Tatterdemalion

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Anathet!

“This really is your first time, huh, dumpling?” The bouncer is sweating and you can feel how firm her arms are as she presses you down against the dirty arabesque tiles. “You’re not getting caught up by them. I’m just stopping them from hitting you until you curl up.”

(She’s wrong, but only because you’re a monk. You know that you’re going to be collared as a potential Enemy of the Chain. If only you had a disguise! But that’s a goal for later.)

“But sure, what the hell. At least you’ve got guts.” She winks, and then— oh no! You see a janissary loom over her with a baton.

“We’ve got a monk!” He yells back at his commander. And here it comes, oh boy. What are some of the protocols for handling a potentially rogue Zhianku, given their psychic prowess?

***

Canada!

“Don’t sulk,” the Cat crisply snaps back at you. “You came to me looking for guidance, and I offer it at very reasonable rates.”

Much like Variance, she’s a mercenary with ideals. She has dream logic work for you to do: rats to catch, mirror shards to sweep up, and bizarre secrets for you to deliver to her. It’s profitable for both of you, given your vastly different frames of what’s valuable.

“What you want is redemption. To achieve it, you must undergo transformation. You will never atone for your failures as you are, girl.” What makes the words sharper is the fact that she means them. She really does. From her point of view, she has to turn you into something different than you are.

You’ve already won serious concessions on that front after the Butterfly Incident. So now she’s focusing on changing you on the inside.

“You must be willing to kill one of them again,” she adds, her feline face betraying nothing. “But the process will be difficult. Now, let’s see about your payment for the next lesson. I do believe twenty rats will suffice...”

***

Étoile!

The restaurant is a mess. There definitely was a struggle here, and the rifle is gone. Most of what’s scattered about is your picnic supplies, a change of clothes, her sketchbooks and tablets (two broken). Of course not the wines, those were stolen by those brutes.

But, ah! Look here! Forgotten in the tumult: a sidearm with five shots left. (It’s an ornate, clunky revolver, very clearly not a laser weapon.) Your Lady must have had the courage to pull the trigger once! There are four of them, not counting their own valets, so that’s a margin of error of one shot.

It would be so easy to pick them off from the shadows with a rifle. It would take a skilled pistolier to take four Annunaki down at close range, and it would take a very, very skilled actress to make it seem like improbable luck. But what else can you do?

Your Lady needs you.

Breathless Dead

Everything is a jumbled confusion. She saw Bella-- blood-- kissing-- but, again, again, Bella, Bella, Bella. Which was impossible. Because Bella was safe at home. At least, Redana hoped she was safe. She prayed that Bella would be safe. She made a sacrifice to her father[1] on the first planet she landed on with Alexa: a wild stag, brought down with her bare hands. Please, she'd prayed, head bowed over the roasted meat. Please keep Bella safe. Convince my mother that Bella is blameless. Turn aside her anger.

It's Bella, the Auspex says, grumpily. There's a little catgirl holding a sign with her name on it, even, in her peripherals. 100% certified Bella. Except the Auspex thought the Ceronians were alive, so clearly, in Elysium, all bets were off and... no, no, it has to be Bella. Unless it's Mynx? That would make more sense, the shapeshifter would be a better huntress. Bella was lots of things, but she was no good at hunting at all.

But when she opens her green eye and lets herself look, even that thought withers away. How could it not be her Bella? Mynx was always too flirty, too wide-eyed, when it came to Bella. Only Bella would ever dare call her an idiot, and even then, only when she was sure they were alone, and only when chastising her about a new sprain or bruise or near-death in a training accident.

"Bella, why are you here?" There's something that's safe to be confused about. Not all those confusing half-dream memories of what the Nemean did in her place, perhaps thoughts or desires more than actual, well, act, because of course she wouldn't kiss Bella. Not her best friend. She wouldn't be so cruel to her Bella, not ever. "You said you wouldn't let me go, so why did you come?"

Then Redana looks up and down that new dress. The cleavage! The skirt that ends above the knees! Where's her apron with the pawprints on it and the long gloves? Her Bella doesn't like clothes like this! She's demure, modest, even a little bit of a prude, and... oh. Of course. Redana lifts her head and sees Jas'o there, ready to shoot her new friend and her oldest companion and even her, if she makes the wrong move. And absolute fury surges through her again.

