Vote closed
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Warhammer Fantasy: Thirteen Tolls - An Apocalypse Quest
- Thread starter Graf Tzarogy
- Start date
- Fantasy
Vote's (re)open!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
And on that, vote's open for another two days. Will count votes already made, so no need to re-vote.
Vote closed
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn Five Results (Part 1) - Ante
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The last time you were here, you were fleeing certain death, you think as the lights of Casino pierce the fog and you see the House of Tyleus for the first time in a decade. You've grown, you suppose, because now you're running towards peril as opposed to away. You're doing your duty at last.
But this is a much nicer entrance than the last. You're in fine black silk, instead of a bloodied tunic, and you're coming in frontways, where marble fountains of leaping sea-dragons spray rosewater and masked waiters offer canapes rather than sneaking through the servant's way in between the onions and the pork. Company is altogether more mixed. Aoife, scared she must have been, didn't show it. You remember the warmth of her arm around your shoulders, and that barbarian lullaby you still hear in your dreams. But she's gone to a country none might return, and in her place, a barbarian proper, Ambrose, in a shining brass breastplate, sword at his hilt, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
He'd come back to you from his trailing of the Lady Tophania with news that she herself had planned to make landing at the Casino this eve in the company of her niece Sonia. This would have been hardly remarkable for the coincidence that per the cousin of the sister of a friend of a maid Mervin had worked with, the Lord Erolinus, her brother-in-law, recently released from Bimar Asylum after that business with his mistresses. Further, the Lady Tophania, per Ambrose, had recently commissioned an extremely expensive ring from a smith from Naggarond itself, an act particular curious considering the late advertisement from her other in-law Angelus about the disappearance of his jewelry.
Ambrose gave all of this to you, and then demanded he come along to figure out what in particular was happening. You had tried to wave him off, suggest that you needed some time alone, but stumbled on the phrasing after realizing you sounded like you were trying to disguise a gambling habit and had to concede to a bodyguard. You don't know with him. After your near-kiss, he'd been perfectly professional, if not cold. He gave his report as brief as could be, but he still did the legwork that he didn't need to do if he was phoning it in. You look at him, in his nice military duds, crimson cape and feathered helm, the perfect toy solider. What was his angle? Why would someone like that – who rose high in these cities, and might rise higher – have any interest in you, with traitors and the dead?
To kill the Princeps, he said – but why?
But you had no time for speculation. You step on the Elvish carpet, enchanted to look like a stream with koi-illusions swimming to and fro on the lawn, and step forth into the land of the slaves.
…
All men are free, Tyleus said as he was dying, who are guests of my house. Hence was born the House of Tyleus, district of freedmen, kingdom of the manumitted. That last declaration of the cities' god-king was not well taken by most, and the Isle for many a year was kept penned and sieged. Freedom could not, after all, fill stomachs. To this day, the sellers of flesh keep a close eye on who comes and goes, but the genius of some long-gone freedmen still makes a hole in the blockade. The Casino – vice irresistible, a party everlasting, the greatest of entertainment for the greatest civilization. Bait well taken – ensuring an eternal flow of deniable traffic back and forth from the House, and besides, a very pretty penny.
And it has been maintained as befits it status as lifeline, you think, as you arrive in the Casino proper. The columns are all Arabyan porphyry, like the void of the night sky, while Lodge floating lanterns make stars. The foyer is drenched in a cloying perfume that you know is an illusion to be what is most pleasing to your nose – cinnamon or cloves or cookies or copulation. To you – and perhaps this is more memory than magic, a hint of Aoife; clean linen, and orange rind from the fruit tree outside your childhood bedroom.
There is music, a full troupe, with flute and lyre and horn. There is food and drink galore; gold plates sit on enchanted tables that grow fresh grapes and peaches and plums as bejewelled goblets refill with wine by some magic unseen. There is dwarf riding a miniature lion, tame to be petted by passing ladies, and below the moving frescos of the ceiling where a ship fights an almighty storm acrobats leap and twirl in a ribbon dance, kept aloft by ensorcelled winds. There is a mob of the high and mighty passing each and every way. You spot Morganis Barbarian, the industrial tycoon, a chain of rubies around his neck in a golden toga. He heads into the card room, behind a silver emblazoned with a hundred winking faces of Ranald, just as three young women in dress that the Queen Morathi might find revealing squeal and embrace his business partner, the porty, sweating, Rackius Fellbus, who blushes like a schoolboy as they pepper him with kisses.
