- Location
- Between dreams and reality
[X] Plan: Ratty Buissness
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Warhammer Fantasy: Thirteen Tolls - An Apocalypse Quest
- Thread starter Graf Tzarogy
- Start date
- Fantasy
[X] Plan: Priestly investigations
-[X] Visit another temple: Tyleus
-[X] Hire a servant.
-[X] Help Floridus with his Trial (S).
-[X] Recruit clergy.
-[X] Investigate somebody. (Mistress Marvos) [A]
-[X] Research the Soul
-[X] Locate MALOK (S). [P]
-[X] Visit another temple: Tyleus
-[X] Hire a servant.
-[X] Help Floridus with his Trial (S).
-[X] Recruit clergy.
-[X] Investigate somebody. (Mistress Marvos) [A]
-[X] Research the Soul
-[X] Locate MALOK (S). [P]
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Woops! Thanks
[X] Plan: Investigate Nomus of Summerland
-[X]: Go and bet on gladiatorial games
-[X]: Harbour fugitives (S)
-[X]: Visit another temple: Tyleus
-[X]: Investigate somebody (Nomus of Summerland)
-[X]: See your parents (A)
-[X]: Locate MALOK (S)
-[X]: Sabotage printing presses [P]
Oftentimes, the secret to the MYSTERY is in places nobody expects! Perhaps we should take a more unorthodox method and do some SNIFFING AROUND in the pantries of a steak merchant. Feel free to debate.
-[X]: Go and bet on gladiatorial games
-[X]: Harbour fugitives (S)
-[X]: Visit another temple: Tyleus
-[X]: Investigate somebody (Nomus of Summerland)
-[X]: See your parents (A)
-[X]: Locate MALOK (S)
-[X]: Sabotage printing presses [P]
Oftentimes, the secret to the MYSTERY is in places nobody expects! Perhaps we should take a more unorthodox method and do some SNIFFING AROUND in the pantries of a steak merchant. Feel free to debate.
[X] Plan: Ratty Business
-[X] Hire a servant.
-[X] Set up a ratline.
-[X] Help Floridus with his Trial (S).
-[X] Recruit clergy. [P]
-[X] Investigate somebody. (Mistress Marvos) [A]
-[X] Go to the Casino.
-[X] Locate MALOK (S).
So I like Plan: Priest Business, because it uses the benefit we get from the League of Salvation and helps maximise our actions. Locating MALOK seems interesting, it's smart to send Ambrose to investigate Marvos as this seems very much like his sort of thing and should not arouse too much suspicion, and the Casino also seems like it's quite important.
However, I think that if we're going to set up a ratline or hire a servant, then it's better to do so as early as possible. The longer a ratline is in operation, the more people it saves, and the more weeks we have a servant for, the more weeks their action bonuses can help us. A servant we hire in the last three weeks before the city blows up is a much less efficient use of an action slot.
But most of all I just want to set up a ratline, the name is too good miss out on, and I'd like to make sure we actually save something from the hellstorm that is coming.
-[X] Hire a servant.
-[X] Set up a ratline.
-[X] Help Floridus with his Trial (S).
-[X] Recruit clergy. [P]
-[X] Investigate somebody. (Mistress Marvos) [A]
-[X] Go to the Casino.
-[X] Locate MALOK (S).
So I like Plan: Priest Business, because it uses the benefit we get from the League of Salvation and helps maximise our actions. Locating MALOK seems interesting, it's smart to send Ambrose to investigate Marvos as this seems very much like his sort of thing and should not arouse too much suspicion, and the Casino also seems like it's quite important.
However, I think that if we're going to set up a ratline or hire a servant, then it's better to do so as early as possible. The longer a ratline is in operation, the more people it saves, and the more weeks we have a servant for, the more weeks their action bonuses can help us. A servant we hire in the last three weeks before the city blows up is a much less efficient use of an action slot.
But most of all I just want to set up a ratline, the name is too good miss out on, and I'd like to make sure we actually save something from the hellstorm that is coming.
[X] Plan: Priestly investigations
-[X] Visit another temple: Tyleus
-[X] Hire a servant.
-[X] Help Floridus with his Trial (S).
-[X] Recruit clergy.
-[X] Investigate somebody. (Mistress Marvos) [A]
-[X] Research the Soul
-[X] Locate MALOK (S). [P]
-[X] Visit another temple: Tyleus
-[X] Hire a servant.
-[X] Help Floridus with his Trial (S).
-[X] Recruit clergy.
-[X] Investigate somebody. (Mistress Marvos) [A]
-[X] Research the Soul
-[X] Locate MALOK (S). [P]
[X] Plan: Priestly investigations
-[X] Visit another temple: Tyleus
-[X] Hire a servant.
-[X] Help Floridus with his Trial (S).
-[X] Recruit clergy.
-[X] Investigate somebody. (Mistress Marvos) [A]
-[X] Research the Soul
-[X] Locate MALOK (S). [P]
-[X] Visit another temple: Tyleus
-[X] Hire a servant.
-[X] Help Floridus with his Trial (S).
-[X] Recruit clergy.
-[X] Investigate somebody. (Mistress Marvos) [A]
-[X] Research the Soul
-[X] Locate MALOK (S). [P]
Vote closed
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Slightly mixed feelings about assigning Pelops to help with the mission to locate the dangerous terrorist cell who just tried a bomb plot when we promised we'd keep him alive.
Like on the one hand it will probably be fine, and it's fun to involve him in dramatic shenanigans - but on the other hand, we might not want to make a habit of it. Hmmm.
Like on the one hand it will probably be fine, and it's fun to involve him in dramatic shenanigans - but on the other hand, we might not want to make a habit of it. Hmmm.
Professor Vesca
Good News Everyone!
Modernism is subjective. There are resteraunts and fast food places even in ancient Greece. Noble Roman women even had exercise clothes and lifted weights for their health.
The more things change the more they stay the same.
I did say that I am aware that my opinion is subjective.
Considering that a serious pet peeve of mine is the tendency of folks to overly simplify the past and people living in it, there's really no reason to "defend" history from me.
That being said, widespread use of abbreviations (e. g.) is something that harms at least my own immersion.
Professor Vesca
Good News Everyone!
Ahhh yes.
That would be cool, who many discarded chararter we have before xeno?
Or he get blew up and his soul constume by the ratstrom that is coming.
Yes-yes make good line for the rat, should totally-inmediatly do this, wont be use for bad-terrible stuff.
...I feel like you may be harbouring under a misapprehension about what "ratline" means?
EDIT: It means we're helping set up an escape route, not like, a literal tunnel or anything to do with rats other than the name. There's no reason to expect it to inadvertently help the Horned Rat any more than any other option we might take, and we can ask @Graf Tzarogy if you are still unsure.
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- Location
- Here & There
I am liking this epic tragedy quest.
I know what a ratline is(also it was used by less that good people in the past by the way) just having a laught at the name and also knowing this warhammer wont be surprise the ratline would be to worst problem down the line. so just me chuckling at it. Dont paid atention to it
Turn Three Results (Part 1) - Psyche
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"Behold, all souls are mine" says Morr in the Songs of the Raven. "The soul of the father and the soul of the son, the souls of all that err shall die". But that has never been true. There are great many predators lurking beyond every threshold – daemon, God, Princeps. Not only thieves through force but through sweet words and guile; a thousand legends of a thousand treasures for he who forfeits their most precious possession. Alas, though all Morr's warnings, you must advance into the lion's den. What can man gain for the price of spirit – and better – what's in the deal for the buyer?
