn your perfume.
Go, daughter, now!
(SELIA goes out)What burden I lay upon you!
What would I give
To lose these spearmen, lose my pomp
To stay here
But I cannot close my eyes forever
As now they water – damn your perfume.
Go, daughter, now!
JEPHTHAH
Forgive me, child.
And forgive me, God, for this self-pity.
(He turns)
Who comes now – a woman!
Woe!
Lord, your punishment is swift!
(THE ACTOR PLAYING IDOMENEUS enters, with bloody spear)
THE ACTOR PLAYINJG IDOMENEUS
All is well.
(THE ACTOR PLAYING IDOMENEUS and JEPTHAH go out)
…
(An altar appears. The OLD SLAVE's body is mangled in the mechanism.)
(JEPTHAH and SELIA enter)
JEPHTHAH
I love my child.
Know that.
CELIA
And I my father true.
JEPHTHAH (crying)And I my father true.
Bind her.
(IDOMENEUS enters with a rope)
CELIA
Father? Uncle! What alien passion seizes you?
(IDOMENEUS ties CELIA to the altar)Father? Uncle! What alien passion seizes you?
JEPHTHAH
What dirty work.
O child, here is my compulsion absolute.
Behold the armies, their armour bright
Their spears arrayed in even lines.
All rely on me
To lead them to their glory
But none shall be found
No cities sacked
None laid low
Until, as the prophet Xenophon has decreed
I make you the victim of this sacrifice.
Terrible it is to me, to dare this thing.
But terrible too, not to dare it.
O child,
Fate turns to you, to me, and now
It lies in us to set her free.
CELIA
I see now the reason for your sorrow.
Will it be, but for my life
We shall fall into the shadow?
Hungry oblivion will take its toll
And leave not dust for remembering?
I see now the reason for your sorrow.
Will it be, but for my life
We shall fall into the shadow?
Hungry oblivion will take its toll
And leave not dust for remembering?
IDOMENEUS
It has been foretold.
CELIA
Then there's nothing to it.
No need for snares.
Don't weep, father! I am not lost
But saved! With my meager strength, I may redeem us all
And you, through me, will be remembered gloriously.
JEPHTHAHThen there's nothing to it.
No need for snares.
Don't weep, father! I am not lost
But saved! With my meager strength, I may redeem us all
And you, through me, will be remembered gloriously.
O noble heart.
Is it not that right I mourn your death?
CELIA
No! For I
Die favoured by fate and the God.
What could be better?
JEPHTHAHNo! For I
Die favoured by fate and the God.
What could be better?
I will come with you.
Let me touch your gown.
CELIA
No – trust me. Here you must stay.
For you, and me, and all.
JEPHTHAHNo – trust me. Here you must stay.
For you, and me, and all.
Oh, my love.
You are going, then?
CELIA
Yes.
And not to return again.
To dwell beyond
In the glorious light.
Farwell! Farwell!
(IDOMENEUS sets the altar aflame)Yes.
And not to return again.
To dwell beyond
In the glorious light.
Farwell! Farwell!
THE ACTRESS PLAYING SELIA
Aah! It's really burning! Help me! Please, help me!
(She catches flame)
THE ACTRESS PLAYING SELIA
Aah! HELP! NO! NO! NO! GODS! MOTHER!
(She screams and burns and burns)
...
(IDOMENEUS stab SELIA'S corpse in the heart. He is sprayed with broiling blood, his skin puckering and peeling. His spear pulses and grows red hot. THE ACTOR PLAYING IDOMENEUS turns as he catches flame, bows, and falls down dead.)
(THE ACTOR PLAYING JEPHTHAH picks up the spear.)
THE ACTOR PLAYING JEPHTHAH, JUNIUS
O Goddess,
You who joy in human blood,
Now be our guide
Give to this spearman
A crown of victory
And touch these cities
With glory everlasting
Amen.
(JUNIUS throws the spear)
The Audience applauds and cheers.
Show's over.
You awake.
The spear flies above your head.
You twist to watch its perfect course.