The senator Nivet is in the corner. He spots you spot him, and waves, still incomprehensible under his cloak of illusion, settled in his zone, drinking alone. Near him are Martyrius Tzimiskes and Vigilus Rhangabe, both senators, in their red-rimmed robes of office. They are arguing about something with great gusto, and have attracted quite the crowd – you hear, just over the music, something about "damnable Elves". The Lady Tophania, and her family is nowhere to be seen. You did not spot them in the gardens, coming in, which leaves the private dining rooms to the east, the card rooms to the west, or north, the theatre, which, thank Morr, has no show scheduled tonight.
But before you do anything, you're tapped on the shoulder. You turn, but Ambrose is already there, hand on his blade. But its just Loreley, the piratess, part of the League of Salvation. She raises an eye at Ambrose, and he – with surprising reluctance, lets his hand fall.
"Hail, friend of the House" she says, dark eyes glinting, teeth sharp. "Room Nine is ready". And with surprising strength, she grabs you, and pulls you through the crowd. You hear Ambrose cry out behind you, but Lorely just laughs "No plus ones!"
…
You're taken down a hall, and then another, every one identical in sumptuousness; thick carpets, wutroth furniture, paintings and sculptures of men and women in revelry, animated to move, of such realism if they didn't move you'd think petrification.
Finally, Lorely lets go of your arm which pinches sore, at a plain dark wooden door. She knocks thrice, and it opens to a plain stone room. No carpet, no hangings, just a roaring hearth, and threadbare couch and a writing desk.
Your heart jumps to your throat. This was your room, for a while.
Before you left.
On the couch is an old woman. You don't look at her face for a moment, stay in the fantasy that it's your mother, but you look up after a half-sec, and see that it isn't Aoife. It's someone you know, though, the Old Mother. Isha, First Lady of the House for as long as you've lived and perhaps any who have. She who makes things work. Beside her is the Blue Thunder, Cassius the Gladiator, blond hair messy, blue tunic still with bloodstains on it from his latest bout.
They look at you in silence.
You enter and kneel. Isha offers her wizened hand, nails long and black. You kiss it.
You still bear a debt.
"Sit", she says in a rasp not unlike the noise of the last stone laid to close a tomb.
You do, on the floor, and feel very much like the boy you were.
Last time.
"We have a problem, Son of Aoife." Isha calls. "We need a solution."
You take a moment to find your voice, which quivers only a little. "My life for yours, Grandmother." That was the promise you made. The House freed slaves freely, but to liberate a master they had better pay a just price.
"You are a priest of the God of the Dead?"
"I am."
"Good. A man needs burying."
You could do a funeral, you think. Not what you wanted this evening, but what you could get.
"A shame" says Lorely, "because he still walks our House."
Ah.
There is a silence.
Isha gives a stare at Cassius, that would kill lesser men. The gladiator, survivor of a thousand duels to the death, looked genuinely chastened.
"We've been made" he says. "Don't know how, don't know why. We were keeping quiet – communicating only through the telegraph – all symbols, you know, not a word - but someone's got the guest list we-" The Old Mother raises an eyebrow, and the room cools several degrees. Cassius, pale, corrects himself "I – was passing around."
"To the Casino?" you say. You don't quite get the risk.
"Yes. All who've come to our shores" says Isha. "All who were made free."
"A problem" calls Lorely, voice a razor "because they know who all of us are."
"And for the Salvation" says Cassius "we'd been sending out agents."
"For an end to masters" Lorely calls.
"For justice" Cassius says.
"For blood" says Isha.
You think of a ring on Aoife's finger cutting a gash down your father's cheek.
"And know they know who's where" you say.
"You were always quick." Isha notes. "They're here tonight to collect a ransom – I presume you know what must be done?"
You nod, automatically, even as you process what needs doing.
"What do they want?"
Lorely rolls her eyes. "Boring, mostly – gold, jewels, a fortune."
"I'm to meet them at midnight" Cassius says, "By the fountain of the Hydra".
"They know us" says Isha "but not all. You're a friend without a known face. Do this for us" and her mouth becomes a thin line "and I will give you your mother's bones."
You start. You knew Aoife was dead. She wrote to you, until she couldn't, and then the House did. You couldn't come back then; too soon after your leaving, and the Brothers would not have let you go.
You'd do anything to see her again.
You stare at Isha's wrinkled, craggled face, her beady black eyes, her thinning white hair.
"I will give your enemy the grace of Morr" you say; and she offers her hand.
A pact is made.
You will bury them.
…
Where do you begin your investigation? (Pick 2, vote by plan)
[-] the Gardens
It's a lovely night. Lord Erolinus is playing Nine Men's Morris out here.
[-] the Theatre
Second time's the charm. Nobody should be in here.
[-] the Cardroom
Where the action happens. Nivet and Morganis are betting.
[-] the Dining Rooms
They're just about to serve the main course, and, per Ambrose, where the Lady Tophania is.
[-] the Foyer
Martyrius Tzimiskes and Vigilus Rhangabe are still arguing in here, though Rackius Fellbus is gone.