You spend your first days of research mass purchasing anything that might have a hint of relevance – toothed books from Ghrond, pamphlets on self-purification from the Flame, seventeen (heretical) accounts of post-death experience from a variety of madmen and liars. None of it reveals much more than the secrets that your initiation into the confidence of Morr has given you – that the soul is precious; though invisible and untouchable, it is a vital organ to yourself remaining you, it exists at birth, and is separated at death, magic is channelled through it, but it is of a distinct and peculiar substance. More about what is not known, really, than what is known – nothing about its source, its destination, its ability to be severed or absorbed or stitched into a horrendous composite monster.
At a point, you're frustrated enough to push all your papers off your desk in a great sweep. Scraps fly up into the air, books smash onto the floor, and your sword, which you laid on the table, hits the wall with a BONK. That was a curious sound. You examine the bottom of the column the blade whacked (undamaged) and knock on it. It sounds hollow. You dig your fingernails around the edges of the skirting and pull, and with a creak to wake the dead, a small chamber is revealed. It's been clearly raided, probably by your fled brothers – there's an open safe with nothing inside, and a small shelf, empty too. But below them are three scattered papyri. You pick them up and read a curious and illuminating work.
View: https://drive.google.com/file/d/17coRKnErgci_d3SLrDBbfCInZDREs_ao/view?usp=sharing
Homage to THEE, Opener of the Way, Sentinel of the Two Realms, THY who Holds the Scepter, Khemrikhara, GREAT KING, who's names are manifold and forms holy. THOU art the beneficent one. THOU makest thy soul to be raised up. Lord of the Great House, Ruler of Eternity, THOU art the beneficent Spirit among the spirits. Imperishable stars are obedient unto THEE, and the great doors of heaven open themselves for YOU. THY fear is set in all the lands for reason of they perfect love, and they cry out THY name, the first of names, and the people make offerings to THEE. A lowly slave devotes this text to THEE, the light over the darkness, and begs mercy for this broken reflection of THY resplendent wisdom.
This pitiful worm applies to the level of the seventh initiation, with this document on the soul - MYSTIC ORGAN! – as proof of the disciple's sufficient learning. This pathetic fool will elucidate what is known by the Eldest and Liches, then presents this fool's own but undoubtedly flawed model, in the hopes that it may be corrected by YOU, font of all that is true and right.
The elves, declare that the soul is a gift from the GODS. That Asyuran, at the beginning of time, saw this world and made plan to bend it to his will. He devised a way with ingenious artifice to break off the essence of a being like himself – DIVINE – and transmit it through the Great Boundary separating materium and that which lies beyond. Thusly, the soul would be clothed in gross matter and in this sullying, develop a peculiar personality. But the Heaven-Emperor would not tolerate such independence; no; the soul remains STRECHED, from the immaterium through the boundary, to the real, so that the Gods might touch it still, and gain dominion over the realms they could not touch.
THERIN is the answer to the contradiction of Kurnous Hunter as ELF-FATHER while Asyuran Emperor as ELF-CREATOR. The plan for their existence was a conspiracy of the Phoenix, yet their actual essence, the matter separated and stretched between worlds, was that of Kurnous and Mother Isha. At death, the Elves so claim, the material connection breaks, and the soul flies back into the immaterium like the SNAP of a lyre-string. At once, it is vulnerable, for it does not necessarily return to the God it was sourced. The Thirsting One and the Pale Queen enjoy the hunt, and only Loec Dancer, Ladrielle Mistwalker protecteth the twisting path to the ULTIMATE.
[CHART 1]
This tale, though sweet, is nothing but the adder's milk. How could the Elves know much of the great, when YOU, Master, have laid them so low? The children of Nehek had no Gods before the Great Migration, and no God knew them. They made pact with our divines after great TRIBULATIONS and only then was human and holy BOUND. So, whence came they? Must we posit some hidden forgotten God, claim those we worship are but the better poacher – so total in their victory they erased even the memory of those that they cuckooed? NAY! The Liche Priests of the Mortuary Cult, fatuous and smug they may maketh themselves in late days were not always so. Their desiccated skulls dined an alternate solution to the problem of the soul; flawed, but necessary to know for any adept of the higher arts. To the Hieratic Council, the being may be divided into seven parts.
[CHART 2]
The essence was SEKHEM, soulfire, the base indivisible. From it flowed naturally Ren, the true name. All things known to exist had Ren, Sekhem's echo in memory, ensuring the soul was maintained insofar as one was to recall it. Its present existence was established by KHAIBIT, the shadow of the light of Sekem. Khabit implied manifestation in the material world. A Daemon or Djinn has no Khabit. They are immortal ideas, ever repeated throughout time. It is implied in certain secret texts that to achieve such a state required a wilful severing of the shadow, though that would limit one's material presence necessarily into the temporary incarnations called SAHU. Physical existence resulted in the development of other aspects, KA, the ego, BA the emotions, and KHA, the physical form. All beings have such, though the intelligent races are separated in the additional occult organ of AB, will and conscience, the ability to know right and wrong and choose between the two. The Ab, Ka, Ba, Sahhu, Ren, Sahu, and Sekhem composed the AKHU, what other cultures might call the soul, but in truth, all parts were, while a being lived, indivisible. Death meant the shrivelling of the Khabit. Liche priests considered it due to the exhaustion of the energy of the Sekhem, and the resultant dissolving of the Kha, Ba, Ka, and Ab. What remained was the shadow, which maintained traces of the lost organs, an exhausted essence, and Ren. The process of mummification was meant to preserve this state from persecution from external forces, which might seek to consume what Sekhem might remain until it was possible for the Mortuary Cult to re-energize Sekhem and thereby restore the Khabit. This is an aim they have so far absolutely FAILED.
The necessary FLAW of the Mortuary theory is it, unlike the elf, provides no explication for why the soul forms, why it grows these organs like cypress on a grave, or how it traverses the material and immaterial. Yet as is KNOWN, the elf model is likewise unacceptable for its reliance of existence on divinity. O MASTER, this humble supplicant knows your hatred for knowledge incomplete! A new soul-system this failure offers in the hopes not that it may inform, for surely YOU, guardian of the FIRST MUSEUM know much more, but to whet the intellectual appetite in pointing out this incompetent's many flaws.
BEHOLD the following image from this slave's own hand.
[CHART 3]
QEYOS is the energy of the other world, raw magic undifferentiated. It exists as a GREAT SEA, of which Gods and Daemons are composite part. QEYOS may and does slip through the boundary between their world and ours, by force or by accident. In doing so, it is transformed at the threshold into ANIMA, soul-energy or Sekhem. It still, however, retains an imprint from which it came, an unconscious essence – FEYOS. Anima eventually intermingles with FORM, that is, the matter that makes up this world, and thereby creates the mind – DEYOS. A conscious mind is capable with sufficient skill, to draw energy directly from the realm of Qeyos by breaking the boundary itself, as exists at the poles. This Qeyos is still however, not unaffected by its transition into the material, resulting the AETHYR, or magic as generally known. The conscious mind, informed by the unconscious which dictates how the anima binds itself to form, transmitting that knowledge just as the bee is taught to build a d hives, without prior experience. This is energized by winds, which in passing through the Feyos-Deyos construct – the "soul" – impress on it change and emotion – lies and truth, logic, and passion, good and evil. Combined, they create the self, the ANIMUS. The ability to receive all the winds is what may distinguish the thinking peoples from the animals.
