Yawning Abyss, Soaring Shrike [Exalted]

[VagueZ]

[] You're not happy with him.
[] You're going to take a walk on the surface, and happen to keep talking with Ari.

Ari isn't moving very quickly. You catch up to him without difficulty. He moves slightly to give you room to walk abreast with him.

He doesn't reach out and touch you. You don't reach for him. There is a moment of silence.

You climb up steps together, the night sky suddenly in full display. It's a Gem sky, though, with dirt and mining by-products smearing out most of the stars save the very brightest. The moon is a wan crescent that casts enough light for the two of you. You are a creature of dark places, after all, and Ari's eyes shine in the low lighting, as any cat's would. His Tell, that mark of the Anathema that brands him, extends to that as much as his caracal ears and tail.

"I'm sorry," he says, his first words to you today, and not the first time he's said it. It's still something of a surprise, the noise breaking the local silence. It's Gem, though: there's always equipment moving and the sound of voices in the distance. "I almost just ran away without saying anything to you, but you deserve more than that. I should give you an actual explanation. How much do you know about the Lunar-Solar bond? Or what it means for a Lunar to take on a face?"

"As much as any Dynast raised in the Immaculate Philosophy does, I suppose," you respond, dryly. Under the Immaculate Philosophy, Lunars and other Anathema are cursed creatures, driven mad by their power, a danger to themselves and anyone else around them that can only be settled by death. You're less dogmatic about that since you joined the ranks of Anathema yourself.

It earns you a quick smile before Ari jumps on a nearby boulder. It's just a piece of mining debris: too useless to be worth anything, too hard to be convenient to pulverize, too large to leave in the way. The miners just dragged it up to the surface and ramshackle buildings built up around it. On the boulder, he's able to crouch on all fours like a cat sitting up, while also being on about eye level with you. You lean against the boulder, and let Ari get comfortable, so he can start his story where he feels like he should. "So, I know I mentioned earlier, when we were first getting to know each other, that certain Solars and Lunars have a pair bond?" You nod, and he continues. "Lunars always seem to feel it on sight. Solars... not always. Dunno why it's different. Maybe deathknights never feel it. Who knows? Anyway, it's not something that forces anything. I get a recognition of what you are, and I can't just ignore you. It can be curiosity, camaraderie, competition, fear, lust, revulsion, an urge to fight to the death. Anything but 'meh'." He sticks out his tongue and flattens his ears, crossing his eyes to complete the effect before sobering again.

"When we take someone's face, that's a similar thing. There's going to be some actual connection, some feeling on my side, too." Too. Ari doesn't say it in so many words, but that confirms something you'd been half-dreading. It isn't just the acts involved, fun as they were, that gave Ari the chance. You lowered your guard. "The people in the desert that know and welcome Lunars like myself and Nine Leagues Strides, they know this, too. We can hate someone, but that shows, believe me. So if someone gives me their face, they have at least some confidence that I'm not going to misuse it, or at least they know."

You nod, taking this in. "You knew I wasn't from that world, though."

"You weren't in the Lap any more, either. I--no. There's not really a good excuse. I didn't think at all. It just seemed like there was a chance that..." Ari breaks off. "I'm something of an idiot when I, er..."

Rather than let Ari flounder as he tries to figure out how to confess attraction with whatever level of qualifiers he feels he does or doesn't need, you just grin at him. Any smile that shows your blood-drinking fangs isn't going to be mistaken for a nice smile. "Nine Leagues Strides mentioned that about you a couple of times, yes."

"Don't remind me." Ari cringes back from the thought you might, hamming it up. Still, he relaxes a bit. He's said what he needs to say, and while you've not said anything about it, he understands you need time, and then you two can see where you stand. "Anyway, I was going north for now. Join us when you can. Try not to get caught by that white deathknight."

"No need to worry about that," you say, examining your fingernails in a totally collected manner that indicates how far above this you are. "She's done for."

"She's what." The flat disbelief in Ari's voice is no affectation. He bounds from the boulder and straightens up right in front of you, considering your face from close enough that you fight back the urge to lean away from him. "I've been Exalted for fifteen years longer than you. She almost gouged out my eye. What did you do?"

"Killed her."

"Merciful Luna. You're serious." Ari shakes his head ruefully. "I suppose I got lucky that you just threw a shoe at me instead of a mountain." He seems about ready to leave.

There's one other point you feel a need to mention before he goes, mainly because you're rather expecting Ari will hear it somehow if not from you. Maybe from Ephrei directly, not that that makes much sense as a theory. "One other thing. I met a Sidereal. She had been trying to track me down, looking for a plan to try to attack the Waif. I didn't tell her anything, or even hint there was something--I remember all you'd said about the dangers of attracting too much Sidereal attention, and I didn't want her to think there was something that I might be keeping from her just so I could check in with you and Nine Leagues Strides first."

Ari's look goes somewhat blank. "I can't take my eyes off you for ten minutes without you upending common sense somehow or another." He sighs. It's a somewhat fond sound, at the least. "Stay safe, regardless."

There's not much more to the good-byes before Ari takes his bird form and wings away. You watch until even your eyes cannot track him any longer.

* * *​

"You're not Danaa'd."

"You are correct."

"...Why am I here?"

"Why? Ah, that is a good question, is it not? I think you may have information you want to give me, before you go to... Danaa'd."

"What sort of information?"

* * *​

"Contracted out?" You are a little surprised at this. Sure, it was in the deal you signed with the Despot, but it hadn't come up before now.

The Despot controls Gem's water. That is inarguable and enforced by the military power he directs and the wealth he commands. Your contracts as water-summmoning sorcerers underline this. He buys water, he sells water.

Tehli shrugs from behind her desk. "Sometimes those with enough money like to be able to say that the water is so fresh it hasn't been transferred from container to container."

You accept that easily enough. You know the value of ostentatious displays of wealth. It commands a power itself, to flagrantly throw away money as part of impressing someone. So, that's what this is: get the sorcerer to come out there, call fresh water right on-site. Pay the Despot through the nose for the privilege.

Tehli gives you a sheet of paper with an address and some rough directions on it. Something about the address seems familiar, but you haven't been out to that part of Gem before. "Technically," she continues, distracting you from your thoughts, "You should have a guard for this, but... our department is trying to save a few coins. Can you handle it yourself?" There's a slight pleading edge to it.

Of course there is, though. Little corruptions like this are how people gild their nest egg, smooth over difficulties that 'by the book' instructions don't cover, and get through the day without pulling their hair out. "I'll try not to get assassinated out there," you say, with a quick wink.

She smiles. You've achieved that much over your time working here: you've made it clear what gets you to gum up the works and what you'll accept and keep discreet. A good balance of those two gets you a certain latitude in your work and the ability to bargain for favors of your own, which is to everyone's benefit.

After you take your leave, you follow a surface route to your destination. It's still early enough in the morning that Gem is in shadow from a nearby mountain, so it's not uncomfortable out yet. You, of course, have an aura of cold air around you anyway from the Stone of Chilled Breath you wear on a necklace. This makes you a popular person to hang out around when it is the hottest part of the day and means that people are quick to think of you as an Air Aspect.

Your destination is one of Gem's sprawling homes for its nouveau rich. Such buildings have more interesting external architecture than they do external windows. Glowstones are just much better for lighting than windows, as far as not sweating to death.

