Antarctic Termite

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

wanted: family counselling

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

There came a time when Ea Nebel, Maiden of All Tombs, set foot in the lands of the far north, so far almost that there was no longer any north left, only south. There was in those nights no aurora, for no god had given breath to such splendour. Long rays of evening sunlight sparkled on flurries of snowy glitter, and their dance upon the clean snow was beauty enough for the Maiden.

Yet there was something foul and hot on the wind. Something rotted here with a pestilent warmth, filling even the furthest north with the far-ranging stench of death. The gravedigger of deity folded her mittens into her coat with a grim squint as her boar followed the scent. She knew her duty. Her joyless task would be executed, come Hell itself.

A sound before her was so foreign to the land that Ea Nebel barely noticed it the first two times. Only when the snow grew thin and the air unnaturally warm did she notice what was flying towards her from the heart of the sulphurous miasmic anomaly. An insect- a fly. Not even a blowfly, born of carrion. This was a common fly. This kind was only born of...

...

"By the Heaven-"

Ea Nebel stood on the permafrost and stared at the ghastly abomination poisoning earth and air before her, covering her mouth and nose, eyes wide as a stack of gunmetal ball-bearings. Word left her, thought cringed away. The staggeringly nauseating mass was the work of a demon, not a god. None numbered among her family could have the demented perversion of imagination to conjure into being something so unutterably vile. No monument stood before her. It was an affront.

Gripped with righteous disgust, Ea Nebel felt her internal furnace burn hot within her, and pulled from the ground a tall torch already roaring with cleansing fire. The frost around her gave way to bilious brown mud churned with the worst kind of filth. Choking on vomitous fumes belching from the hill, Ea Nebel advanced through a dense, buzzing hail of flies, deriving no comfort from this profane lesser breed of her father's sacred creature and offering them no mercy from her light. Her crusade bore her to within the closest possible reach of the thing, and there she hurled the torch like a spear into its glistening feculent surface.

It stuck there, falling wetly onto the vast and uncomfortably body-warm heap like a dropped matchstick, sputtered weakly, and went out.

...

"IGNITE!"

The hill erupted into a pillar of flame that pierced Heaven. All colour disappeared except that of fire. Ea Nebel staggered from the conflagration, choking on smoke too black and noxious to speak of. Meltwater steamed up all around her, rising to surround a long smear of toxic brown smoke that would billow from the roiling inferno for one thousand years.

She did not visit those parts again for some time, but was ever after grateful for the bright, crisp cleanness of fresh fallen snow.

MERRY CHRISTMAS DIVINUS 2021

---

:)

Ea Nebel spends 1 vigour to light a merry little Christmas bonfire, bringing her down to like five or six.

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

The scribe drummed his fingers on his desk, which he was lucky enough to have to himself. It was a nice desk, a lovely desk really, made of quartzite. In the typical style of his people, it had no legs. A salamander did not stand upright, so there was no need for space below the desk to tuck in the legs, and it didn't stand very high either. So, technically, it was more of a slab.

But a very nice slab!

Thoughts of furniture popped away in his head and the scribe pinched himself. He wouldn't have such a desk to himself for long if he neglected his training. He'd made it this far in his apprenticeship with a mix of discipline and panic, and now was no time to slow down. He sighed, picked up his crystal stylus, and set the copy-text on the desk in front of him.

The Hand Tongue

In the fourth year of the reign of the Granite Emperor, Huēy Tlatoani Yaotl the Tunneller,

...'Tunneller'? The scribe lifted his pen for a moment. Normally the epithet would be something like 'Blood-Generous' or 'the Strong'. Maybe the document had been written before the modern rites of sacrifice- the events themselves had transpired rather early in his reign, after all. How old was this text? Or- maybe the copy-text had just been composed to mix up the words a little, for practice? Nevermind.

Now the name of this crone was Zoltic, and of all the village women in the realm of Chicomoztoc, she was said to be the most advanced in years. Her length was measured to be forty-nine cubits, and she had borne eleven healthy children. So cold was the ancient's blood that her voice was as low and slow as a tremor, and the light had gone out of her eyes, leaving her blind. Though she yet lived, she could not traverse even twice the length of her body over the course of a day, and soon it became apparent that she could no longer chew what little food she still ate.

There arose thus concern among the villagers over their elder, who would surely cease to move, and thereafter to breathe. Said some, she is our honoured ancient, and has lived a noble life among us, thus let us petition the Granite Emperor to bring her to the Great Flame, as did the exalted Tlanextic, blessed be his memory, and the explorer-hero Mixpetzoani, who discovered the Maze of Treasure.

Oh. The text was probably fabricated, then, or at least... heavily embellished. The only serious inroads to the Labyrinth had been made in the scribe's own age. No one so far in the past had any real claim to its first explorer, bar maybe some unfortunate miners.

But maybe the text was old, and the great-grandfathers of Chicomoztoc remembered heroes who had since been forgotten. They had lived in the age of Tlanextic, after all, if only in his waning years. The young scribe smiled. His position was an honour and a privilege, but more than that, what fun it was! To read anything he wanted, any way he wanted- what a mystery!

So the peasantry was divided into four groups, according to what each thought should be done with the bodies of their most ancient. So loud was the clamour that the realm of Chicomoztoc became unrestful, and even the Granite Emperor heard of the affair.

It was at that time that the realm of Chicomoztoc was visited once again by the Spirit of Nepetl. She appeared before the huēyitequitiquētl

"Oh, come off it!"

The scribe rubbed his forehead, looking back through the door to see if the master scribe had heard him. Huēyitequitiquētl? Really? No one used that word. Was 'administrator' not fancy enough? This whole text must be some sort of joke.

as a beautiful maiden,

Nevermind, this text was fine.

veiled and dressed in moonstones. She said to the

The scribe grit his teeth and spelled it out one letter at a time, counting their palm-lines and knuckles. H- u- ē- y- i-

-tequitiquētl that she had come to resolve this quarrel, and bring honour to the elders of Chicomoztoc. Said the spirit, let Zoltic stand among the shrines of the gods, facing the whole village, and become as a shrine herself. Let her be a monument to the health and history of the family blessed with such an elder. She shall bear a bowl for offerings in her coils, and her spirit shall intercede between the living and the dead. For a statue is difficult to carve, heavy to move, and worn down by tremor and flood, and there is no carver in the whole of the realm who could produce a likeness of life such as her.

Said the

"Administrator-!"

huēyitequitiquētl, how shall this be? For her body is stiff and tired, and she cannot stand long, not even on all of her legs. Her eyelids droop, her tail is hooked, her wrists bent by age.

Said the Spirit, let her stiffness not be a sign of brittleness, but of strength. I will teach her to breathe as the spirits and gods can breathe, to calm her heart, that her blood may flow as quietly and easily as the hottest stream. Meditation will release the pain of her muscles, that even the tallest stance will be as restful for her as being curled up in her own home. Remember that your lady Yoliyachicoztl is an ever-moving goddess, whose coils are never still, and you are sculpted by her hand. Fix your mind upon Her blessings as I show you, and your body will be limber, until it awakes no more.

So the shrouded maiden went in unto the crone Zoltic, and showed her the art of dying. The very next day, the elder stood tall in the garden of the shrines of Yoliyachicoztl and Tlanextic and the Heavenly Flame and the harvest, with her tail curled around a bowl of offerings at her side. Her arms were raised before her, and a smile was upon her face, and her blind eyes were open, and none knew the moment she passed away from this world, for her body was asleep in perfect peace.

Thus the elder's death brought lasting honour on the village of Zoltic, and her figure stands there to this day.

The Spirit of Nepetl travelled the realm, teaching the dying arts to the ancients of Chicomoztoc. Much veneration was given her, and talk of the shrines spanned the empire. Many delinquent youths of the realm even changed their ways for a while, hoping they might evade disease, accident, and execution long enough to become a towering monument.

Much good that must have done. Maybe some kind of cautionary insert.

It came to pass that the shrouded maiden was invited to dine at the table of the Cihuacoatl himself, Yolyamanitzin, the brother of the Granite Emperor. They feasted together, and spoke, and the Spirit gave unto him the a gift of a wolfram spearpoint, and he gave to her an amulet of the most precious turquoise.