It flies towards the Princeps, steady as a swift, even as the swing of a pendulum.
You raise your hand – to what?
There is a crack of magic.
The spear changes course.
Down.
Below the Princeps.
Down.
Below his box.
Down.
And strikes Mistress Marvos dead.
Someone screams.
And chaos reigns.
…
You are in your seat. You remember exactly what happened in the play, having watched it happen in front of you. As soon as you sat in your seat, you were compelled by a magical force from an unknown source to simply watch the play, regardless of what happened, a spell only broken with the drama's ending.
Junius is still on the stage. He is in a deep bow. Around him are the corpses of his fellow actors. The stage and curtains are also on fire, and increasingly so.
The audience is screaming, and beginning to stampede for the exists. The Princeps has been dragged out and away from this box by his guards. The Lady Tophania is looking at you with some interest, seemingly immune to the total anarchy around her.
What do you do?
[-] Go for Junius.
[-] Run.
AN: Is this a blatant Warhammer rip-off of Iphigenia in Aulis? Yes. Please forgive the indulgence (and all credit due to Charles R. Walker's translation, from which the above is heavily drawn). If you have any questions about the situation in the theatre, I'm happy to answer them, though be aware that what Xenophon knows is limited to his so far fifteen seconds of conscious awareness since the end of the production.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn One Results (Part 4) - Denoument
- Pronouns
- He/Him
They say the mark of a man is his sense in crisis. You disagree. When there is no time for reason, passion rules the day, and what passion demands is rather more primal than the frippery of one's ineffable character. No, what disaster shows is what a man really fears. And as you grab a cloak off the back of a chair and pull the bone dagger you've kept on you since you ran away at eighteen, you know you are not afraid of death. No, your terror is unknowing – drowning in portents of doom of your people, your cities, and not being able to raise a finger to stop the flood. Your life for salvation – no choice at all. You're going to get the bastard.
So, you haul yourself onstage, cape as a makeshift shield on one arm, blade in the other. Standing before you is a man in the scale armor and crested helmet, who has grabbed from the ruin of the camp what very much does not look like a prop sword. Junius meets your hateful gaze with the even calm of the condemned. He speaks first:
"A good end, then?"
You reply "As Morr demands."
[RISK: Fight Call – three flips: heads, tails, heads]
And then the dance begins. He's taller, and got the advantage in reach, so it's only natural he takes the first step – and then a great wide sweep with his blade that you hop back to avoid. As he draws back up you dart forward and feint a jab at his armpit. He brings his sword to parry, as you expect, having to awkwardly flick it back towards him. But you predicted that, and meet him with a wrench of cloak instead, and he stumbles for a second, as his blade cuts through nothing but silk and open air. You take the advantage, and cut hard across the side of his neck, spraying blood across the floorboards. Junius yells in pain, dropping his sword, then flat charges you. You've managed so far, despite your worst armament, because he's been slow and showy – theatre fighting, through and through – while you've done the quick nipping of a desperate street-fight. But all your footwork and speed can't defeat the realities of mass and acceleration, so Junius's tackle lands you both crashing onto Idomeneus' corpse with a crack as you shatter its spine. You drop the cloak, and your dagger skitters across the floor.
You can't breathe. Junius' whole weight is atop you. You try a weak punch, but Junius catches it, and shoves your arm back, pinning it with his own. His other hand wraps around your throat and squeezes – ever so softly. He's not choking you. You blink, bewildered, at his still placid face. You can feel the heat of flame behind you, smell the tar of burning hair, the crackle and pop of collapsing beams. Behind him, all is pure white light – perhaps he is strangling you, and you're dying, and you can't feel it? But he holds your arm harder, and the cutting jab as he pushes your bicep into the corpses' teeth proves that yes, you still very much are alive enough to know pain.
He's whispering now, an inch above your face, a parody of intimacy. "Got to keep a good showing, Prophet. Carry on the torch, would you? Can't have you implicated. My Lady weeps for it having to come to this. But what do I know? She changed it on me. Plans within plans. The ineffable divine. All of us against the stillbirth. Would you bless me, before I have to go?"