AN: As always, feedback appreciated, and happy to answer any questions.
EDIT: Should also note that your action to investigate Lady Tophania will mean that any rolls concerning her during this venture will always be successful.
Last edited:
Vote closed
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn Five Results (Part 2) - Raise
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The knife falls, and the meat bleeds.
You're served – what else you could expect -a Minotaur Steak. It's unnaturally juicy, oozing, a thick red goo; but everyone else seems to be enjoying it, and you can't make a fuss. You just seem to be excessively interested in your salad.
You're sat at a table with the Lady Tophania, Ambrose and yourself. Her niece Sonia had been here a moment ago, but as soon as she'd spotted you, she'd handed her some jewel-box and brushed her off immediately; her black stola swishing into the twilight gardens. So, it was just the three of you, having what one might have been a conversation if the good Lady had let either of you get a word in edgewise.
"It's so good to see you both – I was so worried, Raven, after you didn't answer my request for the funeral – but then I saw the re-opening, and I realized you must have been so busy – really, we're all so busy nowadays, aren't we – and Sir Ambrose, you look well. I do remember when you were just a wee lad brought here. You were so cute in your little barbarian leathers. What a temper you had. I suppose I would be a little angry too, having to be adopted so far from home. But to be orphaned – why, the Princeps is so kind."
Ambrose's face has gone scarlet. He has an expression you've never seen on his delicate features – rage. Even when talking of killing the Princeps, there was a sense of – satisfaction? Hope? Some idealism, reflecting in a wry twist of mouth and a relaxation in his wide shoulders. Even that quest for murder, he found some good in. But now, he looks well prepared to leap across the table and strangle the Lady; a vein's bulging in his forehead, and he takes ever breath very deeply and deliberately, as to stop himself from speaking.
"You know, my parents I haven't seen in a century. Still in Tiranoc, I hope, if they're not drowned. Hardly do I care. You know, I'm rather like an orphan too. They forsook me a long time ago. Not as if I was to fight – ha! But how wrong I was. How truly wrong I was. You've got to fight. There's just predators and prey. If you're not hunting, you're going to be eaten."
[FLIP: Manners Maketh Man – Mervin Interrupt! (Auto-Succes)]
You jam yourself into the conversational gap like a ship through the Straights of Lothern.
"My lady! I hear you've commissioned some work of jeweller's art!" You gesture lamely at your head. "I've … lost my wreath of office, you see, and was interested in a new commission."
She starts at that. "Who did you hear that from?"
Mervin already gave you an excuse. "the Fellheart – new in town, came by, asking if we had any temple to Morai-Heg, since the elves here don't seem to care for her. Mentioned he saw you?"
Her composure breaks, and for the first time, you see what you saw in Ambrose but a moment before – hate.
"The fellow from Karond Kar. Well. I did see him. Let him know for me – I've made sure we have no temple to the Crone and her bitch ways."
Your eyes bug out a bit.
"I'm sorry, milady?"
"Did I stutter?"
"I didn't mean to offend-"
"Well, as a raven, I suppose, you are one of hers, aren't you? Not yet, I say, not yet. He promised me time. He swore."
Ambrose puts a hand on your shoulder. You look, and he's drawn a dagger under the table. A little coldness between you thaws. He's here. He's got your back.
You turn back to the Lady Tophania, looks about to sob. She has her hands clutched so tightly together, you see blood begin to drip as her nails cut into her palm.
"Tell HER! Her son made a deal!" she shouts. "A toll. Five. You've got two. You'll have three. You'll not have me."
She gets up. "SONIA! SONIA! I need- SONIA!" she yells and starts to push through the crowd.
Ambrose stands. "I'll follow" he says. "Keep on your way."
You look at him in his armour; his hair matching his brass, which only brings out the blue of his eyes.
"Be safe".
"You too." And then he's gone.
You kill one of Lord Erolinus' men, and grin.
"Check."
The cities' most famous bachelor, arm still in a cast frowns. He looks at the board, carved into the grass; the servants in white and black, forced to stand as pieces.
"Pride cometh before a fall, young man" he replies, and gestures for a man to fly, locking one of your pieces in the corner.
You were rather good at this a long time ago. A great way to avoid speaking to your parent's friends, or their as unpleasant children. Move the pieces, win the war. Respectable, gentlemanly, silent. As the empire was and would be.
You see it. Two spaces to the left. You raise a finger, and a servant hops two stones.
Erolinus raises an eyebrow; you've just exposed yourself but poisoned the wound. One trap made, and another to go – perhaps with the same tactic.
Erolinus moves his piece, and you've got your opening.
[FLIP: Boy's Talk – Heads (Success)]
He was in Bimar.
"My lord! I need your advice!" you call.