And the Cihuacoatl said, stay with us, and marry among our family, for your very presence is a blessing to us. But she was sworn to other duties. And the Cihuacoatl said, stay with us, then, until my brother the Huēy Tlatoani returns from his campaigns. But she could not stay. So the Cihuacoatl said, then let us call upon on hundred skilled stonecarvers, that we may devise a way to preserve your teaching in the picture-words of emperors.

And the Spirit of Nepetl answered, o Cihuacoatl, architect of the Granite Emperor, the power to preserve is already in your hands. Behold, what I have given you is not a spearhead but a stylus. Take before you a plate of soft tuff, and observe the raised hands of the monumental dead. For the name of each ancient is held in the shape of their hands, and the names of the ancients comprise many words. Thus in the shape of your hands may be the names of many other things, even words for which there is no image known to the carvers.

The scribe stretched his fingers and set down the stylus, looking at his own weary hand. It didn't look much like a letter, but the curves and joints were all there. Turn the thumb, bend one finger, and that was a single sound, 'mo'- as in, Chicomoztoc. Almost the same sign on the other hand- 'ku'. Raise a mid-limb, turn the wrist, incline the fingers a little, put them together, and... well, that could spell a very rude word indeed.

He laughed. He put his stylus away.

Time for bed.

---

Happy newt week!

We see an unnamed apprentice scribe salamander in Chicomoztoc practicing his letters on an old story of questionable veracity.

A village elder, Zoltic, has grown to great age and size, and has lived so long and grown so cool that it looks like she might just petrify completely. The community is divided on what should happen to her body. Some suggest throwing her into the volcano, but that's a place for heroes to make a dramatic exit, not an old lady.

Enter Ea Neb- uh, the Spirit of Nepetl. She teaches the old lady the 'art of dying', which is a form of physical meditation that allows the user to rest comfortably while holding a serene pose as their body eventually crystallises into hardened stone. The elders of Chicomoztoc can now petrify into shrine statues painlessly and with dignity. Of course, not everyone makes it this far- most salamander peasants probably die of a disease, sacrifice or injury before becoming a century-old living statue.

After exchanging gifts with Yaotl's brother Yolyamanitzin, still a very prominent figure, she turns down a tacit marriage proposal and says it's time to go. Yolya asks for a way to record her teachings, and she says that the statues' hands are arranged in a phonetic system to spell out their own names, and tells him to go jot them down with a stylus and invent non-pictographic writing. The Chicomoztoc alphabet is thus a combination of logographs and syllables, a bit like hieroglyphs or Japanese. This should be less labour-intensive and quicker to teach.

There's also a hint that some salamanders have at least discovered and possibly explored parts of the Labyrinth.

Also, apparently 'mokuitl' might be a cuss word in Nahuatl.

8 Vigour start.
+1 Vigour gained from Yesaris Week contribution.
-1 Vigour spent on teaching the salamanders of Chicomoztoc the practice of death meditation. Demi-aspect action.
-1 spent on inventing a phonetic alphabet for Chicomoztoc, helping them formalise their pictographic system into true writing.
-1 demigod penalty.
6 Vigour remains.

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

Ea Nebel

In a circle of ash lay huddled bones. Their incisors yawned wide, still locked in their final scream. What remained of their arms held one another even into death. In the center, black boots. In the boots a woman. In the woman’s hand a hat.

She clutched it to her chest. Her hair fell back behind her. She lifted her face to the moonlight.

Four eyes she had. An error. Nothing more. No Sight had ever graced her. No crystal Eye leant itself to her face, not One, not Three. Four eyes she had, and they but the tarnished ruin of what should have been two. Yet even though she could not See, she could listen.

So she heard. And, though the eddies of the Flow had yet to be revealed to her, those dark blank eyes saw far.

All around her, lines of broken moonlight burned silently across the sky. Ea Nebel’s knuckles grew whiter and whiter on her hat.

---

The grave of Medes was to lay under a single stone. There was none like it for miles, resting all alone, neither natural nor set with purpose, only fated to be where it was. It was large, covering the whole of the circular pit in which he had been laid, wrapped in a warm shroud as was fitting for an old man who had passed in the chill of the night. His blindfold had been blown away from his bones with the dust of his flesh, as though he had lain still for ten thousand years on this firm bed of desert grit, his face still inclined to the moon. Ea Nebel had laid over the sockets of his skull a band of clean black silk to replace it.

“Go home,” she said, when the men emerged from their homes among the far and harsh streams of Nalusa to see what had become of their Prophet. “Your guide rests quietly now. His Sight has been passed to another, and he is at peace in the land that he chose. Hold his voice in your heart when you remember this place, always,” she said, and it was only the wide quiet of the desert night that carried her own to their ears. “Take this. You already know what it is.”

Dawn broke. The leader of the men, clothed in a lion’s pelt, accepted the orb. Ea Nebel dismissed him. “That I might rest, as you did in the days of your journey,” she lied. “Lifting this slab was not easy.”

Then she sat alone again in its shadow, staring at the moonless sky.

Flies buzzed over the parched riverbank. There was a sound of something sharp softly digging into the soil, and a longer, deeper stretch of darkness slithered over the coarse monument and onto her, stretching and folding its many limbs. Boots skidded before it as the goddess awoke in a flutter of black.

“Father!”

She stopped abruptly before the figure of Iqelis and stood there, gripping her thumbs in her fists. Her flurrying thoughts had evaporated. She stared at what had been done. Her gaze fell away for a moment, until at last she wet her lips and found right words. “...I heard such sounds.”

“Some voices ought never be heard,” the god crackled wearily. He seemed spent, both in the dimness of his eye and the frame of his body, ever so subtly slighter than it had been before. “As some sights ought never be seen.”

He crossed the space between them in a stride, and a dozen arms locked around Ea Nebel in a cage-like embrace. There was perhaps more caution than tenderness in his motions, as sharp fingers hovered where they could not risk gouging into cloth and skin, and faceted limbs slid and shifted in an uneasy bid not to wear her sore. Her breath quickened, then slowed.

“You are well,” came a whispering rasp of snapping rusted blades, not so much a question or even a statement as an intimation.

“I am now.” She opened her eyes and saw them reflected in dark glass, staring into herself. “The… other one, moon-bound. Her prophet is ash. Has she…”

“She lives still, regrettably,” Iqelis was looking over her shoulder at the grave-stone, “Would I that you could have built a mausoleum for her under the black sky, but her time is not yet spent. Until then, you will have to bear the weight of her enmity, as all things mine.” A cold hand haltingly caressed her back with its shardlike knuckles. The coat liquefied slightly, remembering its old shape. “It will not be long.”

“I fear her not. Please… be patient, Father. No matter how the river winds, the sea is always ahead. I will wait on the ship with you.” Reflected in glass, the white slab behind her. “Wait with me. As I have waited.”

The hands stilled, and pressed closer for a moment before finally releasing their grip and sliding away.

“There must ever be one who turns the Flow,” the god stepped back, lowering his gaze to meet that of his daughter, “But patience is imposed on us now. Higher eyes still than hers seek to trace your doom.”

Ea Nebel nodded, and slung out her arm lightly to one side, flicking into the breeze the five-cubit banner of Heaven she now wore as a scarf. It danced across a field of colours only woven into one other garment in the universe. “I have been prepared, if only with this talisman. I can bear this humiliating penance with you.” Her eyes met his now, and were calm. “No matter what it is.”

The claws that had been about to snap up at the sight of an echo from the One Above relaxed and dwindled. “Then He would mock you with His scraps,” Iqelis rattled, and as if opening wider his light shone bright again, fed by the familiar fuel of malice, “Flies will feast on His empty eyes and the ruins of His throne will be toppled by hogs when the day comes.”

“All in time…”

He turned his faceless head to the east, but did not look up to the rising sun. One hand motioned to the horizon, and another beckoned for the demigoddess to follow as he slowly began to step away from the riverbank.