"How dare you, Jas'o?" Her voice has a little bit of the Nemean's thunderclap left in it, a lingering echo. "Help me up, Bella," she adds, not even turning her head to look; she knows that Bella will happily back her up. Here, at least, even if she was afraid back home. "Jas'o, I can forgive you shooting me," she yells, keeping her weight on Bella, "but how dare you drag Bella out here? She wouldn't leave with me; I can't, I don't want to imagine what you did to her! Poor thing, she's worried sick, look at her! And another thing, how dare you dress her up like this? Drooling over her the whole way from Tellus, I'm sure, making her dress up like a party favor to titillate you and your dirty crew! Now put that Thunderbolt down, and if you dare shoot either of my friends I will make you very, very sorry you did it!"

She glares daggers at him, and then whispers out of the side of her mouth: "Bella, I can't stop him if you don't help me up..."

***

[1]: it should have been to Hera, except that Hera never accepted any of her offerings, no matter how hard she tried, no matter if they were hand-baked cakes or expensive golden earrings. So a sacrifice to Hera's bride would have to suffice.

Fellowship: The Heart

Jackdaw!

The Tyrian Spire was extruded in order to be a lure. Those are the words rising up inside you, darling. You look up at these books and know that they were grown here for the purpose of bringing people just like you here. It is... difficult, right now, to say whether it is a lure of the Flood or for the Flood. It would make a terrible sense that the Flood would churn it up out of her waters, hide her knowledge inside it, and bring poor doomed fools right to her banks. But that doesn't quite fit the brief image you gained of her. It's just as likely, really, that something even more potent than she made this place so that she would coalesce herself around it and try to drag it down into her. To bring all those books (perhaps poisoned?) down into her deeps.

The books here are dangerous, dear. If you stuffed them in a bag, you'd be able to use them later, but you must not let yourself believe that doing so would be safe. They are quietly inviting, suggesting that you should read them, that what you want to know is inside, perhaps on the next shelf, or in the next chapter. Really, it's fortunate that you were touched by the Flood. Otherwise, maybe Ailee would have victoriously brought down that Wreck and then turned around and found you gone, scampered off into the stacks. As it is, looking too closely at the titles makes you sick to your stomach. Who knows how much time the clown spent here already? Perhaps you have saved him by stumbling across him.

As for fixing it? You would have to talk to the entity that caused it to be, in order to address or alter its fundamental purpose. Which would either be the Flood, or, perhaps...

Do you believe in the Shadow King, Jackdaw?

(They say he lives below Terminus. They say he is the first being who lived, or the last. They say he grows the Heart like a bonzai tree. They say he is the warden of the caged gods. They say all sorts of nonsense. But every story has its seed.)

***

Team Sasha!

You now are being guided by an elderly professor-turned-clown who is carefully holding onto a woefully face-painted donkey, perched upon Sasha's shoulder. "Climbing up was harder than going down will be, I think. The Flood likes things to be down and stay down, but Little Lightfoot here kept her footing, didn't she?"

The walls are clammy and water drips up and down, both ways, almost as if the tides were rolling in and out. The roar grows louder and louder as you make your way down upon Sasha. It's a very tight squeeze, and slow going, which means you all have a little bit of time to stress out about what you're going to find down at the bottom.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Canada!

“You have the eyes of the Lion,” the Cat says, her tone so acidic it could be used for etching steel. “Are you telling me that the most detail you could distinguish was that it was startling?”

A crack, a hiss, a pop: not coming from the Cat. The jewels you gathered are broken, and in several cases, reduced to molten slag. Burned out. Better them than your eyeballs.

(Their power is not like yours. In this place they are blind idiot gods, dangerous only by dint of their towering presences. They have not been touched by the Lion; this is not their home. Here, if you trained, if you somehow armored yourself against that burning spite and fury, you could fight them on even ground—)

“You saw one of the gods of the invasion. Shamash. They are an admiral, master of chariots, commander of fleets. If Earth had been space-capable, they would have torn your ships out of the sky like they did the Watchtower. They would have set thousands adrift to die in the ice up there, and would have been disappointed there wasn’t more of a thrill. Look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t want to do whatever it takes to stop them.”