"It looks like it" he says, "with that play. I'll let you reverse?"
"I'll keep my honor, thanks."
"A goodly man, and one I'm happy to advise. Ask away!"
"Milord" you say – then pause – and, after a quick look-round for listeners, whisper – "I need an architect"
He tilts his head."
"Yes?"
"One that understands Ravens".
A glitter in his grey eyes. On his enchanted toga, the animated hunting hounds finally catch the felted doe with a spray of red thread.
"You want to know what I know" he replies.
"As I presume many have before?"
"A great many indeed."
His eyes glitter.
"Shall we go for a walk?" he replies, "I think I can make introductions."
"Just in a moment" you say and move your last piece.
"Mate"
Lord Erolinus laughs.
He makes a gesture, and a servant all in white takes your checking piece, and the next, and the next, and the next, until you're yourself out.
He smiles, and his lordship's teeth are sharp. "Mate."
…
You and Erolinus pass through the trellises bedecked in roses, and fountains of wine and moonlight groves playing beguiling waltzes, unto what to you looks the very least part of the gardens, a strict and spartan stone bench.
He sits, and you join him, both staring ahead, unto the wide expanse of the river, flat and calm.
"You know who I am, I suppose," he starts.
"A class, I think, if not personally."
"Floridus considers you a friend, if a foolish one. I'd be surprised if you hadn't figured it out. Do you know why, yet?"
You've considered various possibilities why a hierophant of the Burning Light would go against every precept of his order to stuff demons in his patient's skulls. Jealously was one, a means to an end to win the contest with Angelus. But to replace Angelus' own uncle's soul was rather more than mere "professional" distaste.
"No." you say, honestly. At Mons Nigreos, they said the Plotter is reborn with every lie, and that is why he is ever-changing. You don't intend to give fuel to the fire.
"Well, let it be known – twice-claimed as you are – that others are likewise torn between multiple loyalties." He snickers. "Myself included."
"You're not really here, are you?" you ask, rather than dwell on that seed of paranoia. You look at Erolinus' soul, and its starch-clean – more like a baby's than anything else, no dark taint or even real deep emotion that left the wind's stain.
"I'm as real as you are, my boy, for better or for worse."
You think to Arkhan's notes, of Qeyos or the divine part of the soul on the other side of existence. If a demon was but Aethyr-stuff, and a soul was half-that, could they be swapped? You couldn't see it yourself – that's not the part of the soul in your reality, which'd look exactly the same.
"You know" the thing that was Erolinus said "Floridus really underestimated you."
You flush and try to stamp down any pride. Need not any more of the four come walking.
"Why, you don't think I'm the only one here to party?" the daemon-man says.
Is he reading-
You force that thought down, and say "What?"
"You've got your work cut out for you, little priest". He rises to go.
You draw your sword.
"Oh, don't bother with the junior leagues" it says, walking away "I've got no list!".
You follow after, chasing him towards a weeping willow. "How can I trust that?"
"Well, you have more problems than me" he says, and points down.
Face down in the pond, willow fronds tickling her long blond hair, is a girl. She is in evening stola, black with silver stars, now stained and muddy and damp She stinks of a sweet, sickly perfume that makes your head hurt. There's something clutched in her hand - a silver ring, of Elven make. It's missing a jewel, but where one would be set is engraved a symbol – that which you know to be Nethu's.
You automatically kneel and turn her head. Her eyes are rolled up, and her mouth is foamy with blood. Her tongue is bitten clean off.
It's the Lady Sonia, niece to the Lady Tophania.
You look up, and Erolinus is gone.
You are alone with a corpse.
And then the screams start.
What do you do? (Pick 1):
[-] Follow the howls.
Something's kicking off.
[-] Find Ambrose.
You need help.
[-] Perform last rites.
Ask for the wisdom of Morr.
[-] Investigate the ring.
Contact a colleague.
[-] Write-in.
???
You're served – what else you could expect -a Minotaur Steak. It's unnaturally juicy, oozing, a thick red goo; but everyone else seems to be enjoying it, and you can't make a fuss. You just seem to be excessively interested in your salad.
You're sat at a table with the Lady Tophania, Ambrose and yourself. Her niece Sonia had been here a moment ago, but as soon as she'd spotted you, she'd handed her some jewel-box and brushed her off immediately; her black stola swishing into the twilight gardens. So, it was just the three of you, having what one might have been a conversation if the good Lady had let either of you get a word in edgewise.
"It's so good to see you both – I was so worried, Raven, after you didn't answer my request for the funeral – but then I saw the re-opening, and I realized you must have been so busy – really, we're all so busy nowadays, aren't we – and Sir Ambrose, you look well. I do remember when you were just a wee lad brought here. You were so cute in your little barbarian leathers. What a temper you had. I suppose I would be a little angry too, having to be adopted so far from home. But to be orphaned – why, the Princeps is so kind."