All this time, you've been stretching, pushing your fingertips splayed, and just got hold of something heavy and burning hot; you grab it, despite hurt, and as Junius pauses, waiting for his benediction, you offer him the true disdain of the Cult of Morr by bashing him in the head with what you realize is Celia's charred thighbone, her flesh already somehow ash, flaking down around you as you whack and whack.
He lets go of your throat, and you manage to shove him off as he withdraws his arms to protect his skull; already his forehead is bruising black. As you scrabble to get up, you scream what you've wanted to ever since you got the first apocalypse vision:
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!"
His expression, as his lies spayed on the floor, final betrays an emotion – shock.
"He didn't tell you? You don't know?!" he shouts and then, impossibly laughs. And he keeps laughing, so hard and fast that he's shaking back and forth, tears in his eyes.
"Cowards! Bastards! Liars! HA! HA! My Lady too, may she be forsaken. What a crock of shit she spun – BWA! HA HA! The little piggies are scared of the roast! The cobra's gaze is on them now! HA!"
You want to tear your hair out. One clear answer, please – that's all you goddam want. You point the ashen bone at Junius, and scream.
"BY THE HOLY NAME OF MORR AND MYRMIDIA AND TYLEUS' HAIRY ASS WHO ARE THEY? WHAT'S GOING ON!"
Suddenly, he goes back to serious, actually furrowing his brow in annoyance.
"Are you thick! The Gods, man! The Gods! Don't trust a word they say! They're planning their stupid games, shoving us about in the dark – but we're more than pawns. They're running scared, boy! Running scared! And all we've got to do is – urk!"
His head falls off, sliced with a blade that moved too fast to see. The Princeps stands behind the corpse of Junius. You watch as the light fades from the actor's eyes and see the characteristic pulse of magical energy that signaled the release of a soul – but instead of ascending, as one typically did, you see it stretch unnaturally thin and then vanish with a swirl, down a silver blade and into the bright shine of the Princeps with a sound like the ring of a bell. And you watch, as Junius' soul vanishes into the light, that Suttar's inner brilliance grow yet more intense and blinding.
He smiles at you and offers you a hand– and suddenly, the spell is broken. Your whole body aches, and you can feel your arm bleeding. You're breathing heavy, but too quick; the smoke is making your head pound. You take his arm and leaning on your lord Prince are dragged from the Grand Theatre.
…
A while later, you are sitting in a hastily expropriated café with the Princeps and far too many soldiers. You have been given a thick cloak, a change of clothes, and some strong spiced wine, all of which you are grateful for. He is in close conference with what you take to be various generals, ironically wearing the same get up the late Junius had on.
Shit, you realize – you lost your dagger.
But before you can mourn much, the Princeps turns to you, having judged thirty minutes for mortal men unlike himself to recover from the shock of almost death.
"My thanks, good citizen – if not for your distraction of that villain, who knows what havoc he could have wreaked. Your name, man?"
You attempt a pseudonym, but find yourself compelled to speak true, as a ring of rose-gold on his finger sparks with Hysh. "Xenophon, Priest of Morr."
He cocks his head. "A seer! And with the same name as the one in the play! Did you foresee that?" He laughs, but there's a strange twinkle in his very clear, very blue eyes.
Thankfully, you can honestly say "No."
"Well, Xenophon's a name common enough – but it's damn curious. Not that I'm suspicious, of course, perish the thought! You did a great deal of good, and I reward bravery, not punish it."
You hear some a general mutter under his breath "bad for the Flame, then". As you've heard now, apparently the great wall of light you saw was the combined effort of Floridus Ennius and Angelus Spania, who both immediately accused the other of the murder of Marvos and mutually cut the stage off for fear of the other "assisting their conspirator", a stalemate only ended when the Princeps came racing in and demanded they both return to Temple at pain of arrest.