Death is but the result of the exhaustion of the anima that has settled in a particular form. It is ended then. There is no life after death, it is but an illusion taught by liars to peasants to comfort them in their beds at their final passage. If there was something that remained, why do the FOUR only pursue the living, not the dead? If anything remained in the corpse, would the cultist not find it easier to steal from the hapless body, then fight the living man? Something goes when one's days are ended, and it is the animus. How unfortunate, then that the animus is what one is. Rejoice, though, that at least where are not bound. Though Feyos may determine why a man is born a cripple or a king, why some seeds bloom sweet fruits and other bitter thorns, that DEYOS results means this destiny the Gods may have set may be thwarted.
But what is a God then? An entity with a mind – DEYOS but existing integrally within QEYOS. Aethyr would no longer be channelled through the soul, but the soul would be inexorably linked to a "zone" of magic – the difference between the soul's control of the body, versus the soul's grasp of a stick. This can only be if that which had a FORM shed it, and replaced it with an ASTRAL BODY of Qeyos, for the mind cannot arise independently within the immaterium (if it could, there would be an infinity of Gods, or at least an identifiable change in their number, something not found in any archive). How this may be done is beyond this weak petitioner, but, if at the very least, requires ANIMA to sustain itself. For if Deyos could exist on Qeyos alone, no God would ask for prayer. It is something in this world that must be given for them to continue to intervene. This must be what can pass through – ANIMA. Be it assumed that the divines are therefore great reservoirs of anima, their glory comes at the cost of all men's lives, for to return that would be to directly extend lifespan – what the GREAT COVENANT does.
Practically for the betterment of one's life one must find a way to attract anima, and further, to determine the Keyos and modify it. The latter appears to be the domain of prophecy, the prior unclear. Perhaps one may do as the Gods, and attract prayer, though that may fail for prayer may be only a mechanism to transmit through the BOUNDARY not within this world. Instead, it may be possible to collect the living, and knit them together, providing a reservoir to sup. But how that might be done is beyond this stupid servant – but surely THEE know.
All homage to YOU, great one. This text is but all is known to me. I hope, with its manifold errors, it is adequate for a neophyte to be admitted to the higher mysteries. Teach o change FATE and know ETERNAL LIFE. I am not worthy to sup from such an exalted chalice to strike me where I stand, to not suffer the absence of knowledge of all; sweet oblivion instead of the pain of separation, MY MIND, MY BODY, MY SOUL IS YOURS, LORD AND I AM IN TOTALITY LOVE AND SUBJUGATION.
-- Arkhan
Very good, my loyal disciple. You will be taught what is hidden beyond the shadow. Remember the name.
This pitiful worm applies to the level of the seventh initiation, with this document on the soul - MYSTIC ORGAN! – as proof of the disciple's sufficient learning. This pathetic fool will elucidate what is known by the Eldest and Liches, then presents this fool's own but undoubtedly flawed model, in the hopes that it may be corrected by YOU, font of all that is true and right.
The elves, declare that the soul is a gift from the GODS. That Asyuran, at the beginning of time, saw this world and made plan to bend it to his will. He devised a way with ingenious artifice to break off the essence of a being like himself – DIVINE – and transmit it through the Great Boundary separating materium and that which lies beyond. Thusly, the soul would be clothed in gross matter and in this sullying, develop a peculiar personality. But the Heaven-Emperor would not tolerate such independence; no; the soul remains STRECHED, from the immaterium through the boundary, to the real, so that the Gods might touch it still, and gain dominion over the realms they could not touch.
THERIN is the answer to the contradiction of Kurnous Hunter as ELF-FATHER while Asyuran Emperor as ELF-CREATOR. The plan for their existence was a conspiracy of the Phoenix, yet their actual essence, the matter separated and stretched between worlds, was that of Kurnous and Mother Isha. At death, the Elves so claim, the material connection breaks, and the soul flies back into the immaterium like the SNAP of a lyre-string. At once, it is vulnerable, for it does not necessarily return to the God it was sourced. The Thirsting One and the Pale Queen enjoy the hunt, and only Loec Dancer, Ladrielle Mistwalker protecteth the twisting path to the ULTIMATE.
[CHART 1]
This tale, though sweet, is nothing but the adder's milk. How could the Elves know much of the great, when YOU, Master, have laid them so low? The children of Nehek had no Gods before the Great Migration, and no God knew them. They made pact with our divines after great TRIBULATIONS and only then was human and holy BOUND. So, whence came they? Must we posit some hidden forgotten God, claim those we worship are but the better poacher – so total in their victory they erased even the memory of those that they cuckooed? NAY! The Liche Priests of the Mortuary Cult, fatuous and smug they may maketh themselves in late days were not always so. Their desiccated skulls dined an alternate solution to the problem of the soul; flawed, but necessary to know for any adept of the higher arts. To the Hieratic Council, the being may be divided into seven parts.
[CHART 2]
The essence was SEKHEM, soulfire, the base indivisible. From it flowed naturally Ren, the true name. All things known to exist had Ren, Sekhem's echo in memory, ensuring the soul was maintained insofar as one was to recall it. Its present existence was established by KHAIBIT, the shadow of the light of Sekem. Khabit implied manifestation in the material world. A Daemon or Djinn has no Khabit. They are immortal ideas, ever repeated throughout time. It is implied in certain secret texts that to achieve such a state required a wilful severing of the shadow, though that would limit one's material presence necessarily into the temporary incarnations called SAHU. Physical existence resulted in the development of other aspects, KA, the ego, BA the emotions, and KHA, the physical form. All beings have such, though the intelligent races are separated in the additional occult organ of AB, will and conscience, the ability to know right and wrong and choose between the two. The Ab, Ka, Ba, Sahhu, Ren, Sahu, and Sekhem composed the AKHU, what other cultures might call the soul, but in truth, all parts were, while a being lived, indivisible. Death meant the shrivelling of the Khabit. Liche priests considered it due to the exhaustion of the energy of the Sekhem, and the resultant dissolving of the Kha, Ba, Ka, and Ab. What remained was the shadow, which maintained traces of the lost organs, an exhausted essence, and Ren. The process of mummification was meant to preserve this state from persecution from external forces, which might seek to consume what Sekhem might remain until it was possible for the Mortuary Cult to re-energize Sekhem and thereby restore the Khabit. This is an aim they have so far absolutely FAILED.
The necessary FLAW of the Mortuary theory is it, unlike the elf, provides no explication for why the soul forms, why it grows these organs like cypress on a grave, or how it traverses the material and immaterial. Yet as is KNOWN, the elf model is likewise unacceptable for its reliance of existence on divinity. O MASTER, this humble supplicant knows your hatred for knowledge incomplete! A new soul-system this failure offers in the hopes not that it may inform, for surely YOU, guardian of the FIRST MUSEUM know much more, but to whet the intellectual appetite in pointing out this incompetent's many flaws.
BEHOLD the following image from this slave's own hand.
[CHART 3]
QEYOS is the energy of the other world, raw magic undifferentiated. It exists as a GREAT SEA, of which Gods and Daemons are composite part. QEYOS may and does slip through the boundary between their world and ours, by force or by accident. In doing so, it is transformed at the threshold into ANIMA, soul-energy or Sekhem. It still, however, retains an imprint from which it came, an unconscious essence – FEYOS. Anima eventually intermingles with FORM, that is, the matter that makes up this world, and thereby creates the mind – DEYOS. A conscious mind is capable with sufficient skill, to draw energy directly from the realm of Qeyos by breaking the boundary itself, as exists at the poles. This Qeyos is still however, not unaffected by its transition into the material, resulting the AETHYR, or magic as generally known. The conscious mind, informed by the unconscious which dictates how the anima binds itself to form, transmitting that knowledge just as the bee is taught to build a d hives, without prior experience. This is energized by winds, which in passing through the Feyos-Deyos construct – the "soul" – impress on it change and emotion – lies and truth, logic, and passion, good and evil. Combined, they create the self, the ANIMUS. The ability to receive all the winds is what may distinguish the thinking peoples from the animals.