Ambrose's face has gone scarlet. He has an expression you've never seen on his delicate features – rage. Even when talking of killing the Princeps, there was a sense of – satisfaction? Hope? Some idealism, reflecting in a wry twist of mouth and a relaxation in his wide shoulders. Even that quest for murder, he found some good in. But now, he looks well prepared to leap across the table and strangle the Lady; a vein's bulging in his forehead, and he takes ever breath very deeply and deliberately, as to stop himself from speaking.
"You know, my parents I haven't seen in a century. Still in Tiranoc, I hope, if they're not drowned. Hardly do I care. You know, I'm rather like an orphan too. They forsook me a long time ago. Not as if I was to fight – ha! But how wrong I was. How truly wrong I was. You've got to fight. There's just predators and prey. If you're not hunting, you're going to be eaten."
[FLIP: Manners Maketh Man – Mervin Interrupt! (Auto-Succes)]
You jam yourself into the conversational gap like a ship through the Straights of Lothern.
"My lady! I hear you've commissioned some work of jeweller's art!" You gesture lamely at your head. "I've … lost my wreath of office, you see, and was interested in a new commission."
She starts at that. "Who did you hear that from?"
Mervin already gave you an excuse. "the Fellheart – new in town, came by, asking if we had any temple to Morai-Heg, since the elves here don't seem to care for her. Mentioned he saw you?"
Her composure breaks, and for the first time, you see what you saw in Ambrose but a moment before – hate.
"The fellow from Karond Kar. Well. I did see him. Let him know for me – I've made sure we have no temple to the Crone and her bitch ways."
Your eyes bug out a bit.
"I'm sorry, milady?"
"Did I stutter?"
"I didn't mean to offend-"
"Well, as a raven, I suppose, you are one of hers, aren't you? Not yet, I say, not yet. He promised me time. He swore."
Ambrose puts a hand on your shoulder. You look, and he's drawn a dagger under the table. A little coldness between you thaws. He's here. He's got your back.
You turn back to the Lady Tophania, looks about to sob. She has her hands clutched so tightly together, you see blood begin to drip as her nails cut into her palm.
"Tell HER! Her son made a deal!" she shouts. "A toll. Five. You've got two. You'll have three. You'll not have me."
She gets up. "SONIA! SONIA! I need- SONIA!" she yells and starts to push through the crowd.
Ambrose stands. "I'll follow" he says. "Keep on your way."
You look at him in his armour; his hair matching his brass, which only brings out the blue of his eyes.
"Be safe".
"You too." And then he's gone.
You kill one of Lord Erolinus' men, and grin.
"Check."
The cities' most famous bachelor, arm still in a cast frowns. He looks at the board, carved into the grass; the servants in white and black, forced to stand as pieces.
"Pride cometh before a fall, young man" he replies, and gestures for a man to fly, locking one of your pieces in the corner.
You were rather good at this a long time ago. A great way to avoid speaking to your parent's friends, or their as unpleasant children. Move the pieces, win the war. Respectable, gentlemanly, silent. As the empire was and would be.
You see it. Two spaces to the left. You raise a finger, and a servant hops two stones.
Erolinus raises an eyebrow; you've just exposed yourself but poisoned the wound. One trap made, and another to go – perhaps with the same tactic.
Erolinus moves his piece, and you've got your opening.
[FLIP: Boy's Talk – Heads (Success)]
He was in Bimar.
"My lord! I need your advice!" you call.
"It looks like it" he says, "with that play. I'll let you reverse?"
"I'll keep my honor, thanks."
"A goodly man, and one I'm happy to advise. Ask away!"
"Milord" you say – then pause – and, after a quick look-round for listeners, whisper – "I need an architect"
He tilts his head."
"Yes?"
"One that understands Ravens".
A glitter in his grey eyes. On his enchanted toga, the animated hunting hounds finally catch the felted doe with a spray of red thread.
"You want to know what I know" he replies.
"As I presume many have before?"
"A great many indeed."
His eyes glitter.
"Shall we go for a walk?" he replies, "I think I can make introductions."
"Just in a moment" you say and move your last piece.
"Mate"
Lord Erolinus laughs.
He makes a gesture, and a servant all in white takes your checking piece, and the next, and the next, and the next, until you're yourself out.
He smiles, and his lordship's teeth are sharp. "Mate."
…
You and Erolinus pass through the trellises bedecked in roses, and fountains of wine and moonlight groves playing beguiling waltzes, unto what to you looks the very least part of the gardens, a strict and spartan stone bench.
He sits, and you join him, both staring ahead, unto the wide expanse of the river, flat and calm.