“It is the vainglorious fool’s will that I prove your worth as His subject. Come, there are others we must summon to witness that it is done.”

“Very well. Let it begin.” Ea Nebel adjusted her coat and followed the elder god away from that valley, into the dry lands further on, where a very real hog flicked its knowing ears.

---

The saga begins

Ea Nebel encounters the bodies of the Maramoda destroyed by the Outsider, but whatever she plans to do is interrupted by the events of Chronomachia. Most of the action is obscured to her by distance and the far side of the moon, but she gets some hint of the nature and magnitude of what is happening. Distressing!

Later, she buries Medes with dignity under a stone slab, as his followers have still dispersed. A brave, important-looking Nalusan arrives to check on him. She shares some gentle words about his passage and passes on Apostate's smoky quartz orb before making an excuse to be left alone. After what she's seen, she's in no state to do much else.

Dad's alive though! He pops in and they reunite about as sweetly as these weirdos can be expected to.

Iqelis still wants to see the end of Yudaiel. Ea Nebel advises him to calm down just a little bit before his attention turns to the Monarch, whom Iqelis also wants to see the end of, possibly even more so! He's pretty worked up about this punishment they have to sit through together.

Then they set off for the business of the trial.

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

gonna start adding goth outfits to ea nebel's character sheet post lmao all my targeted ads are women's jackets and whale watching tours

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

Somewhere in Bjarskaland...

The rivers flowed, the winds blew. Wolves howled, reeds grew, the old 'uns passed away, new kits were born. Things went well, by and large. The Bjorks in the north navigated the currents of many gods in their native land, and in the south, the Bjarska simply shrugged and lived another day. In the decades that passed, a neutral observer might have noticed a peculiar difference between the two: Bjorks fought when times were tough. Biarsks fought when there was plenty.

"HAAARGH!"

Grotnip reeled back from the blow, already winding up his strong arm, and slashed his claw across Kmak's face like a fistful of blades.

Let's take a moment to see how things came to this.

---

"It's my bloody creek and it's my bloody stone! Everything south of the marker post belongs to the Western Lubov!"

"You MOVED the fecking post!"

"I moved it BACK! You moved it all the way past the second willow!"

"What? From where I'm standing, that's the third willow! Count 'em, you shit-brained maggot rat!"

Rolling her eyes high up into Heaven, Yek dragged her hands down her face and begged the Singing Maker to come and smite both men. She stamped down on her husband's tail to get his attention, and he yelped. "Grotnip! Quit your jabbering! Get back in the lodge right now before Toka gives birth with no-one but a rockslave to help her!" Actually, she realised, maybe Toka would prefer if she just went home and left them here.

"Shut your stinking gob, woman!" Grotnip pulled his long tail away with his hands and pointed in her face. "This isn't lodge business, this is men's business! You have no say here! It's the law!" Yek had no answer to that.

"The law?" Kmak had not forgotten their quarrel for a moment. "Let me tell you what's in the law, you sneaking old creep! This slave-rock was in my half of the brook, which makes it mine!"

"Well, I've seen where you dug it up, and it's on my side of the damn post!"

"YOU MOVED THE FECKING POST!"

The two bjarska continued to scream insults and accusations over the large pebble until Kmak abruptly picked it up and hit him with it.

Grotnip roared, and so their fight began: rolling in grass, in mud, into the creek splashing and tumbling every which way, digging nails into one another's pelt, sinking their stained teeth deep into shoulders. It was over in seconds. Kmak rolled his enemy's skull onto a river-rock; it connected with a bang and he went still. Blood trailed down the clean shallow water.

Yek yelped, clutching her hands to her mouth and splashing down to her spouse. "You bastard! That was my favourite husband!"

Kmak said nothing, gasping and groaning as he clutched his deep wound. Yek backhanded him with her work-hardened knuckles.

"You know the law! You killed my husband, now you replace him!" Kmak gave her a dazed and a pained stare. "Swear it! Swear it right now!"

"I swear," said Kmak, raising his paw, "by the Maker of lake and sea, and may the Sun-Headed Giant bear witness from his hill, that I have done you wrong, Yek of Svietla. I beg for thy mercy, and I grovel before thee, I relinquish my lodge, and I offer myself as the lowest of thy husbands."

There was a quiet pause as they both regained their breath. Something small swished the grass. Yek looked up and saw the pebble-headed earthenslave approach them. "My god, she really is giving birth. Damn you. You killed her only husband," she said, fretting with her hands. "Orphaned on the day they were born."

A noise in the brook. They turned and stared. Grotnip lay there on his back, eyes closed. His chest was heaving.

"I'm! Not! Dead!"

Yek threw a clod of mud at him. Kmak turned to Yek and roared, but the words could not be unspoken. "YOU! YOU TRICKED ME!"

"YOU SHOULD HAVE MADE SURE THE BASTARD WAS DEAD!" She scratched the sides of her face, groaning audibly. "Now I have three bloody husbands to deal with! Three! Shit!"

The two bjarska continued to fight with words only, as was proper between manbiarsk and wifebiarsk. Grotnip rolled and tried to at least get on all fours.

"Oh. Look, a slave-rock."

Dizzy from the head-blow and woozy from all the blood he'd lost, Grotnip yanked from the mud the stone he'd fallen on, a big gleaming pebble perfect for carving. The crude stick-and-bone golem on the riverbank watched with stupid interest. Then it turned and tottered back to the reedy mud-heap that was their lodge, where its mistress lay curled up by a little fire stoked by her brother-in-law.

Toka gave birth to eight healthy kits, and life went on.

---

rodent posting

We check in on the Bjarska. They're doing just fine.

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

Ea Nebel

Ea Nebel flicked her long scarf out of her face and its tail flew off to one side, the Monarch's colours snapping in the wind like a banner. It was curious just how windy the innards of this wreck could get. A hot metal shell, seized in place, played many tricks with the desert air; here cool, here windy, here stifling and dry and full of dust. She cocked her slurbow with a windlass and shot her grappling hook up onto a high ledge, across a wide gap that had probably been a colossal hip socket.

Tug, tug. Firm enough to shimmy her way up. She hauled herself up the rope with her gear, out of the dead machine's femur and into its lower body.

Astus was everywhere here- his materials, his notes, his greasy handprints. It was quite galling. Ea Nebel had forced herself to enter by a maintenance port on the heel only after much stomping about and muttering on the cool night sand outside. 'So long as you bear no hate in your heart...' Well! She felt entitled to be a bit miffed, and her outburst, frankly, had been far too composed.

Well. What was done was done. She'd said all she needed to say. No time to bear grudges. She would work through her feelings on the Astus incident here, now, and leave them behind in the sand. She had every intention to be worthy of her grandfather's gift, no matter how...

...

...Garish. Besides, Ea Nebel was planning to build a house, and it is very bad luck to draw the shape of a house with a heart full of anger. She did not want to be reminded of this episode by the walls of her own home.

She thought all this as she walked down some kind of hydraulic chute, dragging the Doomclaw along its metal wall, its new ivory hilt snug in her gloved fist. It left a ghastly metallic screech and a gash as tall as she was, rusted to powder. Then she conjured a spiked club and buried it in every control panel she passed.

"Oh what's this?"

Treasure! Ea Nebel dropped her club and it dissolved unnoticed, her fury lost in the fun. Something shiny in a delicate socket. She pulled off her glove- her otherworldly scarf, always exactly as vivid as it was in direct sunlight, somehow did not provide any illumination whatsoever. A white flame danced on her fingertip, and there it gleamed: a bright golden ring, set with a heart of jade that glowed soft and green, like the Monarch's own throne.

"A gift!"

She slipped it on, watching glyphs of her own divine will fade in and out of the air around her fingers as she did. It was the perfect size for a woman's hand. Ea Nebel extinguished the light and rotated her wrists together, watching it glow opposite the blood diamond on her other hand.

"You really are too good to me, Voligan..."

---

Groi-groiiii.

The demigoddess didn't move. The Iron Boar scraped the dust vigorously with both its forelegs, but still, no sign that she had heard- still crouched over on knees and elbows, head stuck under a scraggly bush. This was improper. Scrounging in the dirt was his job, and he did it much better, anyway. The giant hog sniffed and wandered off.