"I have two options for you. First, you can go home and forget this all happened – and I'll give you a pile of gold for your trouble. Second - you seem like the type to have a good head on your shoulders – figure this whole mess out for me. I'll make you an honorary Agens – proper powers, you can demand someone answer your questions direct or in writing and get most anywhere. Get me a report in two weeks, and I'll pay you more than in gold; a boon, whatever you like, even if you don't find anything. With the election and all, I need to be a bit subtle here; this already looks bad enough."
What do you say?
[-] Take the money.
[-] Take the job.
…
You're quickly dismissed after that, with a blinding white smile and a wave from the most powerful man in the Twin Cities. You tromp home, and meet an anguished Pelops, who after you get to stop apologizing for his self-declared failure to act as your guardian, shows you to your room, though insists on planting himself as the night-guard outside it.
It's a humble prayer cell, clearly repurposed, but the boy's done a fair job. The bedding might clearly be a funeral shawl and the pillow cut out of the lining of a coffin, but it's all good cotton, comfortable enough. But as you lay down and gird yourself for more nightmares, one question echoes in your head.
What makes a God afraid?
So, you haul yourself onstage, cape as a makeshift shield on one arm, blade in the other. Standing before you is a man in the scale armor and crested helmet, who has grabbed from the ruin of the camp what very much does not look like a prop sword. Junius meets your hateful gaze with the even calm of the condemned. He speaks first:
"A good end, then?"
You reply "As Morr demands."
[RISK: Fight Call – three flips: heads, tails, heads]
And then the dance begins. He's taller, and got the advantage in reach, so it's only natural he takes the first step – and then a great wide sweep with his blade that you hop back to avoid. As he draws back up you dart forward and feint a jab at his armpit. He brings his sword to parry, as you expect, having to awkwardly flick it back towards him. But you predicted that, and meet him with a wrench of cloak instead, and he stumbles for a second, as his blade cuts through nothing but silk and open air. You take the advantage, and cut hard across the side of his neck, spraying blood across the floorboards. Junius yells in pain, dropping his sword, then flat charges you. You've managed so far, despite your worst armament, because he's been slow and showy – theatre fighting, through and through – while you've done the quick nipping of a desperate street-fight. But all your footwork and speed can't defeat the realities of mass and acceleration, so Junius's tackle lands you both crashing onto Idomeneus' corpse with a crack as you shatter its spine. You drop the cloak, and your dagger skitters across the floor.
You can't breathe. Junius' whole weight is atop you. You try a weak punch, but Junius catches it, and shoves your arm back, pinning it with his own. His other hand wraps around your throat and squeezes – ever so softly. He's not choking you. You blink, bewildered, at his still placid face. You can feel the heat of flame behind you, smell the tar of burning hair, the crackle and pop of collapsing beams. Behind him, all is pure white light – perhaps he is strangling you, and you're dying, and you can't feel it? But he holds your arm harder, and the cutting jab as he pushes your bicep into the corpses' teeth proves that yes, you still very much are alive enough to know pain.
He's whispering now, an inch above your face, a parody of intimacy. "Got to keep a good showing, Prophet. Carry on the torch, would you? Can't have you implicated. My Lady weeps for it having to come to this. But what do I know? She changed it on me. Plans within plans. The ineffable divine. All of us against the stillbirth. Would you bless me, before I have to go?"
All this time, you've been stretching, pushing your fingertips splayed, and just got hold of something heavy and burning hot; you grab it, despite hurt, and as Junius pauses, waiting for his benediction, you offer him the true disdain of the Cult of Morr by bashing him in the head with what you realize is Celia's charred thighbone, her flesh already somehow ash, flaking down around you as you whack and whack.
He lets go of your throat, and you manage to shove him off as he withdraws his arms to protect his skull; already his forehead is bruising black. As you scrabble to get up, you scream what you've wanted to ever since you got the first apocalypse vision:
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!"
His expression, as his lies spayed on the floor, final betrays an emotion – shock.
"He didn't tell you? You don't know?!" he shouts and then, impossibly laughs. And he keeps laughing, so hard and fast that he's shaking back and forth, tears in his eyes.
"Cowards! Bastards! Liars! HA! HA! My Lady too, may she be forsaken. What a crock of shit she spun – BWA! HA HA! The little piggies are scared of the roast! The cobra's gaze is on them now! HA!"