You head to the servant's entrance. This is still a little novel to you. Back in the Realm, while your overly-delayed Exaltation made you more than a little bit the subject of pity, but you were still definitely a Dynast, part of House Peleps and the Realm's upper crust. Here, you're a sorcerer. The man who answers your knock is a tall, thin man with equally thinning hair at the upper end of middle age, who carries himself like he's the head of whatever staff they have. He considers you and your paperwork with the dignity of one who does get to interact with whoever's house this is and their guests, and not just be part of The Help. It takes a couple minutes longer than it has any right to.

It's novel, but it's not pleasant.

Once he's made his 'superiority' clear, he leads you inside. "The lady of the house has expressed a desire to have the 'swimming pool' filled," he states, wending quickly through the narrow corridors of this part of the place to come out through a discreet door in the parts that are more open and decorated, and from here it's only one vast hallway to the indoor basin that serves as the pool--or, more likely, has been recently deemed a pool by the house's current owner. There's been no dust anywhere, even on the servants' side, which suggests to you that things have only recently been set up here, so presumably the owner is new in town. "Wait here," he commands. "The lady wishes to observe your sorcery in action. I will let her know you are here."

You wait. It's a stupid power move, but you're paid a good salary for easy enough work, so you'll endure it. The pool is clearly getting remodeled, above and beyond the fact that you're here to fill it. There's a handful of fixtures around it, the sorts of things people would use to climb into or out of the pool. Some of them have been installed, others haven't. The most curious element is the mirrors: someone has put high mirrors around the pool, angled down, most likely so people in the pool can admire other people in the pool. Sneaking a peek at people exercising in abbreviated outfits is a popular passtime Creation-wide, after all.

Where you've seen this address before comes to you half a heartbeat before Twine sweeps through the door. You think her eyes are on you, but it's hard to be sure through the collection of lenses and associated superstructure that cover her eyes. Behind her, still in his gladiator outfit and with four chewed up cleavers on his belt, is Crowson. Crowson still has his arms crossed, but you've previously seen him fight like that, so that's not a safe posture. The blood-tentacles, or whatever they were, are at least not in evidence.

You don't have much of a chance to take him in, though, because Twine is on you in a moment, her heavy, many-pocketed dress jangling with all the things placed in it. She snaps different lenses in place in front of her eyes and considers you. "You," she says, jabbing a finger towards your chest. It's clear now that the water was only a pretext. "I almost overlooked it, but that had to be you. No one else was even asking the right questions, never mind equipped to find the answers!"

"What do you mean?" You ask it calmly enough, with the right air of puzzled uncertainty, for all that your mind is racing furiously. How much does she know? What does she suspect? What is Crowson doing here, exactly?

"I was so excited to see the Shrike hover in place and shoot its weapon again that I almost forgot to ask why it did that. But there was only one person in all of Gem who was in the right place to do that except for me, and that man was trying to track down what it was hunting!" Her accusatory finger keeps jabbing at you, hard, but she doesn't quite touch you. "You figured out its targeting criteria and did a public test run to ensure you had it right!"

She's not quite right, which is... probably heartening. She doesn't know why you used the Shrike, and she's not yet tumbled onto the fact of the Original Fox's existence. What is disheartening is that you're finding that you don't know enough of her situation to stay on top of it. She's clearly more insightful than you had anticipated, but you probably should have assumed that: she is an Exalt, too, and one sent here specifically to catch the Shrike. Of course she sifts out plenty of detail from seemingly few clues; if she couldn't, she wouldn't be here. What's more concerning is Crowson. You don't know his deal. Why is he here? Is he with the Waif? Is he with the Lion? Is the story more complex than that?

"It's much more muddled than that," you say, holding up your hands in a defensive-placating gesture. "I don't think I really know what the Shrike is going for." Technically true, from a certain point of view: what in the Dragons' name is the Original Fox? You're pretty sure that any more vociferous denial would let her smell the lie, so you stick to that, plus deflection. "And why is a Volcano circuit gladiator with you?"

Twine grins, momentarily distracted from you. She practically prances back to Crowson, and wraps her arms around his neck. "Why shouldn't I have him with me?" There's a definite possessive element to her body language.

He clears his throat. "I am Son of Crows, for all my woes," and manages a bow, despite her interference.

"And he has become my knight," Twine adds.

That's... more confusing. The name change is an incredibly flimsy disguise if someone ever heard both versions of Son of Crows' name, and the 'become' is just baffling. If Son of Crows is with the Waif, then why is he only recently getting assigned to her? If he isn't, then is he with the Lion? If so, why is he not engaging you? Is he some third faction's deathknight? Some sort of independent one? Is there even such a thing as an independent deathknight?

"You've certainly got the strength to back up that knighthood," you say, mind still racing as you try to keep up with the changing situation. "I saw your match against Syzygy."

Son of Crows smiles, revealing needle-like teeth. "A foe of some skill, but no match for my will."

Twine disentangles herself from her 'knight'. She jabs another finger, this one at the empty basin. "I want a pool," she declares.

There's not many options beyond conjuring water or running for your life. She probably legitimately does want the pool--it's much more common in the East than out here in the deserts of the South. It's also a declaration. Negotiations will begin here. You stand on the edge, and call the shaping fires of the world to the shape that means water flows here.

Once the torrent is going, Twine steps up next to you, a respectful distance away, both of you watching the pool begin to fill. "I offered you a deal, before," she says, less assertively than before, more conversationally. "It still stands; maybe you were just getting ready to see me, after all? It would save time for me to quickly get a more complete understanding of the Shrike's operations. The world is changing around us; play smart, and you can earn more than you'd believe is possible. If not..."

She turns to face you, a face more than half-obscured by eyewear. You turn to face her as well. "I will still get what I want. In fact--" She stiffens, looking past you, and up. Suddenly, you are the last thing on her mind. Whatever threat or promise she's about to make dies stillborn. She continues in a distracted tone. "...One more cast. I need the pool completely filled. And don't you turn around, do you hear me? Don't you dare."

She walks past you, eyes still fixed well above the ground. You obey. You do not turn your head an iota, merely hold out your left hand to command the waters again. You do, however, kneel down, and let your fingers trail in this second jet of water.

You are a sorcerer. Your control spell allows you to disturb large bodies of water you touch. With the precise right twist in its flows... you have a functional reflection, one you can see out of the corner of your eye. One that reflects one of the pool's high mirrors.

Blood-red letters in a familiar hand are there, spelling out Old Realm characters.

I will arrive in your location the day after tomorrow.

The blood words blur and streak and begin to trickle down the mirror. Like usual, they will clean themselves up. You stand again, the pool now very nearly filled.

You strain your ears, overhearing Twine's and Son of Crows' conversation even over the roar of water, though they doubtless expect you can't. "She's coming here? Now? I told her I'm not ready!"

"She seeks her prize. No large surprise."

"The prize isn't ready! I told her that! Never mind the--you know."

"That she cannot have learned. Perhaps some other reason burns?"

"Like what? Apart from this, she's mostly been licking her wounds and trying to move ahead on the Mount Metagalapa mission. And squashing figures in the Underworld who have 'betrayed' her, like always. None of that makes any sense for her to be coming here!"

"Ready what you may. Then, see what she has to say."

"Yeah... yeah, that's probably best." Twine comes up beside you, and now her voice is no low whisper. "You can look, now. And you've done your contract. Here." Twine thrusts signed paperwork back at you, showing that she is satisfied with the completion of the contract. She still sounds distracted. "Tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow, you tell me what price the information you have is. Then I pay it. No, don't." She cuts you off as you open your mouth. "Not... I'm busy today. Just name the price. And don't make me hunt you down again."