Ea Nebel rested her chin firmly in her hands and watched the scene under the twigs with big-eyed fascination. What a cute bug!

It was a wasp. Not a hornet or a yellowjacket or some other stinger-happy eusocialite with an obnoxious sweet tooth. A proper wasp, built like a bull-ant, with spindly splayed legs and a narrow body, marked here and there with the most brilliant orange. Even the wings were tinted. And a big wasp, at that. It marched staunchly on over the gritty, twiggy sand, dragging with it a twitching huntsman spider bigger than Nebel's palm. What a splendid insect!

She reached out slowly with her pointing finger, and it dropped its catch immediately, scurrying and buzzing back and forth around it in angry semicircles. She withdrew her hand and it went back to its business. She summoned the Monarch's scarf onto her neck (she couldn't wear it all the time, good heavens) and held it with her other hand. This time, the wasp let her stroke its wing.

It was a mud-dauber, she learned. A gravid female.

Ea Nebel had no desire to be interrupted while she built her house, especially with another massacre, so she wandered the earth seeking a fitting slave to help her intern bodies in her absence. Her delightful babiruša pigs were more than willing to help, were it not unforgivably lazy to leave any cadaver in her care to a shallow dirt grave dug by swine. As for the hagfish... she was surprised they even left bones. Very clean bones.

But the mudwasp was perfect!

She tapped the busy mother gently on the thorax and a stiff, rubbery clone fell out of her. Ea Nebel pulled it into the sun and left the wasp to her work. She wasn't sure quite what god or goddess had built such an exquisite animal. The life mother, Phelenia? Whatever. She drew a wide magic circle around the effigy, clapped her hands, pulled them apart, and enlarged it to the size of a coyote.

When Ea Nebel was finished her happy little dance around the sunny circle, the tombwasp's front feet had turned white, like gloves, and everything else about it was black. Even the wings neatly folded over its back were black, with a faint bluish iridescence, like rock-oil. She ducked back under the bush to see what the mudwasp was up to. The spider was gone, encased in a neat clay sarcophagus, like a pot, to which the mother was constructing a lid. All done! Just like me!

She tapped the tombwasp's forehead twice and one soul flew into each of its colourless eyes, lighting them up with a pale blue glow. It whirred its wings and pattered about, taking in the world with its huge eyes.

"The second soul is gratis, but you'll only be able to make one for each of your eggs. You'll have to find more for your babies. Only intelligent souls will do. Your soul is feeding you with mana right now, see, and only mortal souls accumulate enough of it. If you find a body out in the open, you can use it to summon one into your egg from... wherever they go. Am I clear?"

The tombwasp spread its wings and whirred off over the plain. The deva laughed. She wasn't worried. She'd let the giant insect keep its sting- she was of the thought that more weaponry was always better- after she'd given it an aversion to the taste of blood. That would keep it away from living targets, and leave the blood-marked Eidolon to sleep undisturbed under their shrouds.

The tired mudwasp mother buzzed away to find a meal. Ea Nebel still wasn't sure which god had designed such an elegant animal. Tuku Llantu, maybe? Perhaps Uncle Jiugui had dreamt it up in a fit of poetry and booze.

---

based on my real encounters with mud dauber wasps

The Monarch told Ea Nebel that the beast-calming shawl (now scarf) wouldn't work if she had hate in her heart, so she dutifully works through her remaining anger at Astus by exploring the dead colossus and trashing its insides a bit. This works great and she is even rewarded with a magical runic ring! It doesn't do too much for her, but makes some unlucky dwarf's job more interesting.

Cut to a scene where she reveals herself to be an insect loving gremlin girl, to the embarrassment of the Iron Boar. She finds a potter wasp and thinks it's the coolest animal ever for burying its prey in clay capsules for its young.

Inspired, she creates a huge, gothic wasp species that lives at least partly on accumulated mana harvested from a dead soul. Born with one soul, a young tombwasp is provided with a second, mana-rich mortal soul by hatching in a simple clay sarcophagus built around an abandoned cadaver or skeleton. This ritual summons the soul of the lost corpse out of the afterlife and into the tombwasp, released again when the mana runs out and the tombwasp dies. Tombwasps are averse to blood, which keeps them from trying to entomb live mortals. We hope.

Otherwise, tombwasps are quick and can bite or sting, but aren't especially smart or sturdy. Their venom is a powerful paralytic that can easily kill the old or sick by impairing their lungs, like some snakes. They will occasionally eat any animal that isn't red-blooded, and live long lives to compensate for the rarity of their breeding fodder.

Ea Nebel can't seem to figure out who made the original animal, but we readers know better, don't we? Happy Yesaris week!

9 Vigour start.
1 Vigour spent creating tombwasps, a moderately extraordinary species. Demi-aspect action.
8 Vigour remains.

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

_ROSALIND

_{RAGING ROSA | THE DANCE-DEMON | FEVERFOOT | LEAPING LINDA}

Mamang.

XVIII

In the calm and even seas, Rosalind the Feverfoot rowed her boat. The sun shone gently and skies were blue, and a joyous breeze played with her hair of twilight as the salty fragrance - for she loved it! - tickled her small browned nose. Her oar disappeared into the waters - the liquid parting, dancing, laughing around it - and the boat moved that little bit more towards its destination, carried by the bobbing waves. All had been peace since her encounter with the Exile.

From time to time, when the trembling of her feet became nearly overwhelming, she stood up in the boat and allowed herself - with no small amount of fear - to dance gently there. She danced like shy waves and gentle skies. She danced like a beaming sun and leaping rays. She danced like little joys and innocence, like the forgetting of past wrongs and pain. She danced like sweet, little joys.

It did not satiate the fever in her feet, but it was enough to keep the terrifying conflagration of fevered dancing - that uncontrollable and destructive motion - sleeping, simmering, for a while. She danced a little, she rowed a little, she beheld the liquid carpet around her and the great blue one above. She counted stars and sighed for starlight - wondered how the great blue carpet of the heavens turned to darkness and the one that flowed about her turned to blackness in the night.

Any other person, perhaps, would have found the whole thing frightening - all alone upon the ocean with naught but a boat and her clothes. But Rosalind rather liked it. Here, alone, away from others, she was a danger to no one - she could dance her little dances, little dances of sweet joys, and cause no pain to another or herself be brought to pain. Here there was no great risk that some sudden change would so astound her that her feet - without any warning - would leap up and start their dancing, start that motion of horror, movements rippling, darting, piercing. Cadence of her ancient terror.

No, here there was peace. And beyond here was the cold head of Galbar and her cure. All, she sighed with joy to know, was going to be well.

_mahm

The sound had never really not been there, but suddenly she heard- or rather, felt- or rather, even, lived it. It rumbled through the water, the air, the world - and more than anything, it rumbled through her being.

_{mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mmahng}

It was not an unfamiliar sound by any means, and it was not an unwelcome one either. She glanced about, trying to find the source of the sound somewhere on the waters, in the heavens.

_{pfsht! pfwush!}

In the waters.

mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm...

Her head turned from side to side and her eyes darted. And then she leaned over, her bangles jangling and her tresses falling and flying as the waves grew more tempestuous and the boat was rocked and tested.

And then there it was, a shadow below her, a shadow all around her, a cloud in the ocean whose shape could not be mistaken. So close was the whale, so vast, that she could hear the voice in its throat even through the air, almost a bark, almost a chirrup, slow and impossibly deep. The whale itself was barely an arm’s length below her. Rosalind could see the faded markings of its skin. Its gentlest motion rocked the boat above, like a feather in light breeze.

She gave off a small squeak of sudden fear, a rational moment amidst emotions of awe and wonder - and no sooner had the sound left her mouth then her feet were trembling beneath, tapping tapping tapping tapping. She turned to them in sudden horror, glanced again at the rising shadow, rose to her feet and tried to dance, but only stumbled, tripped and fell down - jangling, rustling, crying out in shocked frustration. All about the waves were rising, rising rising with the shadow.