[Label shift: +Danger, -Savior.]

***

Anathet!

The bouncer looks torn for a moment. On the one hand, she’s got a job to do here! She should be cracking a few heads together and then joining the janissaries as the representative of the bar! On the other hand, there’s chemistry here.

Roll to Provoke; if you botch it, she’s going to try to cut corners by laying you out, but she’ll follow through on a hit.

***

Étoile!

You breach the surface of the water. You’re in the great big Frontierland lake, and, ah, fortune! There are ducks here, too, making enough noise that the Annunaki who tossed you into the lake would be hard-pressed to hear you, as long as you’re careful and don’t gasp like a beached whale while you struggle your way to the shore.

Once you get there, you’ll have to work your way out of the ropes and figure out where they took Lady! Knowing Jezcha, she’s probably setting up some cruel display of Lady in order to serve as “human bait.” It would be her just desserts to let Marianne out to play... but would Marianne save Lady, or deliberately make her predicament worse? And would it be too suspicious for her to be here, of all places? But what is little helpless lamassie supposed to do to save her?

And why are there fences around the lake, like they didn’t want kids falling in? You’re going to have to suffer to pull yourself out and up and over.

Breathless Dead

"Eeeeek! Somebody, please, save me!"

The helpless Princess Stellabrande squirms against the totally incapacitating plush serpents wrapped around her forearms and kicks out at one of the vicious velvet squids approaching her. You can tell that she's a princess in need of saving because she's got a spare tiara on her head instead of a headdress. And, oh, goodness, how she squirms against those serpents, sent by Poseidon in his most wrathful aspect! Won't anyone save her? Won't anybody at all?

"I'm here!" The fabulous swashbuckling Princess Redana charges into the room, grinning. She sets about her with her training foil, dealing the velvet squids devastating blows! One! Two! Her sword sings as Stellabrande gasps excitedly. "Don't worry, princess, I'm here to save you!"

"My hero," Stellabrande says, smiling shyly. "So, what happens next?" she asks, as Redana unwinds the no-longer-resisting stuffed animals from around those white-furred wrists.

"Well, usually the princesses kiss," Redana says casually. Princess Stellabrande looks very carefully nonchalant as her tail stiffens. "And then Aphrodite warns them about danger and they have to run off together! And usually the running tires them out and so they have to sleep together."

"Well, you, you should let me go first!" Stellabrande says, her smile very big and not panicked at all. She takes Redana's non-dominant hand and gives the back a demure kiss. "You're my hero, Redana..."

***

For once, Zeus heeds the prayer of this humble Servitor. Even as the Nemean's hand slips underneath Bella's skirt, cradling the base of her tail (right where it's ticklish), the doors to the Seventh Dimension begin to open. Being so close is a terrible miracle: it is like an infinity of mirrors unfolding, cold and sharp. Ozone curls from the Nemean, and she raises her head and barks at the sky: "I'm not done yet, father!"

But it's too late. Bella falls from her hands and the cards are shuffled again, time and space correcting themselves as Redana stumbles out and collapses into Bella's arms, groaning in pain. Her journey to the couch of the Moirae only postponed her pain; the Fates did nothing to alleviate her suffering. The Princess is returned, and in a moment her blessed nanites will begin their work again to try and force her back up onto her feet, but right now she has collapsed insensate, head lowered and weight all on Bella, dazed and swooning.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Anathet!

The bar is a swirling maelstrom of chaos, one you flow through like water through rocks. You redirect attacks flawlessly, shroud yourself, and generally act like a ghost of bar brawls. The only thing that surprises you is when you bump into the bouncer, who’s wrestling down a Salamander.

Your eyes meet. She looks exasperated and sweaty, but when she looks at you, her eyes don’t look angry, but rather... well, her aura is that of someone watching a small, yappy dog do zoomies in the living room. She’s still underestimating you!

And that’s when there’s the sharp whistle of janissaries. They’ve arrived to break up your bar fight! By beating everyone senseless until they stop resisting. And they’re definitely not going to care who started it or who’s a bouncer or not!