You want to tear your hair out. One clear answer, please – that's all you goddam want. You point the ashen bone at Junius, and scream.
"BY THE HOLY NAME OF MORR AND MYRMIDIA AND TYLEUS' HAIRY ASS WHO ARE THEY? WHAT'S GOING ON!"
Suddenly, he goes back to serious, actually furrowing his brow in annoyance.
"Are you thick! The Gods, man! The Gods! Don't trust a word they say! They're planning their stupid games, shoving us about in the dark – but we're more than pawns. They're running scared, boy! Running scared! And all we've got to do is – urk!"
His head falls off, sliced with a blade that moved too fast to see. The Princeps stands behind the corpse of Junius. You watch as the light fades from the actor's eyes and see the characteristic pulse of magical energy that signaled the release of a soul – but instead of ascending, as one typically did, you see it stretch unnaturally thin and then vanish with a swirl, down a silver blade and into the bright shine of the Princeps with a sound like the ring of a bell. And you watch, as Junius' soul vanishes into the light, that Suttar's inner brilliance grow yet more intense and blinding.
He smiles at you and offers you a hand– and suddenly, the spell is broken. Your whole body aches, and you can feel your arm bleeding. You're breathing heavy, but too quick; the smoke is making your head pound. You take his arm and leaning on your lord Prince are dragged from the Grand Theatre.
…
A while later, you are sitting in a hastily expropriated café with the Princeps and far too many soldiers. You have been given a thick cloak, a change of clothes, and some strong spiced wine, all of which you are grateful for. He is in close conference with what you take to be various generals, ironically wearing the same get up the late Junius had on.
Shit, you realize – you lost your dagger.
But before you can mourn much, the Princeps turns to you, having judged thirty minutes for mortal men unlike himself to recover from the shock of almost death.
"My thanks, good citizen – if not for your distraction of that villain, who knows what havoc he could have wreaked. Your name, man?"
You attempt a pseudonym, but find yourself compelled to speak true, as a ring of rose-gold on his finger sparks with Hysh. "Xenophon, Priest of Morr."
He cocks his head. "A seer! And with the same name as the one in the play! Did you foresee that?" He laughs, but there's a strange twinkle in his very clear, very blue eyes.
Thankfully, you can honestly say "No."
"Well, Xenophon's a name common enough – but it's damn curious. Not that I'm suspicious, of course, perish the thought! You did a great deal of good, and I reward bravery, not punish it."
You hear some a general mutter under his breath "bad for the Flame, then". As you've heard now, apparently the great wall of light you saw was the combined effort of Floridus Ennius and Angelus Spania, who both immediately accused the other of the murder of Marvos and mutually cut the stage off for fear of the other "assisting their conspirator", a stalemate only ended when the Princeps came racing in and demanded they both return to Temple at pain of arrest.
"I have two options for you. First, you can go home and forget this all happened – and I'll give you a pile of gold for your trouble. Second - you seem like the type to have a good head on your shoulders – figure this whole mess out for me. I'll make you an honorary Agens – proper powers, you can demand someone answer your questions direct or in writing and get most anywhere. Get me a report in two weeks, and I'll pay you more than in gold; a boon, whatever you like, even if you don't find anything. With the election and all, I need to be a bit subtle here; this already looks bad enough."
What do you say?
[-] Take the money.
[-] Take the job.
…
You're quickly dismissed after that, with a blinding white smile and a wave from the most powerful man in the Twin Cities. You tromp home, and meet an anguished Pelops, who after you get to stop apologizing for his self-declared failure to act as your guardian, shows you to your room, though insists on planting himself as the night-guard outside it.
It's a humble prayer cell, clearly repurposed, but the boy's done a fair job. The bedding might clearly be a funeral shawl and the pillow cut out of the lining of a coffin, but it's all good cotton, comfortable enough. But as you lay down and gird yourself for more nightmares, one question echoes in your head.
What makes a God afraid?
Last edited:
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- Pronouns
- He/Him