And then the waves ceased, for there was no more water. The boat heaved once and then rocked no more. It had settled, though there was no beach or shore, and around her was a little island, smooth and black and glistening, adorned with neither sand nor stone.

PFASHT!

Hot steam erupted from the whale’s blowhole. The plume, tall and straight as a pine, was swiftly dispersed on the sea breeze, washing away the potent stench of seafood. It did not dive. It basked there in the merry sun, carrying along Rosalind’s boat as though it were a pebble, its massive tail swirling the water behind at a sleepy pace.

The goddess righted herself and rose to behold the view. Not many could say - no one at all, perhaps - that they had ever been on a boat, on a whale, on the sea. She trembled and her feet - they had her now! - carried her off the little wooden structure and onto the whale’s leathery back. Her feet curled at the odd sensation of life, enormous life, beneath her.

It was only a second of stillness, however, before she leapt - gasped - and paused. Then tip-tapped forward - swiftly - skin of foot on skin of back, then paused. Then twirled to the jangle of bracelets and the breathing of her great skirt, then paused. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying - her feet were light and loose, her torso tensed with fear. And then she darted forward and, with a sweeping pirouette, disappeared - spinning, shrinking, evaporating - down the blowhole of the whale.

All was quiet on the surface of the waters. The whale flared its blowhole briefly, spouted a confused puff of steam from its itching nostrils, then closed the hole, arched its body downwards, and dived, thoughtlessly flicking the empty boat with its tail.

And then there was no longer any sign of either of them.

XIX

Now, the normal order of business for any creature’s trip through the interior of a whale is rather replete with introductions to numerous coatings of saliva and various kinds of gastric juices. Even those who take the somewhat odd route starting with the blowhole can expect a rather pungent welcome followed by swift eviction (or, failing that, they will be swiftly booked in for a one-off introductory session with contracting muscles pulverising one’s form from all directions).

Rosalind, however, did not suffer any of that. While no one has (yet) come to truly understand how or why she suddenly shrank, vapourised and found herself flushed down the whale’s blowhole, it was not an experience that she would very soon (or ever) forget. And, indeed, these matters should not be overly studied; one should rather rest in the foreknowledge that such inexplicable oddities are bound to happen from time to time and are of the many peculiarities that make the world so exciting, wonderful, and (for Rosalind) terrifying.

It was made truly unforgettable - as I, being intimately familiar with Rosalind’s history, can conjecture - by the faint but conspicuous sprinklings of Yudaiel that lay scattered all across the Feverfoot’s physical and metaphysical being. As the Feverfoot moved and feverishly rippled through the whale,^[1] the scatterings of Yudaiel within her made it so she did not just see and feel the whale, but for a time there she was the whale; that was her motion on the currents, that her skin against the waters, that her sight and those - those her memories.^[2]

The first thing that Rosalind saw in the whale was, in fact, the beginning of memory.^[3] Out of the darkness of forgetfulness the whale rose so that for a time it danced and sang alongside its mother, but then - before it was full-grown even - it boldly struck out alone. This was the flame of youth and lust for adventure, and as the whale swam - being then the singular light gliding through the darkness of forgetting - it sang out night after night, in sunlight and in moon: mmam, mmang. mmam, mmang. mmam, mmam, mmam, mmam, mmam, mmam…

Its throat had voiced this sound long ago, but only at that moment - as the Feverfoot comprehended it and motioned it - he comprehended it and understood it. Mmammmang, Mammang, Mamang; it was his name. It had always been his name. He had always known it was his name - his fin, his tail, his eye, his lips; all had known that to be their name.

The Feverfoot shifted, rippled, and continued seeing and becoming. She saw, as he saw, the curiosity that was the hole in the ocean, and the death it promised - the curiosity that was the Exile in the boat, and the death it promised. Knowledge - experience - not sin, was the natural death of innocence and the birth of fear. And fear was a good, loyal, watchful friend; this wisdom Rosalind had learned; this wisdom, too, was Mamang’s.

There, in the mind and memory of the whale, were the words of gods. How they had lodged themselves in there is another of those peculiarities of the world - words from the Moon, words from the Apostate, and, clearest of all, words from Ruina, speaking of Iqelis, words of war and warning.

Fellow divines,
this is Ruina.
I come bearing
news which I find
important. A
god named Iqe-
lis sought to a-
ttempt to domin-
ate my plans, and
likely intends
to try and dom
inate more giv-
en time. I do
not trust them, and
I would advise
caution in dea-
ling with them. Yu-
daiel, your moon
is spared from its
test for now. I
will not be a
pawn in the games
of another.

Free from woe now - made less innocent, true, but joyous once again far from the island of air - Rosamamang^[4] chased the calls of friends in shallower waters, pushed past the surface and beheld the moon and far horizons. It was not curiosity this time, but lack of caution - the great explosion of the Eye (he had known it was the Eye even then, he knew it more so now, Yudaiel the Eye, Yudaiel the Eye) had punctured his ear and burned up his face. He watched the red goddess dance and sing in the aftermath, and he thought - and he had not thought it back then, but he thought it with the Feverfoot who thought it now - that it was right and good to dance for the dead. All who died deserved a final death dance.

It was lonely for a time then, lonely to return to the waters of childhood and neither hear the song of his mother nor feel youthful purity and cleanliness. He drifted, in a stupor, past the deathsong of orcas which, when last he tasted these waters, would have sent him fleeing into the protective under-fin of his mother. Of no danger were they to him now. But sick at heart, sick in form was he, burdened and unclean, liced and wormed was he. And so the memory of that strange ice spirit was sweet on Rosamamang’s mind, and he lingered on it as it cleansed and purified his form and in his heart - and he had never conceived this thing until now, never until the Feverfoot conceived it, moved it in his heart and mind - he was grateful. He had never quite realised that he felt, either, but now his eye seemed to gaze on his inner self even as the Feverfoot gazed, and he beheld emotion.

He watched then, as Rosalind saw, how he waxed mighty, how he challenged the greatest bulls, how in the battle season he could have, had he so wished, thrown himself into the company of his kind - company, mind you, for which he yearned - and still withdrew. He was older now, it was true, he had been gnawed at by the tooth of experience and had been burned by fear, but his wanderlust was greater still than the company for which he yearned. And so he threw himself eastward and greeted those friendly but distant eastern whales - for they were not of his kind. So southward he threw himself, did the whale, crossed into the strange shade of heaven before turning tail to flee from it in the company of that loyal friend, fear. Then, calmed by the call of one of its kinsmen, it crossed again with the certainty that there was nothing here to fear.

Amongst the dwarf rorquals of the south it wandered for a time, those little ones living forever, over and over, the calf’s fear of the orca and drowning - distant fears for Mamang, far off fears for that wandering whale. It travelled southward still, to waters that no whale wandered, putrid waters of green death - and he had never known green to be anything but life! Through pain and anger he beat his form, listened to the stationary song of whales in the farthest south (though how could they be whales? What whale sang such stillness?) He swam through that pain, swam through the death of his layers of skin and all that lived on it, till he came to the churning malice that painted the water with unlife.

It was not fear that caused him to turn away then, sick and starving though he was and with much reason to fear. Perhaps it was caution, for that was something his wandering - the loss of his ear - had taught him. Perhaps, having gained that wisdom, he turned away for purer waters where his skin was healed and he could feed and wander among the living and so return to life. He travelled back to familiar shores and his song, song of the world-wanderer, beat back every brazen bachelor when summer and the call of mates was nigh.

He stayed, then, with his kind for a time - and his place was one of honour, world-wanderer that he was! - so that when the red goddess (that is, gentle reader, Homura) passed by with her giants walking unnaturally through the water, Mamang won the feast while the others chased the giant legs. These were sorcerous seas, Mamang knew and Rosalind now knew too; they were lucky indeed who had only stumbled on a murderous Exile or fallen down the blowhole of a whale. They were lucky, also, though not as lucky, who had crossed the Royal hound - and Mamang knew then, as Rosalind motioned, that the Royalty above the hound was the Monarch. And Rosalind’s motion was fear - for the Monarch was fear, just as his hound was fear. Those who had survived the hound were as lucky as those who had survived its master.

And luck was an odd thing, Rosalind - and Mamang, too - had learned. Luck was like those little furred things drifting - dying - on wood in the middle of the ocean, preyed on by the weathers and sharks. He had circled them, watched them, and returned after feeding. He had heard their song and cry, felt their distress, and perhaps the paternal instinct in him had bid him stay and protect. Odd things with great flat tails - except one, whose tail and manner differed from the others. Still, he saw them to safety, those distressed calves of the dry places.

And once he had done so, he went a-wandering - for he was the incarnation of the wanderlust - and watched odd creatures that had (very suddenly, oh so sorcerously!) emerged. He ate of the godfish, glutted his hunger and felt power and vitality rush through him as had never done so before - not even at the height of his youth. But it was only for a short while; in the wake of the godfish came others. He had seen the dancerfish before, eaten his fill of them even, but never these laektears.

While their coming spelled the end of the age of plenty and the dawn of the age of fear, this here too was a wisdom - even in the manner godfish preyed on laektear as laektear preyed on godfish. All things were restored to balance - and they, the tribe of the whales, were now also restored to balance. They would still wander, but now the fear of the calf years would be a lifelong fear. In his heart Rosamamang wept that this should be, but knew, then, that these godfish, these laektears, were to whales as bangles on the wrists of a goddess wildly dancing the end of all things.

And it was only right that he should know - for had they not swum together, and were they not swimming even now, beneath a clouded sky and within a bloody sea in which even the imperial Sun Himself had been humbled? Of smoke-filled trenches the lady within Rosamamang knew little, and of gods the whale knew only dance. But he had tasted the burning ichor. He had smelled the iron and the hatred. That fog was dispersing now, as they travelled, their united wisdom whispering clues of a mystery best left in the depths.

So, as their single vision turned at last to the moments they were living, the movement that was Rosalind formed up and greeted the whale - a strange greeting from one to oneself, for they were one another though they had never met.

Mmang, said the whale. He said it to himself, as much as he said it to all things in creation, to every fish^[5], and even to the curious dance that had taken seat inside him. It was all he ever said. It was all he would ever need to say.

So he said it with love.

And love was as novel to the goddess-motion as it was to the whale, and as it dawned on both of them it coloured - in one momentous instant - the entirety of their lives. Love danced in those far-off memories of mother and son, cow and calf; it danced in the jangling of red-gold bangles; it danced in the lust for new waters, new sights, new sounds; it danced in the soft forgiveness of an Eye; it danced in the anger towards sorcerous things spewing green unlife; it danced in a dreamborn boat; it danced in a stranger spirit’s cleansing of a stranger whale’s skin; it danced in the breaking form, the furious gaze, the rocky smile, of an earthy god; it danced in the mind and body of a whale in whose motions moved a god.

The goddess moving in the fin moving in the sea moved differently after the discovery of love. The whale flowing in the waters flowing in the great valleys of the world flowed differently after the discovery of love. The change within was clear in their cadence, and it was clear on all things. The currents of after-love were not the currents of before-love and the fishes and orcas and- all things of before-love were not those of after-love. It was impossible to know whether the change was simply in their mind or in their dance or in everything - difficult to know if mere knowledge had changed their motions so, had changed the world so.

Trembling feverishly and filled with wonder, the Feverfoot within the whale drew itself in and curled up on itself again and again until - still curling, still turning, still spinning further and further into itself and the whale - it nestled deep inside the great, broad, expansive heart of Mamang. And by all things, was he a big-hearted whale! There was space enough for an entire god in there - and, though none need believe the claim, there was space enough for even the world in there.

In this way nestled - the Feverfoot nestled in the Feverfoot and Mamang nestled in Mamang and whale and god, made one, nestled one in the other - there descended on them a quite different vision. It was not one of the past, for they had encompassed their now-shared past in knowledge and experience. It was rather a vision of death - a vision, that is, of the future.

Some may think it quite convenient to sit and write past prophecies of things which, to us now, are merely history. It is all too easy to sit and declare: ah, but so-and-so predicted that we would sit and speak of just this matter; or so-and-so predicted that past victory or that past defeat or that past birth. But if it is not sufficient enough for the critical reader that this is near enough to a primary account as we can have, then I do not know what manner of evidence will suffice.

So it was a prophecy of death. Now, the certainty of death is known to all, but it was a source of especial consternation to the Feverfoot in the whale - who, I should remind the reader, had only moments before learned and been awed by the idea of love. Whether she realised it or whether she did not, Rosalind pulsed then within the heart of the whale, bubbled and rippled - and was carried away, quite unawares, with the flowing hot blood of that giant. She became that flow, that movement, that cadence; she became the dance of blood through arteries of back, of stomach, of tail, of fin, of mouth, by blubber. The flow of bluest blood she was through veins returning, rising, gushing, flowing past capillaries, reddening, brightening, laughing. She was the movement of air from bluest blood, through thinnest walls, into the greatest of all lungs. And even as she was gathered up inside the lungs of Mamang, something of her remained - in his heart, in those arteries and veins, dancing in his fins, in that tail, flowing endlessly, moving ceaselessly, gyring tirelessly; the deathless dance that was Mamang.

XX

PFASHT!

The back of the whale broke the wind-stirred water’s surface with barely a ripple. His flukes dipped back down under the surface with only a little splash. The season had been cold, then warm, then cool again. Now they were in the northern havens once more, and Mamang could only lift his head and spy the far peak of that friendly island, from which little things with little feet would crawl into the ocean to listen to him. And now they could watch, too. The Rosamamang dance is a splendid storied dance- isn’t it?

PHWUSH!

Another tall plume of steam blew away on the crisp wind. The whale-and-god approached a shore, where white birds wheeled and squawked their boundary-song between the land and sea. Their story now had swirled together like the waters of two oceans, and somewhere in its verses, written into Rosamamang’s blood and lungs and all over the secret folds of their singing throat, was an ending.

The dance of the dancers grew in the whale’s muscles, one final trembling tension, and he lay there in the shallows, a great and perfect silhouette, holding the final pose, and then- he breached with all his might.

For a single timeless moment, they were a white fountain of sun and whale, visible from horizon to horizon.

When they fell at last, the sound was heard for miles, and waves swamped the shore as though whipped by a gale. Mamang lay in the waters, sinking, exhausted, and completely relaxed, as the curtain of seafoam fell on him, his last bow taken, his marathon run. He stirred his tail, and his tired head peeked once more above the shallow waters. And when he caught his breath-

PFWOOSH!

And Rosalind was there under his plume, veiled by fog, obscured by a rainbow. Her hair of dusk unrolled first, like a great tapestry across the heavens. Then her spiralling skirt of velvet turned in the air blow it, followed in swift succession by the rest of the goddess. Her bangles were the very last to form about her wrists, and as they did so a single bracelet of red and gold formed about Mamang’s caudal peduncle. The goddess beamed down at him for brief moments, and then she was carried off on a breeze - light as a feather, flowing like air - and had soon disappeared to that northward isle. Disappeared, that was, except for the trail of sprawling onyx strands she left behind, which stretched endlessly upward, southward, eastward, seemed almost like another layer of sky. They danced there, for a short while, with the weak northern sun rays, shivered and trembled for brief moments against the sky, and then snapped away - like a spritely young tree held down by some mischievous rascal, only to be suddenly released - to disappear after the goddess who was motion.

A wrinkled eye watched them go, and disappeared once more into the blue. He was not one for long goodbyes.

Mahm, mmang. Mahm, mmang. Mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm…

NOTES:

[1] I would here beg forgiveness for the inaccuracy of these terms, for it is evidently quite preposterous to speak of pure motion as moving, but here we crash and break against the limits of spoken language, which, I should add, is a limitation not suffered by motion. You will likely debate this point, as is the right of any thinking person, so I should like to linger on it, if but for a moment, to demonstrate the truth of my claim.