***

Canada!

Right before you pull away from the vision of that shattered god, they look up. You catch a glimpse of a bloodshot eye, wide and staring, peering out from between trembling fingers.

You are seen. Only for a moment, and maybe they won’t recognize you, it’s not like they’re an actual god, but your fight-or-flight reaction kicks in hard. There are things that should not see you, and they are one of them.

“Tell me what you saw,” the Cat says, primly. She is very intent on you. But her gaze reminds you of that wild eye, that moment of revelation.

***

Étoile!

Tamytha rests her hand on your silly little head and smiles, her face crinkling into delight. “You’re such a good girl,” she says, her tone light and lilting. “You’re the best lamassie a girl could ask for.” Her thumb rubs a circle on your face, gentle and adoring.

“I wish we could just play here, lamassie,” she adds, and you know better than to let anyone else ever hear those words. “I could take you on a walk, and you could tell me about all your quaint little customs. These buildings... they’re connected to your myths, aren’t they? Your festivals and your legends. I recognized the iconography of your Bears— what did they symbolize? Strength, wasn’t it? Oh, you could tell me all of that, and it could just be you and me...”

Yes! This is it! This is your chance to tell her how much you want that, too! How nice it would be to pack up the awful rifle and the pistol and stop caring about the hunt, and just walk her around the park, kept on a leash that’s never yanked or pulled taut, explaining the memories and stories. You could tell her about Walt Disney, and share your favorite stories with her (and which were those, again?).

You open your mouth to speak, and that’s when the tranquilizer dart hits you in the rump.

Breathless Dead

There is a moment before everything goes wrong. Before disaster and apocalypse. Before the blood sinks into Bella’s lace. Just a moment, full of quiet panting.

”What a dangerous little knife you are,” the Nemean says with the voice of someone who appreciates the artistry of a knife, hoisting her up easily off of the queen with one hand. ”Good! Your princess will need all the protection she can get. She’s going to the end of the stars. I may have been there, once. Or perhaps that was simply another dream.”

Her lips are crushing, hungry, on the servitor’s own. She tilts her head down, holds Bella well off the floor. Then she bites down on a vulnerable lip, and laughs deep in her throat. The kind of laugh that suggests she may just pull that frilly lace off right here, if she’s welcomed.[1]

She is every inch her father’s daughter, after all. And Zeus cannot resist beauty.

What a tragedy, then, that there is no time and no opportunity for them.

***

[1]: in the Quantum Tomb, there is a sharp hiss of conceptual breath, as if from the lips of a dreamer who has seen something both dreaded and desired in her sleep. Insofar as anything can be said to happen in that place.

Chuubo's GMD: Love and Shattered Alchemy

[Storytime: 3/9
Adventure GET: 5/21
Up to Date: 1/15
Something To Deal With 2]

It’s fantastic!!! Oh, my gosh, watching Sessily in action is like watching a baby kitten fumbling around as it learns to use its legs! Everything’s new and wonderful and when it ends up doing a cartwheel on accident everything is adorable and pweshus and aaaaah!!! I’m barely getting any done because I keep getting distracted watching her put her whole heart into shopping, letting it outstrip her coordination and grace in favor of giving 110% right here and now!

Other people might say, oh, Rinley, isn’t it even better when you’re really good at something? And, yeah, it’s cool. But just because it’s clumsy doesn’t mean it isn’t heartfelt. And sometimes, it means it’s moreso. That your passion and love are bigger than your skill and you don’t even care.

I am on the side of finger painting on the walls. I am on the side of kids playing the piano as hard as they can. I am on the side of people crashing their bikes and cringy poetry and scratchy voices as your throat gives out. I am on the side of the heart, which permits no barrier. I am on the side of love.

After all, eventually that kid might grow up and learn skill, but it’s really hard to learn passion. Some people might say it’s impossible, but I know better. Nothing’s impossible if you put your heart to it.

Such as finding the objectively perfect Dulcinea bribe by putting my hand down on it while I’m watching Sessily and wagging my tail so hard I’m knocking things over, too, much to the distress of the employee (1, singular).

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Canada!