Less than a minute later, you're outside. The sun is high and bright, now. Still, you shiver.

The Lonely Waif of Cooling Embers is coming. In two days, she will be in Gem.

You have one more thought than Twine does as to why she might be coming. You're not ready to face here, here. Ari and Nine Leagues Strides and Soot Column Ascending and Solace have all headed back north. The yasal crystal left with some of them.

You feel very alone.

You're going to have to think about how you're going to approach this. This isn't the end of the world. It is out of your plans, but it's not unsalvageable. If the Waif is, indeed, here to chase you down, that is something you can work with. You can lure her, and take her to where you need her to be to let Nine Leagues Strides strike at her.

The challenge is going to be doing this without her killing you, leaving a swathe of destruction, or just... leaving. She could absolutely ruin your plans by just deciding not to keep chasing you and to retire back into the Underworld.

So what plan do you come to?

[] You're going to give Twine something horribly misleading, to throw her and the Waif off your trail.
Twine is clearly getting distracted, now. You're well-suited to hand her something that she won't be able to devote her full attention to, which when she tries to unravel it will only waste more time. That will give you time to arrange something else.

[] You're going to throw a wrench into the works, then go to ground here.
Gem does not tolerate known agents of the Deathlords or Anathema, at least openly. The last thing the Despot wants is the Lion to show up. If word were to happen to get around that a different Deathlord were appearing, the Despot would have to take drastic action.

[] Start planning an immediate escape. Leave town before she can pin you here.
It's not that you aren't going to make make things frustrating for the Waif, but you're going to leave her at least something of a trail to follow to ensure that she neither loses the trail nor makes too much of a mess here in Gem. Then, you just have to outrun her.

[] Write-in
You have some other plan that bubbles up, given this latest surprise. Potentially subject to approval.

 

[VagueZ]

[] You're going to throw a wrench into the works, then go to ground here.

"You saw what?" Tehli looks at you in surprise, but the carefully-measured surprise and shock on your face is convincing.

"An Anathema mark," you repeat. "Her headband slipped. I don't think she saw me see it, though, which is probably why I got out safely. Twine is some sort of Anathema."

Tehli sucks in, a long intake of breath, tapping her pen on a half-completed new story of men in love as she considers what this means. "That's… serious. We have to keep Anathema from running free in Gem, after all." The Despot doesn't like competition: between that fact and the Lap's unwillingness to ship food to places that willingly harbor such monsters, they can't be open in Gem. Whether or not the Despot knew, you're whispering in places that aren't supposed to know. That's the sort of thing that can't be as easily swept under the rug. Rumors spread all the more when clamped down on.

"There was some fell working there, too," you continue. "I'm not sure what. It was subtle, and I didn't recognize it. I think the place is going to be very dangerous for days to come."

"That's also not good. Now we have to shift around assignments, make it look like you did have a guard with you, because people will check the paperwork after an accusation like that." Tehli considers.

"A favor, if I could?" Tehli looks up from pulling out a few different folders, where she doubtless was moving through various permutations of how she could make this look. "I'd rather not be associated with this. I felt a duty to report this, but I'm just trying to be a good citizen. I'm not a fighter, and I don't want to attract attention." That's in line with your cover, where you're just a relatively normal, mildly-shady sorcerer. It's far from uncommon for a sorcerer to get into trouble. This is why Realm-approved sorcerers tend to have to have demon insurance. Even if not actually through rampaging demons, sorcerers tend to get their fingers a little metaphorically burnt now and then, so laying low is normal and accepted enough as long as the trouble isn't too bad and the sorcerer is sufficiently useful.

"Hm. That might actually help." Tehli nods. "Libni. I owe him a favor and he'd be willing to accept this for the glory. If anyone asks, he was the guard who went with you, saw the mark, and reported it." You file the name away and forget it, rather confident it won't come up but that you have it if you need it. "What Anathema mark was it?"

This one you have to think about. You actually don't know. You didn't really see it, and it's not like such marks are there when you're not flexing your Exalted muscles, after all. "I think it was the mark of the Deceivers," you hazard. The so-called Eclipse caste Anathema were the ones who forged fell pacts with all sorts of evil powers, so it's a reasonable guess for someone who's trying to tame the Shrike. "I didn't have enough time to look hard, but it was clear enough. A dark Anathema brand."

Tehli nods. "Got it." She raises her eyes to look back to you. "You know, this is going to have to pan out. If there's nothing to be found after a couple of days, the investigation will get back to you. I can't do anything about that."

You nod. "I understand." Besides, in a couple of days, things won't matter near as much. Regardless of what they find, as long as there's someone there to see the Waif when she comes in, you will be vindicated.

* * *​

"Damn it. Damn it. Why now?" It's a familiar refrain from Twine by now, so Son of Crows doesn't reply. "I had almost finished the calculations, but they're not done yet. What is suddenly so all-fired urgent? She doesn't usually want to crawl out of her lair until it's the endgame. Why now?"

Twine is in her office, a small room with nearly every flat surface covered in paper filled with her handwriting, mathematical and geomantic calculations, geometry abstracts, and more. Son of Crows stands near the door, which is as far as he is allowed in, given how frustrating it is for Twine to have anyone move her designs by even half an inch. "Does the Waif suspect, or is this some other project?"

"I don't know. I don't know! But I wasn't ready!" Twine balls up one of the papers on her desk in both hands, then carefully flattens it back out, stares at it silently for perhaps five seconds, before balling it back up, even more aggressively. "The Waif never wants to explain anything. Always too sure that everyone's going to backstab her if she does."

Given what the two of them have discussed, Son of Crows doesn't choose to comment on this.

Listlessly, Twine shifts a few other papers, and with a half-hearted if still superhuman speed continues the gruntwork of working through her observations and what they tell her about the Shrike's bases. No observation is perfectly accurate, so there's a level of inference and error correction that always must be done. "I hope that idiot sorcerer comes through," she finally says, in a tone that she has forced to be somewhat normal. "If it's anything even slightly useful, it might be enough to ameliorate her mood." Son of Crows inclines his head in agreement, knowing she can see it from the tiny reflective mirrors on the sides of her eyepiece, even though she isn't looking at him. He cocks his head a moment later. Twine doesn't notice this. She's gotten distracted again, though at least this time she's not ranting about the Waif.

"Do you hear that?" She finally asks, getting up from her table. "Is someone out th--Ack!"

Without a word or gesture of warning, Son of Crows has lived up to his name, the deathknight exploding into a flock of the eponymous birds. Reflexively, she covers her eyes and face with her hands, her complex, many-lensed eyepieces ignored as she deals with the storm of birds, all of them hurrying out the window with an unmistakable urgency.

"What?"

Twine's question, aimed in confusion at the empty room around her, goes unanswered for a breath, no longer. Then, what she had heard comes for her: a pair of grim-faced Dragon-Blooded warriors bearing the Despot's symbol burst in, a scale or two of normal soldiers behind them. "Stand down, in the name of the Despot!" one barks.

Twine rounds on them in a fury, but her combat training has never emphasized the ability to hold off multiple Exalt-level opponents while surprised and bare-handed. The Despot's troops, on the other hand, came here with full expectations of what they would find. Rough hands reach for her, and she is wrestled down, forced to a kneeling position, both knees uncomfortably resting on filled pockets stuffed with equipment that presses in painfully even through her thick dress. "What is the meaning of this?" Even forced down, immobilized, and taken by surprise, Twine is not without her talents. Even when not exerting herself, there is a weight to her words that cannot be denied. The mortal soldiers who are putting dusty bootprints all over her work look sheepish, and the Dragon-Blooded leaders are not immune, either.