Motion, if we consider that motion can convey meaning and so can also be language, is by its very nature more accurate and succinct than spoken language. Consider that the speech required to convey anger can go on for minutes or even hours, while one motion - say, a good slap or a punch, or a throat-slitting gesture (in the case of anthropoids at least) - will quite often suffice. So too in the case of other meanings - a smile or laugh conveys faster than speech ever could one’s joy, a frown one’s sadness or confusion, a flinch that one is startled, and on and on. And this is not to speak of complex dancing motions of the sort that whales or laektears, or that gods like Homura for instance, often partake in.

So when one is forced to speak of ‘movement’ having ‘movement’ and ‘motion’ having ‘motion’ - for the Feverfoot in the whale was pure motion, you understand? - that is not to be understood literally but as an unavoidable artifice of language. The Feverfoot did not move through the whale, the Feverfoot was motion, and so to say ‘Feverfoot’ is no different to saying ‘motion’. Therefore, a sentence like ‘the Feverfoot moved through the whale’ is as superfluous as saying ‘the motion motioned’ or ‘the movement moved’ or ‘the gesture gestured.’ I will be forgiven, however, if by virtue of the syntax of language (which demands that nouns not at once be verbs) I continue ascribing verbs to the noun-verb that is the Feverfoot.

[2] Now the exact nature of that experience, I cannot capture for you - and if I did attempt it, it would be a garbled mess of meaninglessness - so you must understand, before you continue, that what follows is the fruit of aeons of tireless analysis, and that analysis has given forth an interpretation. It is an interpretation limited, necessarily, by the mode by which I must communicate it. It must also be understood that not only is this an interpretation, but it is an interpretation of a translation - for it is impossible to capture the pristine original (that is, pure experience) and present it to the reader. No, experience first had to be translated into words, and those words - garbled as they were - had to be analysed, and so was born this interpretation. I have endeavoured to keep it succinct and focused - and I am not unaware that much may be lost by this methodology (indeed, the Feverfoot is defined by a distinct lack of clarity or focus so that writing of her in such a way may give the illusion of purpose or intention where really there is none). As the first to bring these matters to light, I consider my primary duty the conveyance of knowledge, and I leave it to those who take up the mantle in the wake of these revelations to turn to the nobler purposes of bettering and furthering our understanding of the true essence and nature of these experiences.

[3] Note that these memories, at that exact moment, became Rosalind’s own, so that she was in fact there when they first occurred - by means of memory having become the whale. In that manner, and that being established, this was not truly the first time she saw those memories.

[4]Some may object to this usage, but I assure the gentle reader that this is a very accurate usage, for Rosalind-the-Motion and Mamang-the-Whale are, as I translate and interpret the experience here relayed, one. This being, both Rosalind and Mamang, I refer to as Rosamamang. Of course, this begs the question of whether a being, once merged with another and turned into something new, can ever revert to its prior form. This is a question worth studying, and I believe there is a case for an answer in the negative as far as Rosalind the Feverfoot is concerned. As for the whale Mamang, I cannot speak of him with any confidence as I have not had an opportunity to study the record - if a record of this remains at all. If he is an intelligent being, however, and there is a case, I believe, for the intelligence - if not in the conventional sense - of Mamang, then I would conjecture that a merging of this nature would have likely left a permanent mark on him.

[5] Yes, even them.

• Summary

  Row, row, row your boat! Rosa rows her rowboat rosily 'round. Everything is fine and peaceful at sea. She handles the isolation well, and she can even dance in the boat.
  
  Then all of a sudden, what's this? The sound of a whale!
  
  Mamang lifts up her boat... intentionally? who knows. Rosalind's fever catches her by the feet and she starts tap-tap-tapping her way across the whale's whole back, until, with a hop, a skip and a jump, she falls right down his blowhole.
  
  Somehow, Rosa is inhaled. Yudaiel's influence on her essence contributes to her evaporating and merging with Mamang as a being of pure motion, united by dance- Rosamamang.
  
  One by one, the Rosalind within the united being revisits the memories of the now rather storied and ancient whale. She listens to his memories of singing, and the two of them discover- though, of course, they had known it all along- that the song is Mamang's name.
  
  We even see some hints of memories that have gone unposted: the whale is aware of the presence and absence of the Pariah, and has heard the shouting of Apostate and Yudaiel.
  
  Finally Rosa catches up to the present moment she is experiencing as Rosamamang, and they 'greet' one another. She listens to the whale sing and learns that he is singing with a big-hearted love, which they both learn about together. The discovery of love induces a subtle change in the whale, in his future and in everything he touches.
  
  Rosa curls up warm and cosy inside Mamang (who is in turn curled up warm and cosy inside Rosa's dance), and, while she is washed back and forth in Mamang's blood, she experiences an untold vision of the whale's death. Her dance and movement unites with the motion of Mamang's heart and blood, in a way that will remain long after that blood has ceased to flow.
  
  Rosamamang surfaces somewhere around the Academy as Rosa builds up in Mamang's lungs. About a year has passed. Their dance comes to an end off the coast of the Thousand Lakes, and Rosa leaves Mamang in a spout, insofar as either of them can ever truly leave the other. A matching bangle forms around his tail, and then she is blown away on the wind.
  
  4,236 whale points danced into being by the power of love.
  
  Total whale points: 15,233
• Vigour

  Rosalind:
  

  Starting: 17 Vigour
  4 Vigour [Reduced to 2 by Dance]: Mamang, soulless, now possesses an essence of pure motion. It is not a soul, it is pure movement - dance. Should he ever die, this force will be released unto Galbar and will be able to completely reshape any region of his choosing into one of absurd cadence - dancing hills, sands, rocks, winds etc. While he will thus be a phenomenon - akin to an aurora for instance - in this state Mamang will still be able, on occasion perhaps, to exhibit what is arguably a consciousness.
  
  1 Vigour [Reduced to 0 by Dance]: Bless Mamang’s form and movements so that he swims in complete harmony with the currents of the ocean, is more agile and moves with even greater beauty, speed, and finesse.
  
  1 Vigour: Enhance Mamang’s functioning senses - his good ear, his sight, his sense of smell and taste (which tend to be rather weak in normal whales) and his echolocation sense silly Kho, only sperm whales have that!
  
  2 Vigour [Enhanced by Dance]: Transform one of Rosalind’s bracelets into the Band of the Love Dance, presently worn on Mamang’s caudal peduncle tail. It changes size as necessary for the wearer. This enables the wearer to dance in such a manner as to inspire feelings of love - in its broadest sense - in all who look upon it. This can range from simply remembering things which should engender feelings of love - e.g. a loved family member, a beautiful scene - to bringing about feelings of love, from the brotherly, to the protective, to the romantic.
  
  2 Vigour [Enhanced by Dance]: Retrospective payment for bracelet Rosalind gifted to Voligan. Transform one of Rosalind’s bracelets into the Band of the Guardian Dance. It changes size as necessary for the wearer. This band enables the wearer to execute a defensive martial dance, countering the strikes and agiley warding off anyone exhibiting aggression or hostility towards individuals or things the band-wearer deems worth protecting. Onlookers, even non-sapient or inanimate things, may also be drawn into the power of the dance and so form up to likewise protect whatever the wearer is protecting.
  
  Remaining: 10 Vigour

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

Ea Nebel

Her hat did nothing to guard her from the heat. The sun was hot, the air was hotter, and the ash under her sandals still smouldered with fire. Ea Nebel clothed herself in the loose, simple dress and covers of a working woman and wandered that broken place, steadying her feet with her shovel.

Something under dust and ash had once been a feminine shape. She crouched beside it. When she wiped the layer of ash from its surface, it gleamed. "Your name was Carer," she said. "You came to a horrible end. There's not much I can do for you. But I'll put you with the ones you cared for. You deserve it."

The ones she had cared for were now mostly charcoal.

Immortals and mortals were a troublesome mix. Salt and water, made for one another, inseparable, until the ephemeral water dried away and left only eternal salt, thirsting yet again for its touch. Or perhaps gods were like lye, warming any water it dissolved in, sometimes even boiling it away... Lye that created many things, lye that burned. Ea Nebel had many days to meditate on this. Many days.

At night she would work.