There is a shadow at the heart of the sun. Look closer. There is a city in the heart of the sun. It is a thing of dreadful spires and terrible want. Look closer. It is a gnarled hand grasping outwards, each tower a finger. It is a terrible black that defines itself against that which it occludes. Look closer.

There are five thrones. They are seated there. Your eye waters. There are five thrones and five shadows.

Make Your Choice

Look Upon The Bull-headed God
He is twisting the limbs off of something. Maybe it is an insect.

Look Upon The Lion-headed Goddess
It is possible that she is simply scratching herself, one leg thrown over the arm of the chair as she yawns.

Look Upon The Vulture-headed God
His beak pokes out of his all-concealing robes as he surrounds himself in language that burns.

Look Upon The Horse-headed God
Their head is sunken into their hands, their shoulders shaking as they sob with laughter.

Look Upon The Hyena-headed Goddess
She winds cloth around a struggling head, meticulously slow, excruciatingly tight.

***

Anathet!

You send the idiot flying into a table, with a little more force than you meant. Which is bad, because there were some sullen Salamanders drinking at that table. And Salamanders may drink soporifics, but that just makes them crankier when it’s disrupted.

They come boiling out at you, tails lashing and many arms flexing, and you need to do something about what’s going on, now! Show the bouncer that you’re a big girl, that you can handle yourself, that you’re not about to cry! She’s already on the move, halfway to you, so you only have a moment to really, really make an impression!

Or stand there and get a fist the size of your head to the face. That works too.

***

Étoile!

Tamytha’s veiled smile is relieved and shaky, and her eyes are so soft and dark and lovely, you could melt into them. “Thank you for handling the wildlife,” she says, sweetly. “Let’s... let’s find a place where we can sit and consider our hunting strategies.”

You lead her over to an abandoned restaurant that once advertised American Frontier Foods, entering first and scanning it for traps. From there, it’s easy enough to help her up the stairs to the outdoor eating area, where threadbare umbrellas still offer some shade from the sun.

“I wish we’d brought a Lynx,” she says, crumpling into a metal chair. “I shouldn’t expect you to do the tracking, even if you are a native. You don’t have the nose for it.”

She reaches out and boops you right on the veiled nose with a gentle giggle. “Even if you are my precious little lamassie! Would you like to use your sniffer to find treats for Lady, hmmm?” There’s so much affection in her voice, even if it is innocently condescending.

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien!

“What ho, a bit of civilization down here, what?” The clown agreeably pumps your hand. “Between you and me, this is a right ghastly place. I have all sorts of theories on why the true source of immortality is down here, and why it desires the fulfillment, no, the exaltation of passion. It is not just a rite of passage, it is a crucible, a prison for gods like itself. Only those who are willing to shed their restraining ego deserve paradise, which is internal irregardless of the external factors— why do you think we associate clowns with joy, with celebration of existence, with a numinous dread?”

Numinous dread is right; clowns are infamous for being unhinged and violent down here. You saw that with his response to Ailee, and while that’s cowed him for now, the more he “ascends” into immortality, the more likely he is to try and force a rematch. Traveling with him is like traveling with a growing bear: very useful until you realize it’s gotten big enough to rip your arm off. Double that if you ever visit the infamous Dark Carnival, of which you have only heard whispers.

“I wanted Grail lore,” he adds, swinging into melancholy again. “But now Miss Sundish has riled the local god. Every place in the Heart is under the dominion of one Power or another, you know, even if it is a distant feudalism. This place will be nigh uninhabitable soon enough. Do you think she would mind dreadfully if I were to bring my donkey along?”

If you were to convince him that he would get closer to understanding the Grail by tearing that thing’s head off, he’d do it. Especially if you convinced him Ailee would appreciate it. On the other hand, that might not kill it, but nobody appreciates a head being torn off.

***

Team Sasha!

It is a battle for the ages, which mostly means it’s adrenaline-packed and you spend most of it trying not to die or accidentally set off all that gunpowder.

Walls are torn open. Stalactites fall from the ceiling. Bookshelves collapse. This place is close to falling apart: stay much longer and the whole thing might collapse into the Flood.

That would be a Bad Thing, by the way.