"It's a precaution only," one of them says. "There was an accusation, and we must investigate. We will let you go as soon as we've cleared it up. My name is Sirocco, and I'm here on the Despot's directions. It shouldn't take long." Somehow, it makes sense to her that this is definitely wrong, but she is still going to play her orders to the hilt.

"What sort of investig--don't touch that!" The other, who had been reaching for Twine's headband, pauses. However, he, too, has his orders. The headband comes off.

There is, of course, no mark on her forehead. They didn't really expect it. One does not have to be a devout Immaculate to know that the forehead brands of Anathema only show when the dark creature is exerting itself.

"Don't worry, my lady." Sirocco sees nothing wrong in using the term of respect, even as she holds Twine restrained. One of Sirocco's hands holds both of Twine's wrists, holding them together behinds Twine's back. Sirocco's other hand is on the back of Twine's neck, keeping her staring at the floor. Hesitantly, she loosens her grip slightly, not to the point of letting Twine free, but lessening the discomfort she is forcing on the prisoner. "This is what we expect. Once we clear you, I'm sure the Despot will see to things." A neutral statement, which is all the more that she is allowed to speak for the Despot; he takes a dim view of his low-level flunkies endorsing that he will pay restitution or otherwise take on obligations. "Of course… what's that?" Her own eyes go to the inside of the headband.

They both look. It takes a moment to recognize: it's some sort of make-up smeared on the inside of the band, in Twine's skin color.

The one who took off her headband licks his thumb, and roughly wipes it on the center of Twine's forehead.

There is a mark there, revealed as the make-up is scraped off. A black symbol, a circle with only its upper half filled.

It is the mark of the Unclean, those terrible Anathema who in search of knowledge and wealth fed whole cities to destruction as collateral damage.

Now Twine struggles for real, writhing and kicking, hissing and spitting defiance. The headband is dropped, forgotten. Both of the Dragon-Bloods focus all their attention on restraining her, now. Restraining her… and dragging her away. "NO!" Twine's rejection is spat to the air. But she can't fight her way out, only perhaps escape if she has a moment of freedom to spin her secrets to effect that. Instead, she has to explain. "No, you don't understand! Not now! None of us have time for this now! Don't you see? This is wrong! You can't do this!"

Her demands fall on deaf ears as she is dragged away.

* * *​

One of the mirrors above Twine's swimming pool is different than its kin. It looks the same, but one of them was crafted personally by the Lonely Waif of Cooling Embers, then carried here to Gem by Twine, and mounted in a very precise alignment of geomantic factors. Lastly, its position was reported with exacting accuracy to the Waif.

This mirror cracks suddenly, a single fissure running from top to bottom. The guards in the room look up. Twine hadn't thought in such terms, but her extravagant purchase of a swimming pool had left a certain amount of wealth just sitting around. Naturally, this would be left under "close guard", which would mean that its depth would shrink by about a foot a day until there was no water left to disappear.

The mirror bursts, spraying slivers of glass across the room. The guards curse, throwing up arms and turning away to shield their faces. The Dragon-Blood leading them is the first to raise her eyes again. Sirocco is still here, which is still a major investment on the Despot's part and a sign that he took these allegations seriously. Even the million or so people living in Gem only produce so many Exalts, and there's always a demand for them.

There is a gust of wind, and in its passing, Sirocco has a spear in her hands, a black metal pole some eight feet long, its head crafted of soulsteel and patterned to look like a wolf's head. Soulsteel is not the ideal magical material for a Dragon-Blood, as their nature aligns so strongly to that of the living world, but it is still finer than any merely mortal weapon, and is a prize she claimed many years ago. "Stay back," she commands her troops.

They need little convincing. No normal human would want to face the three currently drifting slowly to the ground from where the broken mirror rested. The most immediately terrifying of these is a muscular human figure with a skull for a head and garbed in royal purple. Sirocco recognizes a nephwrack when she sees it, and just as quickly realizes that the nephwrack is not the leader. Both the nephwrack and the other figure are instinctively deferring to the one in the center, who... looks like a normal materialized ghost, for all that she can't be. From behind her veil, the Lonely Waif scans the room, noting with displeasure the lack of Withered Flowers Twine the Soul and the presence of one of the hated Dragon-Blooded Exalts. "What game is that foolish girl playing at? I told her I was coming," the Waif asks the world at large.

Sirocco approaches. She does not like her odds, but she can't very well back down, not here. To flee would be to sacrifice the guards she commands, at best.

The Waif finally looks directly at Sirocco for the first time. "Tumulus?"

"Yes, your grace?" The third figure steps forward. He is a grey-skinned man, wound round with burial clothes, but stowed safely at his sides he has a one-handed axe of common make and a white jade thunderbolt shield.

"Show me what you can do." A gesture towards Sirocco.

"As you command, your grace." The Tumulus Raised as a Steadfast Bulwark holds his axe up and back, ready to come crashing down, and holds forth the shield in a center grip.

Sirocco flourishes her spear and focuses her attention on Tumulus. If these interlopers are willing to make it a one-on-one fight, instead of a three-on-one fight, she won't complain. "Cleansing Flame Strike!" Although Sirocco is an Air Aspect, any Dragon-Blooded Exalt is capable of wielding any elemental power with proficiency. Flaring heat bursts forth from the soulsteel wolf's 'eyes', and she crosses the eight meters between them in an instant.

The white shield rings as the spearpoint hits it, but with a twist of his wrist it is deflected, and he steps into the opening provided, looking to bring his shorter weapon against her. Sirocco is ready for him, letting the head be pushed aside while she shortens her grip, turning the spear into a quarterstaff and aiming a follow-up low at his shin, which is also intercepted by a quickly-interposed white shield.

Tumulus isn't trying to hide what he is: he is trying to show what he can do. A black circle opens on his forehead, leaking blood, and Sirocco realizes he is an Exalt, as well. He fights with the sort of speed and accuracy that typifies an Exalted warrior, keeping his feet planted firmly as much as possible.

Sirocco gives up a step, then another, keeping the distance between them open as she burns with ever-hotter flame. Time and again, she lashes out with her weapon, invading his space and seeking to skewer him. His shield is always there, always ready, ringing like a bell with hard impacts and producing a metallic scraping sound when he deflects. With every exchange, his defense grows more adamant. With every step Sirocco gives up, that fortress-like defense shifts and needs to be rebuilt. Still, the Tumulus possesses the sheer excellence and brute power of a deathknight, and merely having to advance into her magical fire and dancing spearhead would mean nothing to him... were it not for the fact that her style is Golden Janissary. By his sheer bad luck, he is facing a Dragon-Blood who has studied a style that strikes harder against creatures of the Underworld, which certainly includes him.

There is a lull as each of them take stock. Hot desert winds surge forth from Sirocco, her anima flux creating a sandstorm. They have exchanged some two dozen blows, to no discernible advantage. Sirocco is breathing hard, but there is a ready light in her eyes, a fierce desire to conquer this unexpected foe. The Tumulus, however, is practically unmoved. His burial clothes are, of course, too fireproof to catch flame, and his flesh is corpse-hard, not yet showing injury. He doesn't look like he's exerted himself too much yet, but... his attention isn't only on Sirocco. He can't stop his eyes from flicking to the Waif, seeing what she thinks of this fight.