She girded her loins and buried the Homurans by the towns where they had lived. One site for each town. One grave for each body. So many of them were in pieces that she fashioned round urns for them and incinerated them, that their shattered bones might have some semblance of dignity in the smoothness of powder before she lowered them into the once-fertile earth. The carbonised remains scattered around the town the Apostate had destroyed were given the same treatment.

She found them in the streets. She found them in their houses, where they had lain and fainted, sweating to death, fighting an exhausted battle with the heat- or committed suicide. She found them washed up on the beach. She found them in hiding-places around the country where they had been blown up by drones. She buried them. Then she buried the drones.

She saw more memories than she could have counted, had she not been a god.

Ea Nebel knelt at the top of the little hill-cliff, staring down at the great pile of dronescrap she had dumped at its base. It was the only grave such things wanted, needed, or deserved. She'd learned rather little about the Apostate, who had appeared in smoke and fire to punish the massacre. She had learned a lot about Astus.

Gods had strange natures. Ea Nebel's own father was very far from human. She didn't know how close to the mark she was, herself. Of course mortals would die when they touched with the men of eternity- they were mortal. The god Astus had raised them up with industry and and with industry struck them down again, according to his nature. She could not begrudge him that. The stolen Homurans of Astus, slaughtered for sin, may as well have been blown away by a fickle wind.

And yet, the more bodies she burned, the more bitter memories she retrieved from broken skulls, the more she understood whose sin that was.

'The door! I'm gonna make it, we're gonna make it, it's right there-'

'Polly! Please, Polly, come and find me, Polly...'

'Water, water. I just need... a bit more water.'

'Fuck- Was that-? No, it can't-'

'I won't drown. I won't drown. I won't I won't I won't I...'

'To whoever's listening... Should I not make it back, please take care of my sister.'

Ea Nebel heaped the last spadeful of earth over the place where Carer lay among her people, and threw the shovel down onto the dirt. It was stirred up with her footprints in every direction. Behind her, six-hundred and seven unmarked stones in what had once been a meadow.

"ASTUS!"

A fell wind leapt into life and started to wail, blowing away the working clothes and leaving her once more in her black coat, wide stance, fists clenched beside her.

"I am Ea Nebel, Goddess of the Tomb! Look at the work of my hands, Astus! Listen to the memories I have read! You took up the project of Man and Woman, and you failed!"

A man named White, crushing that which could not bleed, building war-weapons out of mere scrap. Two carriage-drivers racing fine animals across field and ford with such passion that their wheels were sent up to be repaired, again and again. A mother, crafting new life out of nothing but milk and bread. Visions flared behind Ea Nebel's eyes as she spoke the voice of power.

"Idleness and dependence- No weed of vice grew on this island that you had not bred! You cut down the tree that was waiting to be pruned. The industry of these people has been wasted in your fire! I could have done better, Astus! A pauper could have done better!"

The field of urns around her began to rise in a rippling mat of faint light. Hundreds of souls separated from the mass of power, ripped out from the Grey, the Ashen Plains, even the silvered Elysian Fields, flickering like barely-visible warning lights in the searing sky.

"You were lazy, Astus! You insulted me for nothing!"

The gale moaned and whined and spiralled around the center of the island, muffling the stranger and more horrible sound that emanated from the whirling souls, unleashed from death to complete their final task in the realm of the living- sightless, mindless revenge.

Seek a pyre, the deva commanded, and the ghosts did seek it, tunnelling through the earth, through the parched and brittle dead-woods, spiralling, moth-like, in every pond. Some found it. They infested wires, pistons, gears, fatiguing metal, lighting fires, or simply imploding in a violent snap of soul-energy. Seek a pyre, she commanded, so they made one out of every machine and mechanism they could find.

And those that never did- they whirled across the land, hiding, waiting, in their thousands.

Heavy boar-prints appeared in the dust-dry soil. Ea Nebel flicked her coat as the wind died down, and stood on the island no longer.

---

interacting at last

Ea Nebel appears to bury all the Homurans whom Astus killed and just kind of left there on the island. She doesn't care all that much about gods killing mortals, at least not yet, but it's a lot of work and a lot of rather nasty memories for her to record. She contemplates gods and mortals a bit and decides that she completely blames Astus for having created this mess.

When she's done, she reprimands Astus and turns the souls of the dead into thousands of little poltergeist landmines that infest the island. They're pretty mindless, but when they sense a machine nearby, they cause one of a few kinds of damage or malfunction before they promptly expire.

edit: it reads like she was trying to show astus visions before she left, that was just me messing with words, could be interpreted like that if ya want though it's an imagination adventure

6 Vigour start.
1 Vigour spent on harvesting souls to booby-trap the island with. Demigod Graves action, normal price.
5 Vigour remains.

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

Ea Nebel

"Well, well..." The deva wiped a little dirt off the lower side of the otherwise gleaming white skull. "You certainly weren't a lucky one, now, were you?"

The Iron Boar- well, warthog, really- lowered its snout, and Ea Nebel raised the skull that it might have an interested sniff. Here between some rocks on a sunny hill in an unmapped corner of the many forests of Orsus, an animal much like a lanky hairless pig had come to a pitiful end. Ea Nebel watched its memories dance before her eyes as she stroked the bone with her thumb.

Strong, bold, a devoted mother, it had gathered many years of bush-lore, only for its twin upper tusks- fine, shining ivory- to grow so long that their gentle curve had curled them backwards. Their sharp point had first scraped away the skin, then burrowed through the skull, growing further and further into the brain until it collapsed in its last and longest fit of animal epilepsy. O beast, thought the shroud maiden, you have overcome everything, save your own longevity!

She fixed her four eyes on the sockets of the skull, whispering out a divine lullaby from black lips, a sweet little nothing. It came naturally to her. As gently as she sang, the skull cracked and crumbled, falling apart in her hands, leaving only the eyes, and then only the tusks.

From the pile of shards, a young pig squealed at her, grey-skinned and long-legged. Its lower tusks just about poked from its lips. Its uppers were nowhere to be seen. Ea Nebel laughed and pet the thing roughly.

"I like you. Keep an eye on the woods for me, won't you? Your name is babiruš." With that she slapped the pig on its hindquarters and sent it scurrying into the undergrowth. The Iron Boar watched the bracken into which it had disappeared.

Ea Nebel let the tusk roll back and forth in her hand. It was so sun-warmed, so smooth and perfect. Its length was fated- it had grown only until it terminated itself.

"Just like you, Father," she murmured, comparing the length of the tusk to the stone at the hilt of her blade.

---

A pale hand swished left and right over the silty gravel of the kelp forest, sending little puffs of sand into the water.

"Ah. There you are."

Her voice carried cleanly through the blue murk, and she decided that she rather liked this body, which was much like her natural one, long black tail notwithstanding. She wrenched from the mud a skull, also like hers, only fitted with exactly two eye-sockets, no more than that. "...Until you, they did not know they could die. No wonder they just left you h- hoy- hoy!"

The thick, slick mass of gunk now coating her hand, it seemed, had been deliberately cast off by some kind of queer tentacled eel hiding in the cranium. Unable to shake the noisome slime, and too dignified to properly chase the pink-grey devil, Ea Nebel clenched her fist and seized the eyeless worm in a ball of blue mana, flickering with glyphs of willpower. It seemed to have a simple little round hole for a mouth, in between its four stubby front barbels, until its relentless snakelike wriggles showed her the nasty jawless flesh-scraper invaginated below that orifice.

Ea Nebel tilted her head, shrugged, nodded, looked away, shrugged, nodded again. The sea-hag wriggled.

It would do.

---

nautical nonsense

Ea Nebel marks two grey scavenging animals as sacred to her: the babirusa, because it reminds her of her boar steed and also of inevitable doom, and the hagfish, because she's just a nutty little corpse gremlin she is. She demonstrates knowledge of the Mer.

For now this doesn't mean much, but she'll have an affinity for these animals in the future and might use them as minions. They might start showing up in biomes they don't strictly belong.

8 Vigour start.
2 Vigour spent bonding with two sacred animals. Regular price because they're obviously corpse-eaters.
6 Vigour remains.