"You know who I am, I suppose," he starts.
"A class, I think, if not personally."
"Floridus considers you a friend, if a foolish one. I'd be surprised if you hadn't figured it out. Do you know why, yet?"
You've considered various possibilities why a hierophant of the Burning Light would go against every precept of his order to stuff demons in his patient's skulls. Jealously was one, a means to an end to win the contest with Angelus. But to replace Angelus' own uncle's soul was rather more than mere "professional" distaste.
"No." you say, honestly. At Mons Nigreos, they said the Plotter is reborn with every lie, and that is why he is ever-changing. You don't intend to give fuel to the fire.
"Well, let it be known – twice-claimed as you are – that others are likewise torn between multiple loyalties." He snickers. "Myself included."
"You're not really here, are you?" you ask, rather than dwell on that seed of paranoia. You look at Erolinus' soul, and its starch-clean – more like a baby's than anything else, no dark taint or even real deep emotion that left the wind's stain.
"I'm as real as you are, my boy, for better or for worse."
You think to Arkhan's notes, of Qeyos or the divine part of the soul on the other side of existence. If a demon was but Aethyr-stuff, and a soul was half-that, could they be swapped? You couldn't see it yourself – that's not the part of the soul in your reality, which'd look exactly the same.
"You know" the thing that was Erolinus said "Floridus really underestimated you."
You flush and try to stamp down any pride. Need not any more of the four come walking.
"Why, you don't think I'm the only one here to party?" the daemon-man says.
Is he reading-
You force that thought down, and say "What?"
"You've got your work cut out for you, little priest". He rises to go.
You draw your sword.
"Oh, don't bother with the junior leagues" it says, walking away "I've got no list!".
You follow after, chasing him towards a weeping willow. "How can I trust that?"
"Well, you have more problems than me" he says, and points down.
Face down in the pond, willow fronds tickling her long blond hair, is a girl. She is in evening stola, black with silver stars, now stained and muddy and damp She stinks of a sweet, sickly perfume that makes your head hurt. There's something clutched in her hand - a silver ring, of Elven make. It's missing a jewel, but where one would be set is engraved a symbol – that which you know to be Nethu's.
You automatically kneel and turn her head. Her eyes are rolled up, and her mouth is foamy with blood. Her tongue is bitten clean off.
It's the Lady Sonia, niece to the Lady Tophania.
You look up, and Erolinus is gone.
You are alone with a corpse.
And then the screams start.
What do you do? (Pick 1):
[-] Follow the howls.
Something's kicking off.
[-] Find Ambrose.
You need help.
[-] Perform last rites.
Ask for the wisdom of Morr.
[-] Investigate the ring.
Contact a colleague.
[-] Write-in.
???
Vote closed
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn Five Results (Part 3) - Call
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You kneel, staining your robes with mud and blood, and pray. You have had one reaction to crisis. You will do your duty, the gods themselves be dammed.
There is a ritual prescribed by the Cult for times like this, when a priest cannot stay overlong with the body. In the ancient war against the Great Enemy, it was of the highest importance to ensure no vultures might pick out the souls of Order's martyrs. A dark rumor, that the Cult has never been able to fully dispel, is that it is in fact some practice borrowed from the Enemy and turned to good purpose. Who knew better of the transport of souls?
You look at the discarded ring, and the wound across Sonia's body, a gash ripping her nigh in two, intestines spilling out, bile and ruin. The wreck of her form smells sickly-sweet, like nobody you've ever seen. You hear, in the distance, a scream turning into a cackle, a haHaHA, ecstatic joy layered with absolute pain. You think – perhaps your purpose is not so far from those ancient days.
The actual procedure is very short, meant for corpses by the thousands. You close her eyes, and lay her body out flat as you can, staining your hands with gore. You have no wine, which would be traditional, so you go further back, in the most ancient ways, and cut your hand – not with your sword! – but a dagger you carry on your hip. As the blood drips on to the earth, you make the sign of Morr with your unwounded palm – and speak:
"May your journey be under the Raven's wings."
There is a flutter, and above you, a dark cloud passes, obscuring the light of the green moon.
"Be at peace. Be at peace. Be at peace."
Your blood drops onto Sonia's face. It sizzles, boiling.
"Be at peace. Be at peace. Be at peace"
You smell burning hair and sloughing skin. Your blood flows like a tide,
"Be at peace. Be at peace. Be at peace."
You open your eyes. You hadn't realized you shut them.
Below is Sonia's body, a little shriveled; plants and thorns have grown around it, letting it rest soft. It smells of nothing, not even rot.
Where her head was is a perfect skull, pale, unblemished, clean.
You pick it up, and kiss Sonia on the forehead.
"Farewell."
And holding her last remains to return to the Roost, you turn and walk back towards the Casino, where the screams have stopped, and you can only hear - music?