The Waif watches the Midnight caste's battle with undisguised unhappiness, judging him against a scale he cannot measure up to.

No force in existence can successfully bind an Exaltation to an unworthy host. The more-than-divine spark of Exaltation is a thing beyond control. The Waif is one of those who... experimented... in the early days, when the Deathlords were first granted control of the power to name deathknights. In some cases, it would simply fail, smoothly sliding off of a weak mind that offered it no purchase. In other cases, the unfortunate would die, in quite intriguingly horrible fashion, unable to master the roiling power of a hurricane unbound to run rampant through their soul.

Nonetheless, there is worthy, and there is worthy. The Tumulus is the latter. He can suffice, for all that he is merely superhuman, compared to the transcendent glory that were her exactingly Chosen champions. The last few months have been frustrating.

As the Waif stands, silently absorbed by these thoughts, the nephwrack standing by her side suddenly jerks into action. Tesklore bounds forward, his arms spread wide. The Waif's attention is pulled to him, and she sees why. While they could not possibly injure her, the mortals backing up Sirocco have pulled themselves together, volleying a series of bullets from slings at a silent command. Tesklore, charged with defending her person, has interposed himself, knocking aside several lead balls and taking the remainder on his person.

For the first time, the Waif's attention falls on the mortals. Exalts and other great foes are a fact of life. The techniques for a band of mortals to engage them are as familiar as the opening moves played out on a Gateway board. Engage at range, engage together, do not clump up, give ground, use your own champions to hold down the enemy and deal critical blows. This still usually results in some casualties, but with good discipline, they can be minimized, and the rewards can be great.

However, the Waif is not some rogue elemental or arrogant god-blood. She is a Deathlord. A difference in scale is, eventually, a difference in kind. Now that the humans have caught her eye, she raises her soulsteel calligraphy brush with its fine moonsilver bristles, and carves letters in the air with an instant speed and inhuman precision. For an instant, they hang there, before the Waif activates them with a sentence. "Cease to be."

There are no longer living humans in the room, save Sirocco.

There is a last explosion of flame as Sirocco propels herself away from the Tumulus, hopping backwards across the pool. She glances this way and that, but her squad is gone, each of them having collapsed where they stood, no injury or distress visible. Just dead.

Taking this in at a glance, Sirocco flees. There is nothing to be gained from dying here, and nothing more she can hope to salvage than her own life.

"Sloppy, Tumulus," the Waif says. "She shouldn't have been able to escape you."

The Tumulus bows his head. "Yes, your grace. I will aim to do better." He doesn't say 'but you gave me a shield whose magic works when I hold fast'. He doesn't say 'she was trained to fight creatures of darkness'. He doesn't say 'I haven't had time to learn'. Both of them hear these words, regardless.

The Waif clucks her tongue. "Never mind. We will need to move out and go to ground. I have no idea what game Twine is playing at, but because of her failure here, we are at a disadvantage. I don't want to try to take all of Gem in a straight fight." It would be one thing with an army at her back. With only two subordinates, even a nephwrack and a deathknight, it will not go well for her. Instead of having a secure base and a source of information, the Waif has been found out and has no ready safehouse. The three of them will need to find a back-up.

In the Waif's very precise and extensive mental listing of slights that need to be repaid, Twine's name is added at a low priority, where she will be required to have a good explanation to get back in her Deathlord's good graces. Sirocco's face is added, without a name, at the ranking that any who use flame in her presence begin at.

Vessel's already-extensive entry is updated further. He almost has to be behind this somewhere, somehow.

* * *​

The news gets out, of course. The Despot would rather that it didn't, but even the Despot of Gem has no power over the rumor mill, and Twine's capture and then the deaths at her estate ensure that it is not possible to clamp down completely. Some creature of the Underworld has crawled forth into Gem. Hushed whispers pass on very wrong details as people seek patterns where none exist: it was a great, eyeless worm, the thing that had haunted the mines, drawn forth at last. It was some spirit of water, driven mad by the Deep South, which lashed out. It was the ghost of previous Despots, back to topple the pretender on the throne or to support him in a crisis.

It's only thanks to your very good hearing that you find out what actually happened to Twine, background talk between guards as you get your water-summoning assignment: she has been taken to a cell where the Despot has held other Anathema. She's not dead, then, but neither is she free. You wonder at that. You strongly doubt that a cell will hold a deathknight like her for long, but clearly she's not gotten free yet.

You, however, know something that very few others in Gem are aware of: the Waif is here. The message to Twine you intercepted said that she would be, and then with the deaths at Twine's manor it has been confirmed. A Deathlord walks the waking world, for all that she's keeping a low profile as of yet. It's what you expected. What you needed. If the Waif were to just lurk in the Underworld, you would possess no method to strike at her. If she were thinking clearly, she would know that. However, as Immaculate doctrine states, ghosts get obsessive. The Waif is too busy being angry at you, almost certainly dwelling on the horrible details of what she'll do to you when she gets a hold of you, to think what you might do to her, in return.

You are inherently hard to track, however, and Gem is huge. She shouldn't be able to run you down very easily, and you don't think she could have heard you're a sorcerer, now, so you have a very good set of cover.

At some point, this will come crashing down, but for now… you're working, and then hanging out with the same people as always, a weirdly domestic and low-key thing for you. No grand galas, no social sniping for advantage, no large business deals, no family matriarchs deciding how things will go to advance the House's fortunes.

Just being comfortable around people is almost odd itself.

"Is this iridescent mustard?" Flawed Topaz hands you a jar. You consider it.

Today, Topaz is trying to cook for the group, hosting you all at her place. She'd never have cut it as a Realm cook, even with her full eyesight. Even just saying what she's doing counts as 'cooking' might be too generous. She did bake some bread, but apart from that, it's just arranging some meat and cheeses on a platter. You've been chosen to help her, while Dub-dubs and Shetuk talk in the other room.

If there's a bright side to working with Topaz, it's that she's apparently on good if somewhat distant terms with her father, the actual fae, and so she's introduced you to some of the exotic spices that are available in Freeholds and bordermarches close enough to Gem to get traded here. The Guild and other merchants absolutely know the value of a good spice: since a little goes a long way, it can be sold at a high price per unit of weight, and sold in small packages to lots of people. Of course Gem, where jewels and silver flow rather freely, is a hotspot for them. Topaz has let you sneak a bit of a taste of a few different ones, and you've made note of ones you liked.

"I think it's iridescent mustard," you allow, looking at the stuff in the jar. It seems like mustard. It has a subtle rainbow effect on it. "Looks like I'd expect, and it smells like mustard."

"Good, then add that to that platter, get another knife out of the drawer, and let's take these out." There's only a little hesitation as Topaz gathers up things she can't quite see, and you aren't far behind her.

This is comfortable, and relaxing, but no matter how much you've gone to ground here, there's going to be more you have to do. What is the next important thing that happens?

[] Son of Crows finds you
The mysterious deathknight knows something about who you are, after all. You suppose it's better that he finds you himself than runs into the Waif first. That would have made everything much more complex.
[] You meet with Dub-dubs
Dub-dubs offer to talk sorcery with you. You're going to take them up on that. There's a couple spells that you really do need to learn, even if it means revealing how little sorcery you know so far and sort of embarrassing yourself.
[] You go to see Twine
You're never going to get a better chance to hold all the cards with her. She is trapped in the Despot's power, and almost certainly desperate. You have something she would like to know. Who knows what either of you might find out?