Death is but the result of the exhaustion of the anima that has settled in a particular form. It is ended then. There is no life after death, it is but an illusion taught by liars to peasants to comfort them in their beds at their final passage. If there was something that remained, why do the FOUR only pursue the living, not the dead? If anything remained in the corpse, would the cultist not find it easier to steal from the hapless body, then fight the living man? Something goes when one's days are ended, and it is the animus. How unfortunate, then that the animus is what one is. Rejoice, though, that at least where are not bound. Though Feyos may determine why a man is born a cripple or a king, why some seeds bloom sweet fruits and other bitter thorns, that DEYOS results means this destiny the Gods may have set may be thwarted.
But what is a God then? An entity with a mind – DEYOS but existing integrally within QEYOS. Aethyr would no longer be channelled through the soul, but the soul would be inexorably linked to a "zone" of magic – the difference between the soul's control of the body, versus the soul's grasp of a stick. This can only be if that which had a FORM shed it, and replaced it with an ASTRAL BODY of Qeyos, for the mind cannot arise independently within the immaterium (if it could, there would be an infinity of Gods, or at least an identifiable change in their number, something not found in any archive). How this may be done is beyond this weak petitioner, but, if at the very least, requires ANIMA to sustain itself. For if Deyos could exist on Qeyos alone, no God would ask for prayer. It is something in this world that must be given for them to continue to intervene. This must be what can pass through – ANIMA. Be it assumed that the divines are therefore great reservoirs of anima, their glory comes at the cost of all men's lives, for to return that would be to directly extend lifespan – what the GREAT COVENANT does.
Practically for the betterment of one's life one must find a way to attract anima, and further, to determine the Keyos and modify it. The latter appears to be the domain of prophecy, the prior unclear. Perhaps one may do as the Gods, and attract prayer, though that may fail for prayer may be only a mechanism to transmit through the BOUNDARY not within this world. Instead, it may be possible to collect the living, and knit them together, providing a reservoir to sup. But how that might be done is beyond this stupid servant – but surely THEE know.
All homage to YOU, great one. This text is but all is known to me. I hope, with its manifold errors, it is adequate for a neophyte to be admitted to the higher mysteries. Teach o change FATE and know ETERNAL LIFE. I am not worthy to sup from such an exalted chalice to strike me where I stand, to not suffer the absence of knowledge of all; sweet oblivion instead of the pain of separation, MY MIND, MY BODY, MY SOUL IS YOURS, LORD AND I AM IN TOTALITY LOVE AND SUBJUGATION.
-- Arkhan
Very good, my loyal disciple. You will be taught what is hidden beyond the shadow. Remember the name.
You are aware that a certain Arkhan is the Grand Vizier of Khemri but – surely not. Regardless, the three theories presented allow you to formulate a theory of what, exactly, the Princeps is doing.
If the Elves are right, the Princeps, in being able to absorb souls, is already a sort of manifest God, and presumably the rat-composite is some sort of feast. Though his soul was bright, you cannot recall Suttar exactly exhibiting any properties you might associate with the divine (what God goes to the theatre?) so that seems right out. Plus, if he could absorb souls infinitely, as a true divinity could, why would he be waiting? Would it help him ascend to some sort of higher plane?
If the Liche Priests were correct, the Princeps had found a solution where they had not, that is a way to replenish his soulfire. The rats would then serve a particular purpose in a permanent feeder-zone, but would seemingly be well beyond what one man would need, even if trying for immortality. Was he going to use it to replenish other individuals SEKHEM? Was he planning on making the whole city – if not immortal, much longer lived? A collective ascension to some higher status? Regardless, if the Nehekaran understanding of the parts of the soul was correct, that explained the obvious pain of the entity. It had literally millions of separate consciousnesses, all of which were inherently "wounded" and aware of such in lacking the essential distinct component of their physical forms, unless the Princeps had actually literally stitched them all together in some extreme physical rat-centipede but that seemed almost too absurd to contemplate.
The final option, if the mysterious Arkhan was correct, was that the Princeps was massively collecting anima, while reinforcing his own. This would provide a reservoir, as the essay directly suggests, to live forever. But there is another possibility. If the Gods were Deyos in Qeyos, and needed anima to survive as such, it might be presumed that to ascend to such a state, a high level of anima would be necessary to provide the baseline propulsion, so to speak, to abandon the physical form for one of raw magic. Necessarily then, the Princeps would be preparing to become a God.
When you realize that, you must take a breath.
Horror of horrors. To even suggest the notion would be blasphemy and treason combined. To aim so high – well, it has always been the character of Tylos-Kavzar to excel. But this – is beyond what you ever though possible the destiny of man.
But you cannot feel as if you've missed something. If simply grabbing a great many of the living could achieve apotheosis, you would feel that someone would have managed it already. It might happen even accidentally when a great deal of souls would be released – say, on a battlefield. There must be more too it, you think – something to do with those altar-guillotines. And that final note to recall "the name". Something to do with Ren – a memory, a legend, a ritual to echo across the cosmos?
Perhaps Suttar hopes to combine two great works– an immortal city with a God-King. A new heaven on the earth, more beautiful and terrible than any before it. The glory of these cities assured forever more – you all stuck together singing hymns in this (false?) paradise, trapped like flies in amber. The slaves and the factories eternal; colonies reinforced with avenging angels, this bitter spring staining the world for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. The Tower the Highest, and all else to Fall.
You've got an idea now, of the shape of the monster. Ignorance was bliss.
You then promptly turn your mind from the high to the low, with your attempt to hire help. For once, it goes well. Unemployment's pretty bad, you remember from the news, and you get a horde of applications for "personal assistance", plus the people you get from Ambrose, Georgios, and Cassius putting out the good word among their contacts.
You sort through the mass, and after a series of bizarre interviews where you must determine someone's willingness to engage in a seditious conspiracy without saying so, you end up with three viable options. You can hire one without straining your finances, while two would take up a great deal of your bribe money, combined with the wages for the clergy you're planning on hiring later in the week.
First is a strict and severe fellow called Mervyn. "Permission to sit, sir?" he asks. You nod. There is silence. You put out your hand to introduce yourself. "Permission to speak, sir?" he says. You nod again. "Good day" he says, shaking your hand, and lapsing into silence again. "You're free to say what you like" you try to note. "Permission to disagree, sir?" Mervynius says. You surrender, and just nod. The man seems totally unflappable in all circumstances. He presents you with three references from the greatest noble Houses of the Casbah, and when you inquire if he still knows anyone up there, assures you that he has many connections in "downstairs world" and would be happy to leverage them for your purposes. After a long discussion setting out your general expectations surrounding gardening in which he makes you concede that if hired, he will be permitted adopt a "more strict discipline" for the treatment of your roses he further suggests that he'd be happy to install some hives, which he believes would "improve the virtue" of the gardnes. For the privilege, he insists, he'll forward you any proceeds from the sale of honey, which apparently brings in quite the tidy sum.
Second comes a tall thin man with wispy white hair and slightly singed linens. He calls himself Slim Al and does not tell you if that standards for Albus or Alexander or anything else. He starts talking, and will not stop, listing a comically number of previous places of employet some of which you're pretty sure are made up (why would anyone want a steam-powered horse) but is impressive in sheer volume. He is an accredited member of UCACHM and has a ready contract for you with the standard wage rate, benefits, etc. You are not sure you've ever heard of a unionized butler, but the terms do not actually seem unreasonable which makes you wince a bit at how bad conditions must generally be if they're setting their sights at "one five-minute break per three hours of manual work". His particular speciality apparently is as an operator of the illusionary telegraph. He is also an independent seller of them ("Need two side-jobs to survive these days, mister") so for a small fee is willing to install your very own and run it for you. Finally, you read in a footnote on the seventeenth page of the agreement you note that you would, by reason of hiring a member of the union, become a part of their legal counterpart "The Starry Chamber of Mystic Commerce", which has biweekly meetings to discuss the economic situation in the City and share management "tips" – a rather useful bit of access.
The third is Rosamunde, one of the patients you freed from the Lazarette. She looks much better, her brown curls clean, her cheeks no longer sallow, not in stained rags, but a rich green stola, secured with the pin of a dove bursting from a birdcage. She curtseys as she introduces herself and maintains all the regular niceties, but you can see a hunger in her eyes. This is a girl that will not be kept indoors, no shrinking maid to do your laundry and serve you meals. Her proposal is simple. She will be your eyes and ears in the Cities – and for her benefit, she gets to see the world long denied to her. She thinks she can manage a district a week. Plus, she adds, she was put away for stealing, so if you have need for any misbehavior – she winks and laughs – you only need ask. When you imply that you might be engaged in a broader plot with the House, her eyes burn a little brighter, and her grin grows a little cruel and wild. "I want to experience everything" she says.
Regardless of whom you hire, you'll have a lot more time on your hands. They'll be managing the maintain of the gardens, the feeding and washing of the Brothers, and other general housework that had been running you and Pelops a bit ragged. You'll be able to prepare for your, er, personal activities with a bit more care.
Who do you choose?
[-] Mervin, Gentleman Butler
BONUS: All investigation actions involving the nobility (characters with the title of "lord" or "lady" ) are an automatic success using Mervyn's connections. Xenophon gains a moderate income per turn from honey sales.
[-] Slim Al, Union Mage
BONUS: At the beginning of each turn, Xenophon will be able to send a message of ten words or less or a single image to every illusionary telegraph in the city, or some specified class (ex. "all nobles"). Further, Xenophon will become a member of the Star Chamber of Mystic Commerce (SCOMC), unlocking actions and intel.
[-] Rosamunde, Wily Freedwoman
BONUS: Rosamunde will take an "Explore a District" action each turn, without taking up an action slot. You can further ask her to steal any specific item as part of a turn plan as a RISKY action – this will also not take up an action slot.
GENERAL BONUS GAINED [regardless of whom you choose]:
Because of the extra time on his hands to ready himself, Xenophon may select one RISKY action a turn – he will automatically succeed that flip. This does not apply to VENTURE rolls, nor tasks done by other people, i.e. Rosamunde's thefts or actions assigned to Ambrose.
You conclude your early period of research and household management and venture again into the cities to the Temple of Tyleus. There was once a man, and now there is a God. His heir seems to be attempting to repeat much the same, you'd rather like to see how far the rotten apple falls from the tree.
The Temple, naturally, is on the isle of the House of Tyleus. It's a beautiful marble and gold structure, facing directly across from the Casino. Set on a flat earthen mound, solid metal statutes of every Princeps to ever rule stand in a fearsome line in poses of martial valor. Each is wearing their traditional crown – a wreath of laurel entwined with four horns: two long like ivory, two curled like a ram. Beyond and between the sculpture gallery was a set of silver stairs. In each step was embedded tile art of mother-of-pearl and stained glass, showing every incident of Tyleus' life – his birth in long-lost Za-Baji, his marriage to Myrmidia, his deathbed freeing of his slaves. They are animated with magic too – so you can see a thousand times and more the swing of the sword that killed the dragon that dwelt on this very isle, to found the city in which you know stand. You climb the stairs and pass through the entrance hall a hundred columns topped with filigreed corinthian toppers of leaves of bay and oak, real plants enchanted by Moulder artifice to grow in perfect and eternal symmetry. Above are more mosaics, these ones devoted to Tyleus as god – Tyleus Areius, warrior, Tyleus Horkios, oathkeeper, Tyleus Sosipolis – city savior. You enter the first room and look up to the great statue of the man himself. In a domed rotunda a hundred feet tall, the colossus, though seated is about eighty. You remember thinking as a boy, if this stone Tyleus ever stood up, he'd bump his head, and hard. He is armored and crowed, with one arm raising his sword high, ten feet of runed steel, burning with a pure white flame, the other hand bearing a huge set of scales, gold and weighty. On his shoulder sits an eagle. His expression you always found odd – his marble face, perhaps meant to be intimidating, his mouth a severe line almost disappearing into a forest of marble curls, with his eyes of huge inset star sapphires, really just seemed sad – worried, perhaps, like a father seeing a misbehaving child.
At his feet are various worshippers prostrating themselves, weeping, singing hymns of praise. There's a pile of swords, axes, and bows at his feet – legend says he'll bless your blade to swing true if you keep it in his temple a hundred days and nights and visit every sunrise. A little to the side, away from the main crowd, a Keyholder of the Casino, identifiable by, naturally, the great keys of black iron they wear around their waist and their peculiar green felt hats, holds a service of his own. Five slaves kneel before him, each with a ceremonial shackle on their wrists. He takes a hammer blazing with Chamon, and smashes each of them – light enough not to seriously injure, hard enough to bruise. The shackles, hit with the enchantment visibly soften, and the slaves, then, with their other hands, yank and shatter the restraint as they pull it off them, through their own effort, making themselves free men.
But you're not here to see that. You walk past the great statue – you leave no offering, into the back. Here, an open courtyard, surrounding by more of the blooming columns, houses a curious sight. In its centre is a simple hut – wattle and daub walls, a straw roof. The door is made of dried reeds, and beyond it, you can see through the gaps in the rushes a tiny green fire burns, that, according to legend, if put out, will spell the end of these fair Cities.
There's a crowd waiting here, in front of the first house Tyleus built, the first building of the Twin Cities. A priest is standing before them – the Head Priest, in fact, Lars Ileus, with his white toga with mauve trimmings and hood up, prepared for sacrifice. Before him is placed a small wooden idol. It is of a woman, sitting on throne. Her hair is woven riverweed and her eyes polished stones. She is wearing a crown of shining fish-scale, and holding with both hands a great jar, from which water, even in the Temple, trickles out, pure and clear. She is smiling.
Ileus, stands behind her, menacing like a cougar for the kill. He snaps his fingers, and an assistant appears with a torch, covered in black, dripping pitch. He hands it to the Priest. Lars speaks.
"CITIZENS! Let us praise the great one, king of the gods, the omniscient, the surpassing, he who decrees our fates!"
"BLESSED TYLEUS!" the crowd (bar you) replies.
"Let us praise his heroism, extol his name, glorify he who dwells in heaven! He who came down to educate mankind, to teach the lessons for all generations to hear and remember! Creator of all invention, commander of all victories, TYLEUS FATHER, who's command is the furthest reaching! Whose pronouncements stand fast! Whose word and deeds are everlasting, and ever known!"
"AMEN!"
"We ask you, TYLEUS AREIUS, to give succor to your children. We have followed your traditions, performed the ancient rites. You, who's onslaught is irresistible, who split the mountains – we follow in your footsteps, to bring your legacy and your glory to all corners of the world!"
"AMEN!
"But we are opposed by dark forces – those who do not comprehend the meaning of your majestic designs. False gods!" and he kicks the statue, which falls with a crack, the head broken clean off. The water flowing from it, though, seems to come faster, and darker.
"May the greater speak, and the lesser listen! May the lands be spread wide at our feet! May the our days and years be long, so we, who bear your scepter, may have glory and abundance and leadership over all others!"
"AMEN!"
"May those who utter against us die a violent death! May those who plot against us be called to account by the tempest and drought! May those who rise against us be smote, and on their bones, a true order built!"
"AMEN!"
With that, the priest turns. He takes some salt proffered by a waiting attendant, at sprinkles it on his head to purify himself. He circumambulates the hut, muttering under his breath all the while – Tyleus, Tyleus, Tyleus! He arrives back at the door and opens it. He takes a single step inside and lowers his torch – the flame inside jumps to it and burns bright and hateful.
You realize, suddenly, that there's been not a hint of divine magic this whole ritual – not in the priest, not in the torch – but the Flame – you See, and you cannot say what it is, but know enough to be afraid.
The priest turns, closes the door. He kneels before the statue.
"For you, over-father, lord of the world, Great High One – truth of our glory, for A THOUSAND VICTORIES MORE!"
"AMEN" the crowd screams.
The torch falls, and the statue burns.
You see, suddenly, not a statute, but a girl, with rushes for hair and a beaver's teeth, and eyes as black as caviar. Her dress is made of fishbone, and she's gone no feet but just water pouring below, ever, ever flowing. Her mouth is open in a silent scream, as the flame – impossibly, takes her. You see in her beautiful shining holiness – the serenity of the willow at the river's bend, the bright glint off the leaping carp, the perfect peace of the steady current. All of that, in a moment, crackles and disappears, like paper in a hearth – burning, burning – she's stepping towards you know, through the people and you back away but trip as you're still stuck in the damn crowd – down to the skeleton like the girl in the play ashes, ashes – burnt so much you can see her soul, a tiny, white, weak thing, a little minnow – and you reach out to grab it, and feel – a raven's wing, a funeral shroud, the long reach of everyone's last friend join with to save-
Ding-dong.
A chime of a bell from the Tower, unmistakable. The spirit – the soul – the God – crumples in on itself, folding, rotting, collapsing – going from white to green to black from pure filament to a dense, tumorous mass. It falls to the ground, with a thud, and collapses into a ruin of dust and warpstone and shattered fish-bone – and from it is this horrible, disgusting stench, this coiling grey smoke that spools into the air and then is pulled tiny, thin, like Junius was, like razor wire – straight to – where else?
You blink, and realize you have a splitting headache. People are looking at you, concerned – you've fallen over, it seems. The ritual is ended – there is but a little clean pile of ash, and no smoke at all. Someone offers you some water. You refuse, and run out of the temple, out of the site of a deicide – and stare up, towards the Tower.
It looks, across the water, as it ever does, glorious and golden and oh so tall. But you see it, and you know – the smoke, the soul, just the edge of it, through a window, and then-
A terrible CRASH– the fall of a blade, the crunch of a maw – and you know, in the pit of your stomach and the depths of your heart a predator has just caught its prey.
Somewhere very far away, a spring dries up, and a people begins to die.
You throw up.
You return to the Roost and prepare to call for reinforcements. You consider putting in your ad you are the only temple in the Twin Cities guaranteed not involved whatsoever in any dark forbidden evil, but then you realize you don't actually know what Ambrose is doing with his spare time.
[RISK: the Raven's Chicks – Heads (Success]]
1st Temple of Morr (Reconstituted) – Meeting Minutes
Taken by Pelops, Shroud-Knight
Date: Three days past the Nones of Arragio
Present: Xenophon, Raven of the Roost, Pelops, Shroud-Knight, Neophytes Franka, Maban, Santo, Camilla Melodus, Caecilia Melodus, Iefyr of Har Kaldra
Absent: Brothers Sanguine, Florian, Pilate, Auspice, Nicanor, Risca, Plautilla, Felix, Constantine
Item 1#: Welcome
- The Raven greets the new recruits, is most delighted that Morr still has a following in the Cities, asks everyone to introduce themselves.
- Franka, Maban, and Santo say they are freedmen, manumitted by the Raven's munificence, they are Priests of the "God of Death" of the old faith of the Belthani, who they identify with Morr. They declare their "subjugation" to Morr and the Raven, who must be more pious than they, for the "God of Death" has revealed his name to them, something forbidden to them.
- The Raven thanks them – they immediately request if they can do an animal sacrifice in his honor of his great goodness, the Raven strenuously protests – I agree the Raven deserves a reward for his good works. The Raven looks very tired. A debate ensues – a compromise; the freedmen will buy him a steak dinner – rare.
- Next are the Melodus twins. They describe their career as celebrity psychics for the upper classes, say that with the sudden death of their father, realizing the limits of their abilities, wanting to strengthen them through faith.
- The Raven thanks them, notes that Morr generally does not allow communication with the dead but appreciates their open mindedness.
- General protests follow; Santo declares communication with phantoms to be a crime deserving of immediate death, topic temporarily tabled when the Raven threatens to fire everybody if they don't shut up.
- Final new priest – my squire! An elf called Iefyr, says he is a follower of Nethu and travelling mercenary, was recommended here by Lady Tophania, seeking an understanding of comparative religion and holy martial practice. Kneels before the Raven and asks to be made blood brothers to confirm their bonds of mutual loyalty. The Raven looks horrified. I volunteer as his direct superior. The Raven looks worse, but then does it for me, cutting his hand, his vitae mingling with the dark elf.
- Camilla returns to the topic of ghosts, the many she's seen, and her various friendships with them.
- The Raven suggests that perhaps she has windsight – Camilla does not understand what that is.
- Franka, to demonstrate, without anybody asking, casts "Death Mask" making his face distend and rot. Everybody is horrified.
- Camilla suggests yes, that was the sort of thing she was seeing, and perhaps Franka is a ghost.
- The three freedmen strenuously protest, ask the Raven to perform an exorcism to prove their status.
- The Raven says he believes them and there's no need for that. He inquires if anyone's had any prophetic dreams.
- Caecilia says she often dreams of ghosts.
- Issue tabled.
- The Raven explains the cult has two orders – Shroud, concerning death and funerals and Augury, concerning prophecy, dreams, etc. Asks if anyone has a preference.
- Iefyr asks if prophetic duties include the carrying out of said predictions to ensure accuracy, as done in Naggarond.
- The Raven is aghast.
- The freedmen express an interest in performing funerary services, especially in the Belthani style of cremation followed by scattering the ashes in a flowing river.
- The Raven explains Morr wishes to maintain the sanctity of the body and that is unacceptable.
- The freedmen engage in a heated discussion.
- They request that they be able to perform funerary services by building a submerged mausoleum.
- The Raven, in his infinite grace, suggests, yeah, sure, if you build it yourself.
- The Order of the Shroud is thusly re-established.
- The Raven politely notes that Caecilia and Camillia might be potential seers – not of ghosts – but of messages of Morr himself – offers to teach them.
- Caecilia and Camilia instead offer to demonstrate their abilities – do so without waiting for an answer. Join hands, close their eyes, begin muttering under their breath. They begin slightly levitating, their hair floating in the air. A deep voice speaks from them both as their eyes glow, shouting "I AM THE GENERAL VOCULA – BEWARE THE F-A-L-S-E!". They fall back to the floor. There is general applause.
- The Raven seems genuinely shocked, seeming to see something we cannot. He thanks them, and names them both official Priestesses, for "their actual conveyance of a miracle".
- The Order of Augurs is restored.
- Iefyr is dealt with as per his application to be my squire and part of the order of Knights.
- Wages are discussed – the freedmen refuse them, as does Iefyr, seeming offended at the payment from a "blood brother". The twins ask if they might just take commission on prophecies offered.
- The Raven defeated, agrees to that, and offers to pay the others at least in kind with recompense for room and board? They concede to this compromise.
- The Sisters request consideration for an order of exorcists to deal with all the ghosts that, per the Raven, are not true ghosts.
- A twenty-minute debate ensues on the classification of various spiritual entities.
- The Raven, who has been silent this entire time, declares that "of course poltergeists are different from banshees"; promises to consider the founding of an alternate order, and moves the meeting along.
- The Raven explains the approximate thrust of his late visions.
- There is general silence.
- Iefyr swears his loyalty, confirmed in blood, till the "Rhana Dandra".
- The freedmen all cut their hands too and thrust them towards the Raven, who accepts, saying they have no fear of Death, for Death's Chosen leads them.
- The sisters and I get into it too and join in blood.
- The Raven is on the verge of tears, and then leads us in a rousing hymn – the hymn of the Roost– "Abide with Me".
BONUS: The restoration of the Roost will happen as a free action next turn.
Following the genuine surprise of your new clergy all actually exhibiting a level of divine connexion and being willing to be loyal and faithful, even in the face of apocalypse, you are in an excellent mood. That is perhaps what leads you to accede to Floridus' proposal to give over one of the Brothers – specifically Sanguine – to see if he can be "healed", per methods the wizard had pioneered at his Asylum.
You are not particularly sure of the specifics of the "Three Radiant Trials" – apparently something set up by the founders of the Flame to determine leadership if the ordinary method – the majority vote – failed. What you are aware of is the first of the three tests is the Trial of the Body, and it requires the candidates to "heal the lost" which has interpreted in this day and age to mean anyone with an incurable condition. The Brothers apparently count, and because you're through some bureaucratic magic Floridus pulled, been declared their legal guardian, you're able to attend the actual "healing" process.
You've never been into the walled central section of Temple proper, a gigantic complex made of white limestone enchanted to glow so brightly it seems almost translucent. Within the hundred-foot barriers that form the edge of the "Mystic City", there is a broad, plain courtyard easily the size and breadth of the whole neighborhood the Roost is in, also made of more pure white stone, arranged in perfectly symmetrical spirals. These whorls join together in another, smaller walled complex – the temple to the Five Gods of Law. It has ten entrances, each a portal of living fire cut directly into the wall. To step through the flames is to be purified or destroyed, and inside, none but the highest adepts of the Flame may see.
So, you are confined to the grand pavilion, where a tent – naturally, also white – has been set up. There are temporary bleachers, and a little stage – a whole pop-up amphitheatre that would seem ordinary if it wasn't entirely constructed of manifest solid light. You gingerly sit down at your apportioned seat, alone in your mourning blacks in a sea of starched togas and the Flame's horrible characteristic masks they wear at formal occasions – full masquerade of solid quicksilver, perfectly unemotional, and to you, deeply sinister. In the Mystic City, all are required to cover their hair, so you've put on a skullcap, with everyone else. You stand out, naturally, as yours does not have, as theirs do, the ever-burning flame from the central sanctum of the Temple of the Five hanging an inch above their head; no, yours is dark, with little embroidering of Morr's roses done in obsidian. Pretty enough, but you are quite literally the black sheep.
A set of trumpets rings from nowhere in a barrage of sound you realize exists only inside your mind, and everyone stands up as one – bar you, a second out of tune. The Supreme Pontiff is brought forward on his litter – a huge palanquin of spun glass with little embers of seeming stolen starlight scattered through, floating on its own volition. The pontiff wears his silver mask too – no hierarchy like the Lodge – and the same robes. The only difference is his crown of office – a hundred spikes of crystal-light, bound in a rope of living fire, that levitates a centimeter above his bald skull.
Floridus and Angelus follow, dressed the same as their fellows, but bearing two distinct staffs. Angelus has a tall glass pole, topped with something that glows so much you cannot stare for a second d without burning the eight-pointed star, bounded by a circle directly into your eyelids – the symbol of Alluminas. Conversely, Floridus has something almost homely; a gnarled wooden cane, topped with a deeply imperfect crystal of midnight blue. You squint at it, and you think you might see something moving inside – but then he's passed you, and they ceremony's off. Sanguine and someone else – you think it might be someone you saw in the Lazarette, but you can't think of from where (and you hope it wasn't a drapetomaniac) are officiously levitated from above, mystically compelled to sleep in blankets of the purest Nehekaran cotton.
No words are exchanged – you think there might be some mass telepathy going on through the masks? – before the actual trial begins. The Supreme Pontiff merely claps his hands once – with a flash, an hourglass appears before them, the sand begins to pour, and they're off.
Angleus begins chanting "Our help is in the name of ALLUMINAS who's light fills heaven and earth. Under HIS gaze, I cast out the demon from you!"
Floridus looks bored and begins – unscrewing? – the crystal from the top of his staff.
Angleus is only growing in volume. "By the HOLY! God! By the TRUE! GOD, who ordered you to be thrown into the darkness! May all the evil fancies of the foul fiend, his malice and cunning, be drive afar from this place where HIS light shines!" he cries. With each sentence, his staff-lamp pulses, and you can see the point of the masks. You feel the waves of Hysh and divinity bash into your soul like waves on a cliff, and you feel yourself automatically clutch the hilt of your blade, and the pressure emanating from the Priest abates. For the unfortunate patient, however, they're facing the full brunt. The sleeping old man tosses fitfully in the face of the blinding light, and you watch as with each pulse, his skin fade – going pale like paper, then transparent, where you can see his bones and brains and nerves like a sick anatomical display. As Angelus shouts, little scuttling black dots like insects pour from the folds in his brain, which you swear might be words, but can't tell as they are obliterated with each pulse.
Meanwhile, Floridus has knelt on the floor. He smashes the crystal he had with a huge crack – which makes even Angelus pause. There is something moving in it – some weird blue slug– wait. It's not physical – that thing is like you saw earlier at the Temple of Tyleus, a soul, separated from the form – but this is a weird and corrupt. You can't tell quite what's wrong with it, but when you focus, you feel your vision slip right off – there's an enchantment on in – or in it?
You try to yell to stop, but you hear nothing – you realize, there's dome around you of shimmering arcana – no sound, no spells, no nothing through. It's connected to the upraised hand of the Pontiff – the Trial will not be interrupted.
So, you watch in horror, as Angelus yells nonsense. "We ask through the power of your Lord, who for man's welfare established the most wonderful mysteries in the substance of light, hearken to our prayer!" as he bleaches a man's mind. You can see the folds of the poor man's brain begin to smooth as a holy white fire begins to burn up and down the nerves, and the fellow starts convulsing, seizing, but then is held fast with chains of light. Conversely, Floridus opens Sanguine's mouth, and drops the soul-slug in. He waits. Angelus is still chanting – "In the name of the Lord! In the name of Light! In the name of Alluminas!". His victim's innards are now all aglow, and vibrating so much you swear the blood is starting to steam. Meanwhile, the soul drops down into Sanguine, and disappears. A moment later, his mouth opens, and a white, diaphanous thing flies out – a second later, Sanguine lets out a loud yawn.
This is what shocks the audience out of their silence. The sectarians of the Flame, motionless until now, begin looking wildly at each other, presumably communicating through their godforsaken masks. Angelus turns and looks shellacked. He raises a hand, and his patient goes perfectly still. His body returns to opacity, much worse for wear. The man's hair, grey, is white, and he's pale as the sheets he rests on, his mouth foaming with blood. Sanguine is rubbing his eyes.
Ding! With the noise of tinkling glass, the hourglass timer ends. The Pontiff lowers his hand, and you exhale the breath you didn't know you were keeping in. You rise, to go to Sanguine, but the Flame member next to you forces you to sit with a push to your shoulder. The alien thought "The verdict is not announced" forces itself into your mind.
The Pontiff raises both his hands simultaneous toward both patients, and with a complicated wiggle of his fingers, has them brought to their feet, and some calming enchantment cast. He then says "Speak, fellows – are you healed?"
Angelus' patient's eyes snap open. They are pure white – no pupil, no iris. He waves his hand, as if to grope for something that isn't their, and then begins to sob, weeping tears of blood. "I can't see!" he cries, over and over. "I can't see! I can't see! It's so dark now – oh, Gods! Why can't I see?"
Angleus quickly casts a spell on him, and the man goes stock still and silent. The priest gives a nervous smile and says "He is sane. The Lord of Light may be brutal – but he speaks sense. I have achieved what I have aimed." The man trembles beside him, locked in paralysis, great droplets of blood leaving red lines on his face and puddling to the floor.
Sanguine laughs. "Doesn't look well to me, my boy." He bows to the Pontiff. "I feel fit as a fiddle!"
Floridus looks comically smug. "My patient speaks for himself."
The Pontiff does not take long to make his decision; a wave of Hysh washes over both patients, and with a nod, he is satisfied. A circle of flame alights around Floridus' feet.
"Floridus Aulus Lar Scipio Ennius is victorious"
There is a smattering of applause. Floridus embraces Sanguine, who seems confused, but happy to return the hug. Angelus casts another spell, and his patient falls to the floor unconscious.
You Look at them both. Angelus' subject's soul is visibly magically damaged – the edges of it visible, jagged and black and burnt. Sanguine – you realize with a start the thread of divinity within him that marked him as a chosen of Morr is gone. There is – just nothing, a void – as any person who had never touched magic or been touched by the Gods might appear; so healed, it looks like nothing had ever happened to him at all.
Perfectly ordinary. But why do you feel such dread?
You try to see Sanguine after, but Floridus declares that the "procedure" requires significant of bedrest to prevent relapse. You are forcibly escorted from Temple when you protest. You receive a note a day later purportedly from Sanguine saying that though his memories are limited, he has been informed by Floridus of whom you are and appreciates your aid, though he plans to remain in the Asylum for at least the week, after which you are more than welcome to visit.
You are not sure you are willing or capable of running into Temple with accusations of – what? That Sanguine did some sort of soul-surgery? You can't even really articulate what happened, bar that some soul went in, and some went out. Your research is unhelpful – you can identify it as potentially anima for anima, perhaps, but Morr knows what that would do, much less if it's some exchange of parts per the Nehekaran model of the soul. Instead, you're forced to cool your heels, and wait for Ambrose as he gets back from his investigation into Mistress Marvos.
[RISK: the Lady Vanishes – Tails (Failure]]
He comes back the next day, sweaty and covered in dust, his face set in a (still inexplicably charming) pout. "They cleared out her office absolutely" he says, as he distractingly changes while giving you his report. A very fit boy. Anyways – "Don't know who, but there wasn't dust bunny or a scrap of paper till the time I got access. They don't let people into the actual Spring, where I'd presume the rest of her stuff is, or Temple proper, so that was a dead end."
"A pity, but you tried-" you try to console.
He gives a pleasant grin. "For you, I had to do a little bit more. I decide to do a little stakeout, watch who was coming in and out of the Spring. Asked around, and apparently there' s an underground passageway that goes in and out to get supplies straight through; Georgios knew somebody who knew somebody, so I was in. Turns out, a lot of weird stuff going in – lots of stuff for summoning, crystals, candles, the like. Also, people? As I said, high security place, but a lot of hooded prisoners. Nobody came out."
"Gods. Were you ever seen?" you ask.
He gives a faux-humble shrug. "Better than that. Was up in uniform doing "maintenance" – nobody would give a second look. Besides, the most interesting thing I've left for us to do together".
He's his ordinary blue-sky tunic now, looking very dapper. He opens the door out of the Roost "After you!" he says, with a theatrical gesture.
Ambrose refuses to tell you where you're going, or what you're gong to see as you wander through the Cloisters, closer and closer to the dockyards. You think, momentarily, this is an insane setup for a date, but as you stop in front of a huge dark warehouse, you think perhaps a murder attempt instead.
"What's this?" you say, you hand on your sword.
"Don't panic" Ambrose chuckles "I know you're a cloistered cleric, but where people actually work doesn't bite. Plus, the shift ended three hours ago, there's nobody around."
That, you think, is exactly your worry, but you follow, as he expertly picks the lock, and lets you in. The room is full to the brim with identical wooden crates. They are all marked with the same destination – Zandri, the great Nehekaran port.
"You've taken me to see" you glance at a note tacked to one box "a room full of tube alloys for export?"
"You insult me" Ambrose replies, grinning "that I would take someone so interesting somewhere so terribly boring." He takes his gladius and flips a crate open. A malevolent green glow rises from inside. You peer over the edge, and see no alloy, but a sandbag full of ground warpstone.
"Smuggling?" you ask.
"Worse" Ambrose replies. "Sale of illegal weaponry – as per the recent oh-so-helpful law – to a foreign government."
"They're selling this to Nagash?"
"Exactly, so-"
"Treason!"
…
It turns out, per Ambrose's snooping, Master Cyrillus, Elder Brother of Moulder, has been sneaking out warpstone produced through some process or another going on in the Spring. Ambrose presumes those in the Spring, meaning the Princeps, know he's taking it - presumably tasked with disposing it - but certainly do not know it is being directly sold to the Dark Pharoh of Nehekara. That's a crime against the state, and the punishment is singular – death.
You didn't find anything on Marvos, but you can't help but be pleased. For the first time since arriving at the Cities, you're not just a pawn, but have a card to play. You can't wait to upset the board.
The final task of your week is to meet with Kakram to track down MALOK. He has three leads and has given you discretion on which one to pursue. First, he's tracked the bomb to an underground workshop in the Shambles – seeing to this would involve storming or sneaking into the place, then ransacking it for whatever clues. Second, a well-known smuggler between the Sons of Skavor and the Holds of the Irrana Mountains has turned up dead, the word "MALOK" carved in his chest. Kakram knows the family, and you could look through his estate while he performs the funeral. Third, Fafnir Fogfather's having a dinner with the Prince in a clear attempt to smooth relations. You could get an invite, and see what sparks fly.
What do you choose?
[-] the workshop
[-] the manor
[-] the banquet
AN: Thanks for your patience, updates will be a little slower for this and next month because of upcoming exams. Doing my due diligence with citation: the Morr line is taken directly from the Bible because that's lodged in my brain and I couldn't phrase it better, Ezekiel 18:4. Also, Freepik is the source for the background of the Arkhan paper. Update to the Character Index will be coming soon; as always, thanks for reading and please let me know if you have any questions and/or feedback.
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Everything's coming up Milhouse!