…
You approach the Casino gardens, and it paradoxically gets only quieter. You can feel something pressing around you, some half-song trying to worm its way into your ear. But you cannot hear it. It is like a man too old to hear some high pitch. You know, but you cannot feel.
The gardens themselves are abandoned. There are no bodies, no signs of battle. No, not even a petal is awry. You're holding the skull with one hand, so you can't actually draw your proper sword, so you're only armed with a dagger. But as you stalk through the hedgerows, and draw closer to the building proper, there is nothing and less.
So you finally arrive at the great door that leads from the main hall. It is bounded by great translucent windows, stained glass of the bounty of the sea – dolphins, turtles, sea wyrms. But that is all gone now, and instead the glass has gone black with smoke; you cannot see inside, but once again smell that sickly-sweet.
But you have friends and allies inside, so you have no time for fear. No time for doubt. You, as always, have but duty.
You knock, once, twice, thrice.
"I am a Friend of the House" you say "and I request entry!"
The doors creak an inch open.
You step inside, and almost drop the skull as the door slams behind you almost on your arm.
And what greets you is total pandemonium.
[FLIP: Hedonism - AUTOPASS: Blessing of the Raven]
A blast of music and heat hits you, and for a moment you feel your feet tap and you to begin to laugh as confetti falls from the ceiling and you see your friends, and Aoife too dancing and having a ball. Aoife is as you last saw her, with copper hair and sea-green eyes, and she gestures for you to do so.
But before you can make a step, you move to catch something held underarm – and your fingers touch cold bone.
The dead.
Aoife is dead.
And like a falling plane of glass, the scene shatters.
There is singing and dancing but discordant and horrible; women with neon hair and crab arms and scorpion tales babble and shriek. They have formed a circle, and within that flesh prison you see Casino guests you saw before jiving to that unholy tune, tears and snot and blood running down their faces, stepping and twirling and waltzing so quick their feet are a bloody ruin.
Further down the hall, you see Rackius Felbus, the senator, belly engorged, maybe six feet of fat dragged along the floor and growing. Another daemon is feeding him an endless array of chocolates and sweets as he blubbers and cries "No more! No more!"
In another corner, you see some beast-chimera of crocodile, serpent and barbed harpoon bash itself against a door you know leads to the Theatre. crashes into the wood, which stands, and hisses as the mark of a broken chain burns itself into its head – the mark of Tyleus the Liberator.
Where the dining rooms used to be, there is but a grey mist that to look upon makes your head hurt. Some crab-women advance gingerly into it every so often, but none return.
Finally, above it all, on a balcony from the playing rooms, there is Morgannis Barbarian, one of the cities' great commercial titans. He looks, of all things, unaffected. His dark robes are undirtied, and there is no trace of smile or frown. He looks at the phantasmagoria, and seems to have no more emotion then he would for the purchase or sale of some sacks of grain.
That is, until he sees you, and you realize you're perfectly obvious, because there is a thick perfume making pink clouds in the air that in a circle about you stops dead, opposed by a thin line of frost that you realize circles you as you enter hell.
Morgannis makes eye contact, and you see, finally, an emotion – irritation.
He raises a hand, and everyone stops.
And then, he points to you.
What happens next?
[] The Cavalry
Xenophon's not been the only one having dreams.
[] The Birds
The Raven finds a flock.
[] The Portal
Morr controls the gate between worlds.
AN: My apologies for the delay, was facing real writer's block, and only just managed to push through. As compensation for your patience, you get to pick what awesome thing Xenophon does. Morr is acting through him, as he has aligned himself to his God through his funeral, and in the face of the direct actions of one the Four and the resulting disturbance to reality, is much freer to induce miracles. All of the votes will result in Xenophon clearing the room – and a unique bonus.
Vote closed
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn Five Results (Part 4) - Check
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Everything stops.
There is absolute silence, total stillness. The dancers are frozen mid-step; the daemons, fangs bared, paused in the moment of their charge. Blood and perfume hangs suspended in the air.
Something knocks at reality's gate, the still world set a-quiver.
And from nowhere, a dark spot appears before you. It grows like spilled ink, pouring over the world; the absolute over the temporary. You heart is in your throat as you see, for the first time, true void – what every temple apes, but cannot reproduce.
A swirling darkness, a perfect noir, the final threshold.
And you step towards it, pulled inexorably, iron to magnet, sea to shore.
You reach inside.
It is cold beyond ice; it is heat beyond flame; it is sensation beyond feeling; your flesh and bone flayed, your soul bared to winds fiercer than a maelstrom.
But you do your duty and outstretch.
You hit cool steel.
And pull.
Your hand does not come out of the portal.
No mortal flesh may.