 

[VagueZ]

Since I've been gone a bit (it's work, my work is still chaotic as all get-out), I wanted to come back with something special. So, courtesy of my friend Indibun (twitter link), have some art of some of our characters!

 

[VagueZ]

[] You go to see Twine
You're never going to get a better chance to hold all the cards with her. She is trapped in the Despot's power, and almost certainly desperate. You have something she would like to know. Who knows what either of you might find out?

* * *​

One of the biggest advantages you've always had in your time in Gem has turned out to just be 'being a sorcerer'. You saw it with the House's sorcerers back home on the Blessed Isle, and it's true the world over, it seems. Sorcerers are usually a little weird. Some can't help it. The others, who could act in a more normal or restrained manner, know they're useful enough to get away with a few little foibles.

You take advantage of this to just show up, relatively abruptly, and ask to talk to Twine. There's a few layers of bureaucracy you have to work through to get approval, running to the better part of an hour. It's relatively clearly just the diffusion of responsibility, so you don't mind too much. In the end, no one actually authorizes you to see her, rather it's considered that since you were part of turning her in, even if you weren't the one to see her Anathema mark personally, according to the official records, it must be fine for you to see her. All this according to no one in particular, if it does ever spark an investigation.

Of somewhat more interest is the fact that it turns out that one of the guards is Libni, the one who theoretically actually caught Twine's mark and turned her in. This makes for a slightly awkward conversation as you recognize each other and have to pretend that this is your second time meeting with each other. You have to, since there's actually two guards accompanying you. You don't catch the other one's name.

"She's been a model prisoner since we actually got her into the cell," Libni says. "I wasn't there when she was collared, but I've been one of the ones who has taken her food, what, two times with Dilshod and once with you?" He glances over at his partner, who nods in confirmation.

The cell they lead you to is deep in the Despot's administrative building, where the comings and goings of people and the sheer weight of rock can help hold dangerous prisoners. Libni keeps up most of the talking as you go, leading the way with the casualness of long familiarity. "Still, catching an Anathema has done a lot for me. I'm glad you were there with me," he says, shooting a look at his companion, but the other guard is too busy scratching an itch to catch any significance there. "That's the sort of thing that can demonstrate competence and help me move up the ranks. Thanks for that." He claps a hand on your shoulder, in a friendly sort of way. He's reasonably big, but not as coarse as a lot of soldiers and career warriors you've met. "Even with all those deaths that came after that, that doesn't look bad on me. It's just more confirmation I was right."

Gem is still Gem. People tend to be mercenaries at heart once they get out of their immediate circle of family and friends. You don't judge him harshly for that, just make the appropriate sounds to make sure that you're friendly with each other here. You hadn't actually ever expected to run into Libni, but since you have, it pays to ensure that everything is working as it should.

"A model prisoner, huh?" Once you have a chance, you slip it in. "She seemed pretty fierce when we were at her house, so I'm surprised she's that restrained here and now." This is also letting Libni get one more fact correct.

"Yeah," he says, after he has a moment to figure out what you're doing. He's here for his muscle, not his wit. "Nothing like she was there. She's definitely eating, but every time I've ever checked on her, she's just kneeling on the ground, eyes closed. Won't talk to us. I think it's some sort of meditation. Hey, you ever seen her doing anything else?" Libni checks in with the other guard, but all he gets back is a purple-eyed blink and a shrug. It's enough for Libni, who grins at you. "See? Model prisoner. It's weird, but it's easy. I'd rather deal with a creepy girl than a feral Wyld barbarian or something."

Eventually, you reach the actual cell block, down where sensitive things are kept and guards are actually checking identification. There's only the one real cell down here, but there only needs to be one. The Despot doesn't usually hold onto dangerous prisoners; they're put to work, killed, or banished, in rough order of preference. Something that can hold Anathema is expensive, and mostly unnecessary.

The pair of guards turn keys at the same time to unlock the main door. It's a reasonably impressive metal portcullis that they slide up. "Go on in, then," Libni says, while the door is still up. "We'll be out here and let you out once you're done." They give you a little more spiel, basically just the fact that they'll be watching you in case the prisoner tries anything or they enspell you to act oddly. Libni had given you the codeword to show you're still you earlier in the walk. You remember it. You won't retain it past when you leave, but you're not going to do something so dumb you get suspicion cast on you.

You press forward as the metal grate slams shut behind you. The way this is set up, there's the portcullis behind you, and another metal door in front of you. On the other side of the inner door, there is a small cell.

As promised, Twine is sitting there, kneeling, her weight on her ankles, her eyes closed and seemingly meditating. She's in rough but functional garb, courtesy of the Despot, just shapeless brown that is cheap to make and enough for dignity and most daily wear. This is the first time you've seen her without her many-pocketed garments and mass of lenses. When she opens her eyes to latch them onto yours, you're struck by how normal her green pupils look. "It's you," she says, by way of greeting. "I didn't know when you would be by, but I figured that you would be."

You glance over your shoulder before you reply, judging distance and acoustics. Libni shouldn't be able to hear your conversation. No one should, unless they have supernatural hearing somehow. It's too far, and not given to echoes. "Looks like you were right," you agree, as blandly as you can.

"I usually am," she agrees, before she sighs, rubbing her forehead. There's a mark on her forehead, a black tattoo of an Unclean Anathema. It's clearly a tattoo, though, not the open wound that you get when your own caste mark shows up. Even if it's clearly a tattoo, that's not easy to explain, and then there were the deaths at her estate. That puts her in a terrible light even if she were to be genuinely innocent somehow. "It's hard to be completely right if you don't know who all is playing the game, though." Her green eyes bore into yours. "Who are you, really?"

There's a weight to her words, a skittering strength behind them. It's far more delicate than the Waif's blunt efforts to bend your mind. It's just suggesting it would be easy to tell her things. Brag, confess, plan it as part of a scheme: just answer. That's fair. You're trying to do much the same, after all. "No one of consequence," you say. "Just a sorcerer come to Gem to earn my way."

"Hm." Twine reaches up, trying to adjust an eyepiece that isn't there. It's an absent gesture. "You are a mystery, though. Half a clue on how to control the Shrike would make your fortune, instantly. The Despot would cocoon you in luxury for something that would let him begin to actually make his imperial ambitions real. Countless other would-be tyrants would be equally anxious, although not all of them would let you live once they'd learned what they wanted. So you're not here for money. You aren't here for the thrill of the challenge, or you would have been even more intrigued by my attempts to backtrace the Shrike. You aren't with the Lion; he hates that sort of subtlety and would just smash everything. I can't find any coherent ideology driving you here just as a matter of faith. No, you're here for something." Twine lapses into silence.

"I could say much the same about you," you point out. "Even without your forehead tattoo--let's pretend that's a childhood foolishness you can't get rid of--you're not acting like I'd expect."

"How am I not?" Twine's smile is a challenge.

You're ready for it. "You're still locked up."

"If you hadn't noticed, I was arrested by a heavily armed squad and thrown into the Despot's deepest prison to await his pleasure." The challenge remains in the air.

"You certainly were." You stare her straight in the eyes. "And you're still locked up. If you really wanted to, you could get out of here." You could bust out of here if you were in her place, so it wasn't a hard leap of logic to the fact that she could, as well.

