Tatterdemalion

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Set!

The Seneschal would have submitted. He really, really would have! But he’s furious over how you came in and made him look like a fool. He’s got that look on his face that Jezcha gets when she’s losing a game and won’t admit it, the kind that says she’s about to flip the board over or leave in a huff. With a furious cry, he executes a flying kick.

And this is it. This is your chance. Double or nothing. He’s overextended and you can punish him, show him your power, leave him at your mercy. Wouldn’t Marianne be proud?

The only trick is that if you, to quote that old movie, choose instead to stand still, get hit in the face, and roll around and die, things will be decidedly less pleasant.

***

Shamash!

Your prey stumbles around like she’s high. Where’s the challenge? Is she playing some dangerous game? Perhaps she’s simply panicking because your helm is automatically cutting out her attempts at affecting you, extended across the entire arena. The crowd screams, or cheers, or wails; is there a distinction?

She carries your spear, but you are a High God. At your signal, your chariots fire down into the arena. Your furnace flares white hot as you lift one hand and create a crown of light. Let all behold your wrath! With a twist of your wrist, your spatial drills create a path to the child, and the cannon blasts follow, tearing open the arena’s sandy floor and knocking her from her feet.

In another moment, you are upon her; now that you have the opportunity, you intend to toy with your prey. Fling her around a little bit. Hurl her into a wall. The like.

***

Canada!

Mark a Condition, and Take A Powerful Blow.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Yes, Constance, why do you still feel discontent? Could it be that you have not performed a miracle, like the wild and hoary fey in the days before men came to the Isle? