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Warhammer Fantasy: Thirteen Tolls - An Apocalypse Quest

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    • Scheduled vote count started by Graf Tzarogy on Aug 2, 2024 at 8:24 PM, finished with 26 posts and 13 votes.
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    Turn Five Results (Part 6) - Crust
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    • ♫​

    Rosamunde insists you stay in bed for her report, so it was as you laid like a properly buried Khemrian king - eating her gift of crumbly date-cake with honey - that you heard her tale of enraged statuary.

    "It so happened, my Raven, that I was visiting the Waning Moon – you know, a jusesh parlour – I think they call it khat in Araby. Not to use! I would not dare mar your holy presence with that foul stuff, though it does rather seem like you'd rather likes some. It keeps you up quite well – better than even silphium – not that way you're thinking, to be awake, and of course, all of this I've only been told, not through any personal experience.

    But besides, I was in there, a typical Nehekaran place; all stone, black basalt, decorated with their little funny characters of wings and reeds and crocodiles, all done up in gold. Half abandoned, though, as the whole district seemed. Few people walking the streets, and those that were weren't well; ragged cotton, tired eyes. But if anywhere there would be gossip, it's where the jusesh is chewed – you know, they say that the vizier of Khemri does so much of it, he's called "the Black" for the look of his teeth? But southerners do have a queer sense of aesthetics, anyways – all those tall, frilly hats!

    But again, I wander off. Here's the rub. I was sitting, enjoying a – reasonable beverage, some, er.. posca, that's what. And the place was mostly abandoned, as I said, even though it was peak evening hours, and if I'd been in Casino – well not lately – I wouldn't have a place to sit. But there were only two others in the whole place – first the bartender, a thin fellow, with a hook nose, totally bald. That's Fatin – Arabyan, good sort, though quiet. The other was someone very curious. Bronze skin, and one of those ridiculous beard-covers the nobles in Khemri wear, made of lapis lazuli and gold, but the rest of him was covered in this big black cowl, embroidered with – Morr protects – skulls!

    So I though, perhaps, this fellow is some Nehakaran death worshipper, and though I must say before coming into your employment that would have been the sign to choose another establishment, I suppressed that urge and thought instead – good news! So I sidled up, where he was chewing jusesh like a cow with the cud – bang, bang, bang, hard and even, no missing beats. And I say "the Raven extends his regards". And he turns to me, and I see his eyes – something very strange, there – brown, but behind them – blue fire. Something dark, and something bad. And he leaps back, a foot, and says – can you believe it - "STAY AWAY, PEASANT!"

    And I'm not taking that standing, so I raise an eyebrow to Fatin, and he gives one of his looks which could kill a manticore, and he says "She's a patron, same as you. Settle down, boyo." And this man, he puffs up his chest and takes down his cowl, and he's wearing, a proper crown – a gold serpent, cobra thing, and says "You Speak to the Holy Personage of Prince Virion of Zelebzel! Bow!"

    Now, I wouldn't now, but I haven't heard of any place called Zell's Bells, so I presume he's doing some dress up – you know, as the exiles tend to do, inflate themselves to feel better about Nagash kicking 'em right out of their big palaces. So I say – "Well, I'm the Princess of Albion!" And he's just staring and says – "Truly?" and before I know I'm following him to some dark alley to "broker some trade". Now I'm just playing along here – don't scold me, you don't keep any vows of chastity I know – and I think, well, I don't mind the eyeshadow these foreign men put on, and I can stand the beard thing, and he is very tall. So I go, but we don't go to where I think my new paramour is taking me, which is to say somewhere very low rent, but we go up to the White Palace, where the senator lives. All white marble columns and imported papyrus and fountains, yeah? And I think – well, this is a better break than I expected. Don't shake your head! If he was stupid enough to think I was a princess, then he would be easy enough to sneak out on if I needed to, yeah?

    So, we walk through, and we go into the main room – where there's a big map of the South. I notice the damn mosaic was moving – little armies moving forth, smoke and flame – you could see that Mahrak was under siege, and that Arkhan – the drugged up one, yeah – was leading them. All around were these horrid statutes; big muscular carven bodies, with animal skulls – lions and eagles and hippos stuck on, with golden weapons as big as me. And with a chisel is that senator himself – S-Nefer-Ka! He was dressed insane, which is to say he wasn't. Totally nude, with just the barest of cotton strips to cover his decency, and a little leather cloak on top, battered and old. All over him were these deep gouged tattoos, riven roughly, like his body was just another bit of stone, runes and sigils and symbols. They were glowing, off an on, like a sputtering candle as he hummed and carved. This last one that he was working on – it was maybe twice as big as the others, made of some bright green stone – not marble, like the rest and had no animal head. No, there was a corpse – a mummy, put in the statue like some great suit, covered in old bandages, once gilt now dull. The body was being drowned with sand; into the inside of the statue where it rested, from above, from a barrel suspended from some nearby scaffolding, there was an endless pour of white desert sand being poured in – you think it'd fill up, even big as it was, but it was just pouring with this endless hiss that put your hair on edge.

    And Virion turns, and says, so quiet, like a scared little boy – "…evening cousin…"And S-nefer-ka flips around in a second – like a snake! And says – "Why, my boy – you're just in time to see the prototype!"

    And Virion looks at me, and starts to say "But I have a gu-"

    And S-nefer-ka looks at me, and gives a laugh – just one, a noise like the creak of an ancient door. And he says "Your master's death, not life, no?"

    And I say 'I have no master."

    And he laughed again and raised an eyebrow – but I did choose to stay and watch.

    He gestured with a hand, and the sand stopped, and then clapped twice. And some of the glyphs on his body glowed, and matching ones did on the states all around the room. And he picked up a book that he had beside him. And I swear by all the Gods, this book was bound in no leather I've ever seen but human skin, and there was an eye on the cover that looked at me. And he began reciting some awful tongue – half Elvish, half – just noise, like you heard the lunatics at the asylum scream. And it hurt him, you could tell – there was blood dripping out of his mouth, and Virion had his hands over his ears, and was kneeling on the floor – and me, well, I keep a feather since you freed me, that I found in the garden here, and I touched it, and there was the flapping of wings, and the cool breeze, and I couldn't quite hear what he said, so I could stand.

    And that body began to shake and open its mouth, as if to scream, but then just as quick S-Nefer-Ka dropped the book and to his knees and was shouting in Nehekaran now. When I was a girl, I served a family that made their kid learn the tongue, and I had to practice with them, so I knew a couple words – and he was saying "I INVOKE THE COVENANT! WE GIVE! YOU PRESENT!" or something like that. And the sand began to fly, up and around the room, and it hurt fierce, so I had to duck, so I didn't quite see, but there was just this blasting, blasting gale, and the statue began to move, get up, glowing brighter and brighter, so much it hurt to look at – but then I hadn't realized, it was chained to the floor with these great gromril links, and the head was screaming as sand flowed in and out of it and the chains screeched as the whole monstrosity tried to get up, but as it stretched the skull's jaw went further and further back – and S-Nefer-Ka was looking at it, and grinning, and crying and saying "WELCOME! WELCOME!" until the skull just snapped – CRACK!

    And everything stopped.

    Virion was crying on the floor, and S-Nefer-Ka was doing a happy jig, and turned to me, as I tried to sneak out (the mood was well and truly dead) – "A new age! A new age! See your master soon!"




    ♫
    ​
    You, after that account, unsurprisingly immediately turn your mind to your security.

    First to answer the call is Cassius, the Blue Thunder himself. His blond hair is messy, his leathers are bloodstained, his sword cracks with some thunderous divinity. About him are twenty fellow gladiators, with nets and axes and spears, all muscled and scarred, men and women born and breed in the fighting pits, who know, better than anyone else in the world, how to survive. He kneels before you and offers you a wooden box of simple varnished oak.

    "As promised", he says, and you hold in your arms Aoife's bones. You take a moment and turn a corner to place it in a temporary niche where bodies are stored just prior to formal funerals. You may hold a proper interment later – for now – god, with what you know – there isn't time. You don't even crack the box to see – you need to focus. You have your duty.

    So you go back to Cassius, who informs you that they found the list that they had been searching for of informants in the room of the final confrontation, where Ambrose … left. You still haven't really spoken of what you actually saw, other than that there was divine intervention, and that two corrupted Senators were slain. They don't know who had the list, but whoever it was – Nivet or Tophania or even Ambrose – wouldn't be a problem anymore. By their testimony, you've been mostly exonerated – there's some grumblings, but the influencer of the Tempter had been too obvious to ignore, and because of some intentional leaking to the press you've become a sort of folk hero, the priest come to kill the daemons. You'd be surprised, however, if you didn't receive summons from the Senate soon to at least give testimony on what happened. The Princeps has remained disturbingly quiet.

    But you can worry about that, with the bones, later. Cassisus is before you now, and he has more to say.

    "Friend of the House", Cassius intones with his deep baritone. "You have done us service good and true. You have defended us, and the House, with blood split against our enemies, of tyrants and foes of liberty."