That earns you a smile. "Perhaps I could," she agrees. "But then what? What would inspire me to stay within these walls?"

Several possibilities flash through your mind. None of them quite check out. You shake your head. "I don't know yet."

"Of course not." Twine heaves herself to her feet. She's no longer looking at you. She's not looking at anything. She begins pacing back and forth at the front of her cell. "You don't know what it's like. What's that old myth? Some queen who felt like she always had a sword suspended over her head, with the string liable to snap at any moment. You don't know it. Any failure, any sign of slipping the leash, and you'd be destroyed instantly. No freedom, no opportunity, just slavery until death."

"I might know more than you know," you say. You remember those weeks in the Lap, where you were looking over your shoulder every minute, knowing any given second your disguise could crumble and you could be exposed: Anathema, consorting with other Anathema. "But if you're in that situation, and you can't control it, you escape. You get away. You don't sit in a cell."

The ring of truth in your speech catches Twine's attention. She stops pacing and considers you afresh. "You don't know, then. Sometimes it's something so powerful and persistent and vindictive that you can't just run. You could flee to the very end of the Cinder Isles, to beyond the end of the Dreaming Sea, or to the north beyond the Pole of Air itself, and it wouldn't be enough. Some things you can't escape."

"That sounds a bit like some of the stories about Lunars keeping diaries about how impossible it feels to escape a dedicated Wyld Hunt. Are you truly Anathema, then?" You already know the answer here, but too much knowledge you shouldn't have can lead her to truths you don't want to say.

"Huh." It's half a laugh. "I'm no Lunar, if that's what you meant. And even Lunars have their places of safety--there's lands ruled by other Lunars, where they can find succor. No, until I figure out my next move, it's better to stay in here. If I get 'rescued', then clearly I just couldn't get out." She grins. There's a manic edge to it. "But hopefully there's a better answer. Have you seen Crowson since I was captured?"

You are slightly thrown by the change in topic, and shake your head before you can think about it. "Why do you ask?"

"Because, whatever you are, I expect he's going to try to find you." She grips the bars separating you from her. "We had plans of our own, and you interrupted them. He'll probably try to kill you." She says it perfectly matter-of-factly. "Lovely man, but a little unstable. I still like him, and as my knight… he was a bridge."

"To what?"

"To potential safety." Twine releases the bars. "There's worse in the streets of Gem now than you know or would believe."

"A Deathlord," you breathe. You didn't mean to. Twine's still twisting the atmosphere to make it easier to say things you didn't intend.

That earns you a single laugh like a whip cracking. "A Deathlord?" With the speed of an arrow in flight, she reaches through the bars, trying to snatch your white funeral clothes so she can haul you close, but you flutter out of reach. She doesn't try again. "I told you," she says, in a low hiss. "Worse than you believe. You've tripped over the schemes of the Lonely Waif of Cooling Embers, and she does not abide interlopers. Crowson and I are your only chance, now. Survive Crowson's attack, and join with him. Get me out of here, only then. With the Black Heron's help, we can break her."

There's a tiny sound from the guards, but she didn't even touch you. You keep your treacherous mouth closed so you can't give away anything else.

Twine was already working on her own scheme to betray the Waif.

She hasn't figured out who or what you are, so she doesn't know how much you can do to escape Crowson and the Waif. But Crowson is the deathknight of the Black Heron. Ephrei told you about her, the Deathlord under the Lion's control. She's making her own move against the Waif.

That realization takes you perhaps half a second to come to. When you come out of it, you see Twine has collected herself again. She's back where you saw her before, eyes closed, in a meditative pose. You consider saying something more, but you realize she's done talking to you. She thinks she's gotten all she can get out of your discussion, and has ended it there. You turn and walk back up the tunnel, your mind roiling with new thoughts..

Before you can leave, though, Libni has his questions for you. You give the proper counter-sign, you obey a handful of barked directions, you come close and let him shine a glowstone directly into your eyes to show your pupils are reacting normally, and a couple of similar tests. They aren't foolproof, but in combination they do reasonably comprehensively let a mortal be mostly sure that you are not under the sway of some vile Anathema mind domination. Even outside Dub-dubs, the usual assumption is that you're a mildly weird Air Aspect, which also helps convince mortals that you're incorruptible. The Immaculate Philosophy may not be dominant out here, but its baseline assumptions are still accepted, including the power and inherent superiority of a Dragon-Blood..

Once the guards are convinced that you're fine, and Twine's grab had gone nowhere, Libni and partner open the portcullis, let you out, and lock it behind you, leaving Twine where she is.

The walk back is no shorter, but as absorbed in your own thoughts as you are, it seems like it's over almost as soon as it began.

* * *​

Despite your best efforts, you're going to be ambushed by Crowson, at a time and place of his choosing. He knows too much about you now to be able to evade him.

What does end up surprising you is that when he attacks, you're not alone. Who else is there and interferes with the fight?

[] Dub-dubs
It's unfortunate, but not too surprising, as you spend a lot of time with your friend. As it turns out, they're less hapless now than when they met Clochard, and have a surprise ready.

[] The Tumulus
The Waif's newest deathknight just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now you have a complex, unpleasant three-way brawl. Who knows how that will turn out?

[] Ephrei
The Sidereal who had been dogging your steps wasn't discouraged by you blowing her off before. You don't know how she found out about this, but now she's counter-ambushing Crowson.

 

[VagueZ]

So I do have every intention of continuing and finishing up this quest, but sometimes things take a bit of work. Right now, I need to get a few things sorted out and ready in my head and notes, so I do need to officially put a pause on this. I'll definitely be back with our upcoming fight. The post is partially written, but I'm not fully happy with it. I won't be posting it until I feel it's presentable. Instead, I'll be working on the projects that are currently coming easier.

Since I am taking a bit of a break, I did want to leave you with something I'd written a bit ago and hadn't found a place to share yet. This is just a quick view into something that happened fifteen years previous:

---

RY 754, somewhere in the Inland Sea:​

You watch the cat's tail lash. It's almost hypnotic. It's also less concerning than the cat's yellow eyes. You're not entirely sure what sort of cat it is. It's something exotic, you know, because you're pretty sure a normal domestic cat isn't normally this large, or even half this size.

You're wedged uncomfortably into an awkward, dark corner of the galleon, where some sort of bracing timber makes a space between the outer hull and bottom of the deck. That's about all the nautical terminology you know.

Your stomach is empty, but far beyond growling, into the realm of a dull ache that matches the dull ache in your legs, protesting at too long forced into too strange a pose. It also matches the dull ache in your mind, which gave up counting time at some unknowable point past.

It was this or starve or try your hand at thieving until you inevitably get caught and executed. The Realm has little patience or sympathy for peasants whose family can't afford to keep them on their own land.

Sneaking aboard this galleon bound for somewhere in the Threshold was still the most frightening thing you've ever done. Even if everything goes well, you'll be somewhere you don't know, around people you don't know, who will be speaking a language you don't know, and you'll have nothing to encourage them to take you in.

You may not have had much of an education, but you can imagine how that is likely to go. However, a likelihood is better than the certain doom you're fleeing.

The cat found you almost right away. Whenever it isn't going about its usual mousing duties aboard the ship, it's there, staring at you. There's a part of you that's considered trying to eat it, but beyond the certainty that the crew will come looking for their cat if it stops showing up, you aren't sure that you could win the fight to begin with.