It is but spirit on bone; a twilit glow around the remains that remain. And in your phantom hand, in your translucent palm, there is a key.
And you know what you can do.
You grab it, cold iron that you know if you touched to your heart it would stop it instant.
You turn your key in the air.
And Morr shuts the door.
ARTEFACT GAINED:
LIMINAL KEY
A gift to a daughter, so a gift to a son
Closes the Portal, and thus, any link between real and Aethyr.
When the God of Death averts his gaze, there is no end but oblivion.
The lights go out immediately, fueled by mysticism rather than fuel. The whole building shudders as century old enchantments fail, and tiles and dust fall from the ceiling. The fountains stop, and so does the music – there is just the smell of blood and ruin.
LIMINAL KEY
A gift to a daughter, so a gift to a son
Closes the Portal, and thus, any link between real and Aethyr.
When the God of Death averts his gaze, there is no end but oblivion.
Only the peek of dawn offers any radiance – and what you See is grey.
The mists in the hallway fade, as do the brands of Tyelus the Free. But so do the Daemons. They choke, suddenly, having to, for the first time, breathe. Crab-armed ladies fall sideways, mundane physics applying to their grossly disbalanced forms. The lither creatures simply collapse under their own weight, bones snapping, the fiends pitifully screeching as impossible anatomies simply fail. Men and women fall to the floor; the enchantment broken, but subject to hours of stress and exhaustion.
And so, you wander into the screaming, heaving crowd, and draw your sword. With your left, however awkward – your right hand is just bone now, bleeding slightly, clutched like vise around that key. As you unsheathe your blade, there's no frisson this time; no laugh or shiver of energy up your spine. But it remains good steel. You put it to purpose.
The minions of the Dark Prince die like anybody else.
And there is nowhere for them to run.
…
Only when your robes are fully spattered by daemon gore, where the smell of rancid meat that emanates from the two-dozen beheaded corpses in the hall, do you turn to the terrified guests in the corner. You still hold the Key tight. There is work to be done.
You stare at them, and you realize how pathetic they look. There is no enchanted gleam on their jewels; no illusions woven into their clothes. They look like the peasants you served in the country; dirty rags and meat. One – you think it's Rackius Felbus, but his face is so smeared with vomit, you can hardly tell – burbles:
"My thanks, my lord Raven!" He retches a little, but gathers himself "Praise be! Praise be to Xenophon!"
"Praise to Morr" you reply. "Not I.". He blanches. You press on. "Who did this?"
He points at a crab-woman, her body neatly bisected, behind you.
"Morgannis introduced me. My wife, you see, is an awful shrew and-"
Gods forbid. You don't care. You turn, and hearing Rackius vomit again behind you, run up the stairs of the disenchanted Casino.
...
You rush up towards the playing rooms, and stop dead, because where there used to be a foyer, there is a giant hole. Something must have exploded – the tiles are cracked, the ceiling open to sky. You have to skirt around the edge, grabbing on to the bottom of shattered wall-lamps and the broken ends of side-tables before you get to the door to the rooms leading to the balcony where Morgannis was, and even they're a wreck – the paintings have been smashed off the walls, water is leaking out of pipes in the ceiling, the plants in the hall are wilted and dead. Were the Cities so reliant on enchantment?
You don't have time to consider, because you pull open the door, and see Morgannis, sitting in a fetal position, sobbing, beside him, the Lady Tophania, doing much the same. Above him is – well, you nearly leap back out of the room, because it's a dragon. Ten feet long, its scales are dull and grey, its wings so thin to be transparent, covered in thousands of faded runes not half-different from those of the Spring. It is bleeding from multiple points, great black bruises evident – it is snarling, bearing down on the two on the floor. The only person between them is Ambrose, who's eyes, you realize now, are gold, pupil and iris and all. He has his sword drawn, but is panting heavy himself, and you see blood dripping from his mouth.
"PEACE!" you shout, and all eyes in the room turn to you.
The Lady Tophania is screaming "NOT YET! NOT YET!". She turns, and puts her hands around Morgannis' neck, strangling him. She keeps screaming. "NETHU! NETHU! WHERE ARE-"
"YOU!" says the dragon, which you realize is speaking in the voice of Nivet. When he roars, smoke pours out of his mouth, and as it does, he seems to get ever more translucent. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE! WHERE IS THE WIND?"
Ambrose takes the opportunity, and swings, and as you see a warrior fight a dragon, you remember a relief of Tyleus's victory over a beast, a long time ago.
As his blade connects, cutting another gash down Nivet's (?) side, he turns and grins. "A pity" he says, "you were no priest of mine."
You step forward, sword in hand. Who do you go for?
[] the dragon
[] Ambrose
[] the Lady Tophania
[] Morgannis
[] Write-in.
Last edited: