They say the mark of a man is his sense in crisis. You disagree. When there is no time for reason, passion rules the day, and what passion demands is rather more primal than the frippery of one's ineffable character. No, what disaster shows is what a man really fears. And as you grab a cloak off the back of a chair and pull the bone dagger you've kept on you since you ran away at eighteen, you know you are not afraid of death. No, your terror is unknowing – drowning in portents of doom of your people, your cities, and not being able to raise a finger to stop the flood. Your life for salvation – no choice at all. You're going to get the bastard.
So, you haul yourself onstage, cape as a makeshift shield on one arm, blade in the other. Standing before you is a man in the scale armor and crested helmet, who has grabbed from the ruin of the camp what very much does not look like a
prop sword. Junius meets your hateful gaze with the even calm of the condemned. He speaks first:
"A good end, then?"
You reply "As Morr demands."
[RISK: Fight Call – three flips:
heads, tails, heads]
And then the dance begins. He's taller, and got the advantage in reach, so it's only natural he takes the first step – and then a great wide sweep with his blade that you hop back to avoid. As he draws back up you dart forward and feint a jab at his armpit. He brings his sword to parry, as you expect, having to awkwardly flick it back towards him. But you predicted that, and meet him with a wrench of cloak instead, and he stumbles for a second, as his blade cuts through nothing but silk and open air. You take the advantage, and cut hard across the side of his neck, spraying blood across the floorboards. Junius yells in pain, dropping his sword, then flat charges you. You've managed so far, despite your worst armament, because he's been slow and showy – theatre fighting, through and through – while you've done the quick nipping of a desperate street-fight. But all your footwork and speed can't defeat the realities of mass and acceleration, so Junius's tackle lands you both crashing onto Idomeneus' corpse with a crack as you shatter its spine. You drop the cloak, and your dagger skitters across the floor.
You can't breathe. Junius' whole weight is atop you. You try a weak punch, but Junius catches it, and shoves your arm back, pinning it with his own. His other hand wraps around your throat and squeezes – ever so softly. He's not choking you. You blink, bewildered, at his still placid face. You can feel the heat of flame behind you, smell the tar of burning hair, the crackle and pop of collapsing beams. Behind him, all is pure white light – perhaps he is strangling you, and you're dying, and you can't feel it? But he holds your arm harder, and the cutting jab as he pushes your bicep into the corpses' teeth proves that yes, you still very much are alive enough to know pain.
He's whispering now, an inch above your face, a parody of intimacy. "Got to keep a good showing, Prophet. Carry on the torch, would you? Can't have you implicated. My Lady weeps for it having to come to this. But what do I know? She changed it on me. Plans within plans. The ineffable divine. All of us against the stillbirth. Would you bless me, before I have to go?"
All this time, you've been stretching, pushing your fingertips splayed, and just got hold of something heavy and burning hot; you grab it, despite hurt, and as Junius pauses, waiting for his benediction, you offer him the true disdain of the Cult of Morr by bashing him in the head with what you realize is Celia's charred thighbone, her flesh already somehow ash, flaking down around you as you whack and whack.
He lets go of your throat, and you manage to shove him off as he withdraws his arms to protect his skull; already his forehead is bruising black. As you scrabble to get up, you scream what you've wanted to ever since you got the first apocalypse vision:
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!"
His expression, as his lies spayed on the floor, final betrays an emotion – shock.
"He didn't tell you? You don't know?!" he shouts and then, impossibly laughs. And he keeps laughing, so hard and fast that he's shaking back and forth, tears in his eyes.
"Cowards! Bastards! Liars! HA! HA! My Lady too, may she be forsaken. What a crock of shit she spun – BWA! HA HA! The little piggies are scared of the roast! The cobra's gaze is on them now! HA!"
You want to tear your hair out. One clear answer, please – that's all you goddam want. You point the ashen bone at Junius, and scream.
"BY THE HOLY NAME OF MORR AND MYRMIDIA AND TYLEUS' HAIRY ASS WHO ARE
THEY? WHAT'S GOING ON!"
Suddenly, he goes back to serious, actually furrowing his brow in annoyance.
"Are you thick! The Gods, man! The Gods! Don't trust a word they say! They're planning their stupid games, shoving us about in the dark – but we're more than pawns. They're running scared, boy! Running scared! And all we've got to do is – urk!"
His head falls off, sliced with a blade that moved too fast to see. The Princeps stands behind the corpse of Junius. You watch as the light fades from the actor's eyes and see the characteristic pulse of magical energy that signaled the release of a soul – but instead of ascending, as one typically did, you see it stretch unnaturally thin and then vanish with a swirl, down a silver blade and into the bright shine of the Princeps with a sound like the ring of a bell. And you watch, as Junius' soul vanishes into the light, that Suttar's inner brilliance grow yet more intense and blinding.
He smiles at you and offers you a hand– and suddenly, the spell is broken. Your whole body aches, and you can feel your arm bleeding. You're breathing heavy, but too quick; the smoke is making your head pound. You take his arm and leaning on your lord Prince are dragged from the Grand Theatre.
…
A while later, you are sitting in a hastily expropriated café with the Princeps and far too many soldiers. You have been given a thick cloak, a change of clothes, and some strong spiced wine, all of which you are grateful for. He is in close conference with what you take to be various generals, ironically wearing the same get up the late Junius had on.
Shit, you realize – you lost your dagger.
But before you can mourn much, the Princeps turns to you, having judged thirty minutes for mortal men unlike himself to recover from the shock of almost death.
"My thanks, good citizen – if not for your distraction of that villain, who knows what havoc he could have wreaked. Your name, man?"
You attempt a pseudonym, but find yourself compelled to speak true, as a ring of rose-gold on his finger sparks with
Hysh. "Xenophon, Priest of Morr."
He cocks his head. "A seer! And with the same name as the one in the play! Did you foresee that?" He laughs, but there's a strange twinkle in his very clear, very blue eyes.
Thankfully, you can honestly say "No."
"Well, Xenophon's a name common enough – but it's damn curious. Not that I'm suspicious, of course, perish the thought! You did a great deal of good, and I reward bravery, not punish it."
You hear some a general mutter under his breath "bad for the Flame, then". As you've heard now, apparently the great wall of light you saw was the combined effort of Floridus Ennius and Angelus Spania, who both immediately accused the other of the murder of Marvos and mutually cut the stage off for fear of the other "assisting their conspirator", a stalemate only ended when the Princeps came racing in and demanded they both return to Temple at pain of arrest.
"I have two options for you. First, you can go home and forget this all happened – and I'll give you a pile of gold for your trouble. Second - you seem like the type to have a good head on your shoulders – figure this whole mess out for me. I'll make you an honorary
Agens – proper powers, you can demand someone answer your questions direct or in writing and get most anywhere. Get me a report in two weeks, and I'll pay you more than in gold; a boon, whatever you like, even if you don't find anything. With the election and all, I need to be a bit subtle here; this already looks bad enough."
What do you say?
[-] Take the money.
[-] Take the job.
…
You're quickly dismissed after that, with a blinding white smile and a wave from the most powerful man in the Twin Cities. You tromp home, and meet an anguished Pelops, who after you get to stop apologizing for his self-declared failure to act as your guardian, shows you to your room, though insists on planting himself as the night-guard outside it.
It's a humble prayer cell, clearly repurposed, but the boy's done a fair job. The bedding might clearly be a funeral shawl and the pillow cut out of the lining of a coffin, but it's all good cotton, comfortable enough. But as you lay down and gird yourself for more nightmares, one question echoes in your head.
What makes a God afraid?