Instead, it sits there, a little out of arm's reach even if you lunge, tail lashing, large eyes fixed on yours even in the gloom of a galleon below decks. If it could talk, it would have already turned you in.

In your state of fuzzy uncertainty, you haven't taken any notice of the state of the ship at large for a while, so it's a surprise when, suddenly, one of the crew is there, addressing the cat. "There you are, Duneboy," she says, scooping the cat up with both hands and a significant effort. He really is a big cat.

The treacherous Duneboy doesn't take his eyes off you, and the crewmember eventually notices. "Duneboy? What, is there a rat or--" She follows his eyes, and finds you. You cringe back, but you're already as well-hidden and as tucked away as you can be, and she has a clue to look now.

"Stowaway!"

Other crew come at the call. You think you try to fight. It doesn't matter. You're too achey, and too hungry, and too beat down. Soon you're on the deck of the ship, bound at the wrist with a scrap of rope, forced to your knees in front of the captain and... it has to be one of the noble Dragon-Blooded. You've never seen one this close before, but she's a slender woman who smells of the quarry and whose fingernails look like flecks of obsidian. She has a jade blade at her waist, some sort of saber. It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, even including her.

"A stowaway," the captain is saying. "Been a while since one got aboard at all, and this one's more cunning than most to avoid being caught until we're almost ashore. I apologize, my lady." That's to the Dragon-Blood, not to you. "We'll deal with this."

You can barely summon the energy to be scared. Things were hopeless for you even before you sneaked onto this ship. Some other things are said. You don't hear them, until you are roused again with a smack on the cheek. "I said, 'who is your family'?" It's the captain. "You will give me answers."

You clear your throat and speak as well as you can, through dry lips and the fact that you're trying to make your voice sound right. "My mother is Jharna, of the Thorp-on-River peasantry. She... my family couldn't feed all the children. So I left."

The captain tsks. "A common complaint throughout the province right now. Not much point taking you back, even beyond that you won't be able to work or pay your way. We'll give you to the harbormaster to decide what to do with you."

You are pushed aside, but not out of sight, as the crew busies themselves with the necessary tasks to dock. For you, it's a whirlwind of clearly purposeful but confusing chaos.

You're not able to enjoy any of it. You are handled roughly, if not actively unkindly, and dragged off the ship and into some brick building in the harbor. A series of busy-looking people see you briefly, some with weapons and other with badges of office you don't recognize.

It ends with you thrown in a cell, a little before sundown. They've taken your ratty clothes away, and given you new ones--including a skirt, to your frustration. It's cheap, too, and far itchier than what you had been wearing. On the other hand, when you are thrown in your cell, they give you food: some barley bread and some vegetables you don't recognize, boiled.

You attack it ravenously. "Whoa! Slow down!" You hadn't even realized it until he put a hand on your shoulder, but you have a cellmate. "If you eat that quickly, you'll throw it back up."

Your first impulse is to attack him, but he's right, and he doesn't try to take any of it. After a couple of deep breaths, you nod, and set a crust of the bread in the water they gave you, letting the liquid soften it.

Only then do you look at your cellmate. He's an old man, thin and bony but not in an unhealthy fashion like you. His scraggly white beard reaches almost to the bottom of his ribcage. After his touch, he retreated to a hard bench, watching you as you eat in a more measured fashion. There's a strange humor to his eyes as he considers you just as frankly as you consider him: a threat, a friend, a concern? He just watches as you eat, a methodical and very thorough effort, where no crumb is wasted.

When you are done, the sun is completely down, but a partial moon provides some light, enough to almost see each other. "Who are you?" he asks.

"I'm the son of Jharna, of Thorp-on-River," you say, a surly challenge in your tone.

"I didn't ask who your mother was, boy," he says, suddenly grinning and showing only two remaining teeth. "She's not likely to get thrown in here, so we're going to have to live with each other, not with her. What's your name?"

You relax, slightly. "I don't know. I don't have a name." Your family called you something, but not something you ever felt at home with.

He nods, as if this makes perfect sense. "You can call me Aibek."

"Do you know what the master is likely to do with us, Aibek?"

"There's always a call for laborers. The master will probably want to put us to either construction or mining, would be my guess. Hard work, lots of chances to die, but at least it comes with a meal."

You grimace. "Still better than where I came from, then."

"Tell me about it?" It's not a demand. It's just that there's nothing to do in an empty cell except talk with each other.

So you do. You pour out a quick description of your home, of the fact that you left, of the fact it was that or starve.

When you run out of words, Aibek beckons you closer. "Well, that's quite a story, if not a new one--we've been telling that story for an Age. Want to see something you haven't before?" Warily, you come, just in case he plans some perfidy. He's by the window, now, and in the moonlight you can see the town outside, and beyond that...

"What's that?" You ask. In the distance, there's a person, or something like a person. But it's so far away. Miles and miles away, and yet you can see it. It can't be a living person, you realize. It's not just the scale, which is clearly miles tall, but it's not moving.

"That," Aibek says, with some satisfaction, "Is a creation of the Anathema. Thousands of years ago, when they ruled this land, before the Dragon-Blooded did, they crafted wonders. That is the Penitent, a statue they made when they ruled all."

"I thought all the works of the Anathema were torn down?" That's what the Immaculate priests taught, at least.

"How, exactly, would you expect even an army of Dragon-Blooded champions to disassemble a mountain?" Aibek laughs, a genuine belly-laugh. "No, some things are beyond them."

You press your face against the bars, staring at this. "It looks so haunting at night, like this," you finally say. It's too simple, too empty a comment, but it's all you have for the moment. The world is just so much bigger than you'd ever dreamed it could be.

"I thought you might enjoy that." Aibek's voice is a little distant. He's giving you space, not upset that you're monopolizing the window. "In exchange, can I ask a favor, son of Jharna?"

This makes you tense up. Nothing is ever really free, is it? "Yes?"

"When you find your name, your real name, will you tell me first?"

You turn back around, looking at him through the bars on the cell, considering him warily. "How am I supposed to do that? We can't be sure we'll ever meet again, if they put us to work doing different things."

He smiles, close-lipped this time, a genuine smile like your father had when you were young, when the fields gave a bounty and times were good. "Whisper it in the night, when no one is around. I'll hear it, for sure."

This seems right. You look back at the statue in the distance. "I'll do that." You stand up straight again, and it takes a moment to realize what's different. You're taller. It's like you've gained three or four inches of height. And... that's not all.

And you're outside.

You look back at Aibek, still inside the cell. And the bars are between you and him. You are outside. Something between disbelief and delight freezes you in your tracks.

"They say cats can go anywhere their head will fit," Aibek says, conversationally. "They slip into--and out of--all sorts of places you wouldn't believe they can go."

"But I'm--" You're not a cat. You're a normal person, just as human as anyone else. You push past that. There's something more important: Aibek is still in the cell. "I have to get you out of there," you decide, considering the bars in the cell window anew.

"Don't worry about me. Nameless son of Jharna," he says, and now his voice is full and resonant, a pronouncement not even the Scarlet Empress herself can gainsay. "You are Chosen. Go, leave this place. Find yourself. And then tell me your name. That promise of yours: I hold you to it."

You blink. He's gone before you open your eyes again.

For perhaps five seconds more, you stare at the empty cell. Then, and only then, you turn away, back to face the impossible stone statue in the distance. There? No, further South, for now. There is nowhere in the Realm for you now.

But there is, somewhere, a place for you, and somewhere that you will find your name, which you will first whisper in the night, before you share it with anyone else.