    You think of Tyleus, and what he wanted, and what the Cities are. What makes tyranny? Intention or result?

    But Cassius is carrying on. "Blood for blood we must give. For as all men are born equal and free, none must permit another to bear an unpaid debt. So, we say – mine and my fellows – Ludens Procella, School of the Tempest, finest fighters to be found from here to Naggaroth – we are yours, to guard your home, as you did ours."

    And with a bolt from the blue; you shake hands, and to a peal of thunder, a pact is made.

    MILITIA FOLLOWER GAINED: the fighters of the Ludens Procella, led by Cassisus Thunderbolt

    RIOT ACTS UNLOCKED: The Ludens' Bonus: "Riot Acts", are a new category of action allowing Xenophon to affect the Cities through directing a copious amount of street violence. All "Riot Acts" are risky; however, they do not take up Xenophon's action count. Instead, one Riot Act can be taken per militia follower. Some militia acts will be new (dependent on what militia followers Xenophon has) and some will be moved from other action categories. "Protest a Trial" this turn gets retroactively converted into a Riot Act, with the bonus from the Ludens applied.

    THE LUDENS' BONUS: Owing to their celebrity, especially among the lower classes and freedmen, any Riot Acts undertaken by the Ludens will have significantly reduced (if any) consequences for public opinion.

    You think of Aoife, and how she fretted she would not be accepted among the free, that they'd judge her for staying in servitude so long. You look at the box, and say to it:

    "We're home."

    …

    Because Cassius refuses to accept a fee for his and his compatriots' services, you have at current, enough funding through the Roost and your personal (dwindling) assets to hire up to two other groups of knee-breakers. In response to your advertisement that Pelops declares he put in "every newspaper in the Cities", you have received no less than six letters in response– one of many signs that on the eve of the election, the security situation in the Cities is degrading, fast. And perhaps, considering the tone of the replies – that you're a known force, and one some parties are hoping to get on the better side of.

    Hoping for the best for your recovery. I've heard that you were injured in that business at the Casino; further evidence that the current leadership at Temple is deeply inadequate. Hopefully, that will soon change – but in the meantime, might you consider the Lamplighters – they do security for the Asylum, too!

    --- Floridus Ennius

    THE LAMPLIGHER'S BONUS: As an associated group with the Cleansing Flame, the Lamplighters are trained in the light of Hysh; re-flip and take higher for actions against Daemonic forces.

    The Bureau of Effective Peacemaking of the Lodge of the Harvest Moon is pleased to give notice that its "Pacification Team" is available for rent by private entities. Team members are armed with the most novel civil order technologies available, including, but not limited to, "Morr's Sneeze" and "Tyleus's Blowgun". If you or your firm is interested in a demonstration…

    --- Hieronimus Ollius Janius Ovidius

    THE PACIFICATION TEAM'S BONUS: Using advanced weaponry, any Riot Act roll that involves violence against anything other than state militaries will be an automatic success.

    If you remember me from school, it's me, Demetrios! We weren't quite friends (in fact, you quite clearly remember being punched by him…) but as fellow alumni (you did not graduate, on account of fleeing the Cities) I hope you'll consider my business – "RAT TRAP SECURITY". We offer reasonable rates to all full-blooded men of Tylos …

    --- Demetrios Rhangabe

    THE RATCATCHERS' BONUS: Support of the nativist Reds, insofar as you are hiring one of their militias; re-flip and take higher for actions in Tylos, re-flip and take lower for actions in Kavzar, neutral in House of Tyleus and Pleroma.

    We give great and happy tidings to your message requesting mercenary-killers. May the blessing of the One God be upon you, and the light of the stars on your skin. The Carpet Corps, at your glorious service…

    --- Emir Aklan

    THE CARPET CORPS' BONUS: The greater mobility of flying carpets means that when a failed flip would otherwise mean the militia would be injured, they instead escape to safety, though the action regardless fails.

    Neoteric tidings demonstrate superlative commercial opportunities in novel human settlement. We apprehend House Fellheart to be present. We obsecrate the ability to demonstrate House Moranin's superior skill. We break all beasts at Clar Karond…

    --- Mistress-Admiral Sabiath Moranin

    HOUSE MORANIN'S BONUS: As infamous Dark Elven pirates, they have a reputation. Any actions in Elftown or the Cloisters is an automatic success.

    The Brotherhood of Moulder commends your recent actions in defense of the Cities. We thus offer you a bumper crop, reserved only for those deserving of the gourmet. Bound dryads, at your command. What is stronger than the root, which breaks through stone and steel in time…

    --- Orderis

    THE GROVE'S BONUS: They might rage at they imprisonment, but the magickers of the Cities are strong; regardless of any losses suffered, the Grove, through its own initiative, will never attempt to leave Xenophon's service.

    Which one, or two, if any, do you choose?

    [] the Lamplighters

    [] the Pacification Team of the Bureau of Effective Peacemaking of the Lodge of the Harvest Moon

    [] RAT TRAP Security

    [] Emir Aklan's Carpet Corps

    [] House Moranin

    [] the Grove

    [] None.

    AN: Surprise, kept writing, and got both of the top chosen options done. What's Warhammer without being able to pick a few ridiculous units to staff your personal army? Please note, any selected militias will also have narrative effects, for good and ill, so please consider who Xenophon is associating himself with. Plan votes, please.
     
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    • Wow, new update:wink:

    [X] Safety first
    - [X] Emir Aklan's Carpet Corps

    I am inclined to hire only the Arabyans with their flying carpets, because they come from outside the Cities, and thus are less likely to stab us in the back.

    Other people can bring up some explanation on the other factions?
    P.s. Floridus is the Champion of Necoho, right? Time to fuck him over. And S-Nefer-Ka too. And Moulder. Maybe we need to hire the Reds militia...
     
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    So... I have no idea where S-nefer-Ka stands in terms of loyalty. He's up to shady shit to be sure, but I've got no clue if he's in on the Princeps plan or if he's just a supplier. I suppose answers will come if we choose to continue this line of inquiry.

    It's concerning the Princeps is keeping quiet about this. Either he genuinely doesn't know we killed Tyleus, which has implications, or he's aware and we're in for a surprise.

    [X] Safety first
    - [X] Emir Aklan's Carpet Corps

    I pretty much agree with the reasoning for people have already put forwards. That said:

    [X] Rats and Rugs
    -[X] RAT TRAP Security
    -[X] Emir Aklan's Carpet Corps

    The dynamic between Xenophon and Demetrius is too enticing to not put at least a small push towards.
     
    Talon TigerDino said:
    I mean the Dark Elves should be outsiders too, though with considerably different baggage. Auto-successes are admittedly hard to argue with.
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    Deadly Snark said:
    Problem with the Dark Elves is that they are enthusiastic slavers and our free Legbreakers are Liberator Gladiators. So that's why I didn't want to risk that.
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    Yeah I had considered the Druchii pirates too, but then I remembered that, as @Warmachine375 says, the Dark Elves have a habit of going on very enthusiastic walks on other people's coasts and towns. Slavery walks.

    The only hesitation I have about the RAT TRAP Security is... why did they choose this name? And also, if they are nativists wouldn't they hate the Arabyans we're hiring?
     
    [X] Safety first
    - [X] Emir Aklan's Carpet Corps

    I'm hesitating to go with the Rat Trap, if only because it might appear that we are affiliating ourselves with the Reds. I'd rather not antagonize the Whites, even if its just an annoyed "looks like the Reds got a hook into Xenophone..." kind of thing.
     
    [X] Rats and Rugs
    -[X] RAT TRAP Security
    -[X] Emir Aklan's Carpet Corps

    I think the princept is more shock at the event it happen, ambrose his agent is dead as the dragon and maybe the elf, Xenophon is probably proving to be far more resourcefull he have imagine before.
     
    Razios said:
    I think the princept is more shock at the event it happen, ambrose his agent is dead as the dragon and maybe the elf, Xenophon is probably proving to be far more resourcefull he have imagine before.
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    I genuinely don't think Ambrose was his agent, he was Tyleus' Chosen one (like Karl Franz for Sigmar, in the End Times that will never be a part of our canon. Or maybe Valten the Blacksmith). The dragon was possibly his agent... while actually being allies with Floridus and Necoho - remember what happened going to the Tower.
    Xenophon is mostly under the radar now - in the sense, he is a known quantity as the Priest of Morr, not as the one that is having visions of the End and knows the aims of the Princeps. The Casino was not a plot against Xenophon... I think, rather a Chaos attempt to get a hook (Slaneesh claws, rather) into the Twin Cities, creating a Chaos Rift / Portal of sorts.
     
    As I'm finally finding the time to catch up to this again, I found something that is perfect for all and sundry in Tylos-Kavzar

     
    Vote closed
  • Voting
    • Scheduled vote count started by Graf Tzarogy on Aug 13, 2024 at 7:49 PM, finished with 15 posts and 6 votes.
    • [X] Safety first
      - [X] Emir Aklan's Carpet Corps
      [X] Rats and Rugs
      -[X] RAT TRAP Security
      - [X] Emir Aklan's Carpet Corps
      [X] Safety first
    Click to expand...
     
  • Voting
    • Looks like we've just got the flying carpets then. Time for Xenophon to explore a whole new world. Just needs to find an Arabyan Princess to seduce.
     
    Finally decided to investigate this, and wow, it is dark but amazing. I'm guessing it's all coming to a head in Week Nine - if I recall correctly Week Eight is the election, and Salvation will strike then.

    I wonder, did killing Tyleus weaken the authority of the Princeps? The NAME after all, is one fundamentally tied to the Twin Cities, and thus Tyleus.
     
    Turn Five Results (Part 7) - Mantle
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    • ♫​

    [A Humble Petition - FLIP: Tails (Failure)]

    When a reaper bolt – six feet of barbed black iron, faster than an Elven sky-ship – implodes Mother Mercy's head; as a fragment of her skull launched at cannon-ball speed scratches a gouge across your forehead, and blood blinds your left eye; as people scream and a stampede begins, you hear a little boy scream what has struck deep terror in countless peoples across the breadth and length of the world:

    "The Druchii are coming! The Druchii are coming!"

    …

    Mother Mercy had been very convincing. An old woman, bent, with snow-white hair but piercing gray eyes, had come to you at the Roost to speak priest-to-priest. As a devotee of Shallya she came for what else from Morr but sympathy and aid.

    It appears your actions in the Casino had won yourself a measure of significant celebrity among the Reds. The labour strikes had begun against, among others, Orderis & Morganis; the last time you saw Morganis, he had been reduced to a pile of quivering viscera due to an intimate encounter with the agents of the Tempter. As the story went – pushed hard by the League of Salvation, you're sure – you had, with the power of Morr, defeated the threat of Chaos pushed by the decadent industrialist, and thusly overnight had because a Hero Of The Working Class.

    Perks of being the last survivor, you suppose. Hard to give a counter-narrative when you're dead.

    One thing had led to another, and you were at the head of a column of ten thousand, snaking through the Cloisters, thin, winding streets. Above you, old women and children cheered, tossing rice and confetti from apartments smaller than the average gravesite. Crumbling stone buildings give a last hurrah dressed in countless crimson banners, and with the sun high in the sky, all seems – at first – to be well.

    To your left is Mother Mercy, her normal troupe of "sons" – big burly fellows, each armed with a constructor's shovel with the edges sharpened to kill – clear the way in front. To your right is the red shock of hair and blue tunic of Gregorios, who's blushing, for once, not out of embarrassment or anger, but of pride.

    Behind you marching in legion lockstep is the first strikers, the Friendly Society of Working Soldiers. They even have a standard – with golden eagle perched on top – black on red, a twelve-pointed star. Behind them are the United College of Apprentices, Conjurers, and Hedge Mages, Gregorios' pals. The dropout and leftovers of Thunderdome and Summerland, they make to reclaim their magical glory as where they walk flowers bloom (albeit dandelions) and rainbow sparks rain (and are desperately beaten out when they catch on hanging laundry). Behind them is Ditatis, seemingly unbowed by the banning of his electoral campaign, with his gang of followers. There are few Dwarves and Elves among the rest of the column, sure, but there are none with him; just a gaggle of old scowling men and overexcited boys, all armed with swords engraved with the words "LONG LIVE THE DESTINY OF MAN". Behind them are the peoples of the cities – freedmen and workers alike. The Shambles has poured in for this, and much of Circus and Brass Quarter too. You see a few people with the broken shackle of Casino, and to your surprise, not a few with the raven of Morr. You agreed because you were aware what the League was doing with putting you here – Gregorios had been the one to recommend you to Mother Mercy. They got a figurehead with wide popularity. You, despite being in a room half-filled with the corpses of the city elite, got a degree of political immunity, especially with the election so close. You were becoming a symbol – and you're not so sure how you felt about that.

    But there was little time to dwell, as the rising chorus of your following – singing of bread and roses, justice and peace – meets with a whoop the Dockworkers' Union, and you see the spikes of the "Heartbreaker" – your destination. The Dockworkers have maintained a blockade of the "private security" hired by Orderis & Morganis;, now Orderis alone. The strike-breakers had been confined to their obvious irritation and boredom – yet it was here, a site of his nominal defeat, where Orderis had chosen to meet. You realize, in hindsight, perhaps you should have been more suspicious, but you could not begrudge the man for choosing to meet, among others, the one he thought killed his business partner somewhere he had some degree of protection.

    Not just them, though – soldiers all along the parade route, blocking the way to the north and east, and the richer districts that way. But they seemed friendly – fraternizing with the crowd, especially the veterans, so they seemed hardly a threat.

    Violence, you suppose, was unthinkable. There were children in the crowd; housewives, grandfathers. This was Tylos-Kavzar! There had been violence, yes, but from outside forces – irregular, bizarre. Worrying sure, but aberrations, oddities. We were, at the end, civilized people. The most civilized people, in all the world. We were not Elves, to fight among ourselves. Pre-election nerves; it would soften itself out. They had a democracy, flawed as it was. It could not – would not – should not happen here.

    Orderis was there in black mourning toga; and Mordrin Fellheart, with a brass mask shaped like a kraken, and a shining cloak of sea dragon scales. They stood, impassively, as the crowd grew, and grew, and then, with just a hand from Mother Mercy, fell silent, quiet flowing like waves through the human mass. Mother Mercy began reading – "The workers and toilers stand today – stand tall-!"

    Someone threw a stone. You couldn't say who. You couldn't say where. But you watched it – a brick, solid, like it had been pried from a brand-new street. It sailed lazily though the air – where there was a flash; like you'd seen before; divine magic, like in the Theatre, and this time you could recognize Myrmidia, in her fury and her grace. Hands meant for the lute and the loom. Unused to violence, raised in fury – an inelegant shove. And even the Goddess did not know (too refined, too lovely) what she wrought when she bashed Orderis over the head and he fell ass over teakettle. The crowd laughed – in that hanging second, before the shots.

    The barbarians are always at the gates. No one expects them at home.

    …

    You're running. There are crossbow bolts pinging into the walls around you, bringing down showers of tile and stone. You dodge left as a giant red banner smothers a group of five or ten, only to be stained with their blood as another volley of crossbow bolts scythes through your people. You are running over people underfoot, and you can't stop because there's people behind you who'd do the same. Somebody shouts "HYDRA!". "THIS WAY!" cries another! The soldiers are shouting – "STAY CALM!" "STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" but people just turn away from their lockstep lines as they push and shove forward and flee west as fast as they can.

    You included – you're not staying. You run, and you run, and you run. People are screaming everywhere; you don't know where you've turned. You look up, and see elven spires, and think in one horrible moment you've somehow been teleported but no – it's Elftown – and it's burning.

    The crowd's ran straight west, kettled as they were. You dodge just left as a man with one of Ditatisis' swords tosses what was a crystal ball onto the street followed by scrolls in delicate Eltharin, which are trampled by another comer into the mud. "DOWN WITH THE ELVES!" they scream. "DOWN WITH THE MURDERERS!". There are people running back towards the Cloisters, and people running further into Elftown. You see an elven woman in fine clothes run shouting for help as a group of striker-soldiers, with clubs, chase her, crying "LONG EARS! LONG EARS!".

    KABOOM!

    Another explosion, and you see an elf flying above, with the stupid bejeweled hat and golden staff of an archmage, shouting "BACK! BACK!" But before he can say more, three apprentices of the Lodge of the Harvest Moon link hands and scream, and as they themselves are electrocuted a bolt from the blue smashes the elf-mage into the earth. He does not rise.

    Behind you – people keep streaming out of the Cloisters, bruised or bloodied or worse. You look past them, and you see – nothing. The Dark Elves are not chasing. There is no Hydra. It doesn't even seem – after the first volley – they even got off of their ship. No soldiers – either, chasing the crowd.

    There is a great CRASH! in the distance, and the great dome of the Temple of Asuryan, made of glass imported from Caledor, shatters, as the green smoke of warpstone rises into the air.

    Nobody would be marching with something like that.

    This – the massacre, the panic, the riot – this was planned. Someone wanted this to end this way.

    Who threw the brick? Who placed the soldiers? Who hates the Elves?

    Suddenly, there's the sound of a trumpet above you – and you see, on a flying carpet, you saviour. The Emir Aklan himself, in long velvet robe, and a turban of white silk twice the size of his head. "MY HONORABLE PATRON!" he shouts over the sound of breaking glass and screaming innocents. "WE WERE PATROLLING. DO YOU DESIRE EXTRACTION?"

    "YES!" you shout. And he heaves you up, and you're away – as the riot continues, and Elftown's painted Red.

    …

    The riots last three days. They burn themselves out. The Princeps, you note, is out of town, and the Senate to paralyzed between Red-White infighting so the chaos is just tolerated. You go for a wander and see terrified faces peeking through boarded windows; fine marble black with soot, beautiful statues, beheaded, bodies and trash filling the streets. You remember the Princeps is currently on campaign, to fight rebels aligned with Ulthuan. You stare out to sea, where far beyond the horizon, the countless warfleets of the Phoenix King will certainly be soon receiving news of this atrocity. And you wonder.

    What's next?



    ♫​

    [To the Depths - FLIP: Heads (Success)]

    Speaking of the Elder Races, your next port of call is your long-awaited meeting with the Sons of Skavor. Blackmail, it turns out, had its uses. So, you arrive at Fafnir's home – the door a black obsidian slab from floor to ceiling, entirely unmarked. You were told to knock, so you do – it's ice cold – and the suddenly, like water, the glassy stone ripples, and then parts. You step into a room made of black basalt, formed in its characteristic natural-unnatural hexagons. Above you, a single rune on the ceiling gives a weak, yellowy light – much unlike the runes on Prince Stonehammer, of the Mountain Dwarves. In the flickering gloom, you can see the ceiling is encrusted with gemstones – period, ruby, diamond, emerald, opal, sapphire, beryl, jasper – every treasure beneath the earth; enough wealth to buy the Cities above twice over, kept in the dank dark. There is no furniture, but just as you think that, a chair is formed from the stone of the floor, and you're brought to sit as a table too mushrooms out. And from below, breaking through the ground like a man pushing off a blanket, Fafnir Fogfather appears. His beard is white, and is braided twice over itself, resting in a leather pouch. The Dwarf is mostly stone; below, he is solid crystal, spilling into the depths like a serpent. Hip up, he is flesh – but clearly ancient; though his long, grey robe of goat wool covers much. He has the same symbol below his eyes that all the Sons do – red beryls embedded in the skin, in triangles with bottoms that extend past their vertices, above which are uneven five-pointed stars. You can read the rune know, you read up before – for Skavor, and for remembrance, and for sorrow.

    Fafnir inclines his head to you. "Hail, Guardian" he says in halting Tylosi, "Welcome to my hall" and he gestures to the dark all around you. He laughs; like iron against flint "All my hospitality is readied for you."

    You, though already sitting, give the best to give a half-bow in your seat. "My thanks, Lord Senator." You glace, nervously into the nothing, just the little pinpricks of gem-glow above. "You honor me."

    He laughs at that, deep and dark and harsh. "Honor! Honor! We well know this meeting can occur because - precisely because! – you and I have no honor left to speak of."

    You prickle a little, at that, and Fafnir notice, for he puts a hand up. "For a Dwarf. I judge you, perhaps, too harshly, on a culture that is not your own. You have done us – well, not a kindness, but a mercy. We presume you have a cost. Give it here."

    You have much in mind, but you've got to sate your curiosity first. "Three questions" you say. "If I may – not as a price, but as a gift, for a guest of your hall."

    Fafnir stares at you, his grey-slate eyes unblinking. "You asked not to be judged by us, but you try to benefit from our custom. I grant it, for the right of mine on judgement upon you, and to not abide by your upper-world niceties."

    You've got your opportunity, so you decide to hit for the fences. "First – what did Skavor do?"

    A deep crumble – tectonic plates crashing in the earth; a rockslide; bad metal cracking in the forge. "Much" Fafnir says. "That rune" and he points up "His only one in these Cities". Another grumble. "To your meaning, though. He taught this art" and he makes a casual gesture, and suddenly your stone locks your arms to your chair. "It had a cost" – and he gestures to his legs – purple crystal "but it was more than those so-called "Ancestors" gave to failures themselves. The North waxed. The War came. Skavor failed. Who did not? Who could not, left alone by those who called him family? He saved who he could – I – he left some behind. What became of them, in the distant East – I could not say. But the Ancestors found us, barely alive, and ruled – not forgiveness! not love! not justice! But death. And we saw they would be no better than the daemons, and went west, and west, and west. And so we stand here – forbidden from those ancient halls, to make our own way in life. But in death-" and he pulls from the earth a sharp stalactite, which pushes under your chin and scrapes your jawbone. "In death, your folk still bar us. We cannot pass the threshold. There is nowhere for us to go. You saw Skavor that day; you saw where he lies still. We wait in stone until the day we find a way where His Father-"and he spits "has denied."

    You watch as the purple crystal grows an inch up his stomach. He looks, and collapses into his seat, suddenly exhausted, the spike and your restraints dissolved.

    "Ask on" he says "time waits for no Dwarf or man".

    "Did the Princeps promise you a solution?"

    "Yes" he says, eyes still closed, slumped down. "Every year we dig, with the power of our dead and dying. We dig deeper, and deeper into the Underrealm, and He Denies us! The flame and the sword! Denied, forbidden, damned. For living when we were meant to die, and for dying anyways. He promised a solution."

    "Which was?"

    "An end to Gazul".

    "And without a guardian –"

    "The Glittering Realm was ours to take."

    Not an unsympathetic motive. All deserved an ending; and you knew the Mountain Dwarves to be unyielding. But as you understood Morr, his guardianship of the Portal was what kept the gate open. Without a psychopomp – without Gazul – you were not so sure the realm beyond would be accessible – or (and this was a fear in your deep heart, in the shivering of your soul, at the seat of your spine) – if, without a God, the afterlife would exist at all. You'd been thinking of it as soon as you learned that Gods could die, when you saw a spirit sacrificed. Their realm – their spirits – their people? Whatever became of them?

    But you could not focus on result, not when you knew so little of mechanism. "My last question, then. How? What were you to do for the Princeps?"

    "What were we? Presumptuous of you to assume the past-tense. We were to deliver him a priest – one with a deep connection to that cursed God – and perhaps a few more. Why do you think we're getting close with our cousins?" The deepest laugh. Lava crackling as a volcano erupts. "They do think their holds secure."

    Your mind reels, and you think of arrested priests. The High Hunter of Ishernos, you know, and if you hadn't intervened, Ahalt, and Her-Ben, so Khsar, and probably Ditatis soon, when the Princeps returned, for the riot, so Myrmidia – Gazul, another, and maybe, with Floridus ascendant, some lectors of the Gods of Order.

    Why not you yet?

    You look at your sword at your side and hear a cackle. Your connection to Morr has only grown as you've came to the City – and your brothers – the ones before you came, the ones better connected, they fled, because they had a prophecy of their own-

    Shit. Shit. Shit.

    You knew the prophecy of Morr – that to save the most, you had to drive Divinity out. But you had not quite cognized the logical reverse; that for the Princeps to fulfil his plan, he had to collect Divinity.

    And you think of thirteen guillotine shrines, and the exploding of the Temple of Asuryan, and you wonder how many Elven priests just went "missing".

    The Son of Skavor is watching you, with some dismay. "Have I offended my oh-so honored guest?"

    "No!" you squeak out, as you consider the plan. Thirteen executions of thirteen priests to a monstrosity in the tower. That, somehow, would result in a God, if a "Name" was involved, that nature of which was still a mystery. The Princeps could have arrested thirteen priests a long time ago, so the missing "Name" must be necessary and yet unachieved. So, you had time – the Tower was not yet finished - but not much, if Suttar was already moving.

    But there was still a gap – the prophecies implied the Princeps would be the God, but the sacrifices were to the Monster. Surely he couldn't be planning on simply stabbing the thing? Even for his capacious soul – well, you remember Mother Mercy's head exploding into gore.

    But again - you couldn't think about ends before means. Thirteen Priests. You needed to make sure he had less. And before you was a potential ally.

    "My Lord Fafnir" you say, "let's make a deal."

    …

    Xenophon has blackmail on the Skavorites. They are therefore willing to grant him concessions to keep him quiet. He may pick two of the options below. The Skavorites are not willing to cease their cooperation with the Princeps at this time, as it is their only current hope for an afterlife. All deals will also involve a follower to ensure Xenophon keeps to his oaths, detailed at the end of the options.

    [] a large fortune in gemstones

    Enough wealth to buy a house, hire another mercenary company, or keep the Roost in deluxe style.

    [] to delay their scheme until the Election.

    Mechanically, to the end of Turn 8. The Princeps' deadline is then.

    [] A bodyguard of Hammerers

    A Milita Follower. BONUS: They auto-succeed any Act that involves combat underground.

    [] An airship.

    The "Evacuate" Act may be freely taken once every other turn.

    [] An excavation of the Roost.

    Re-open the vaults left sealed by your Brothers. Enables new Risky Act: "Explore the Depths".

    [] fine weaponry.

    Both your existing Milita Followers gain the "Well-Armed" BONUS: Flip-twice and take the better when engaging any force not sponsored by the Cities' government, a magical District, or a foreign power.

    [] A petrified Son.

    The body of a dishonorable cousin. Unlocks the Risky Act: "Study the Curse of the Sons".

    [X] Zaki

    A dour faced Dwarf. A Follower. BONUS: N/A. He's watching.

    AN: Apologies for the delay, bit slower with the start of term. Hope you enjoy – please vote by plan, and since it's been a little while, 24 moratorium on the votes, please.
     
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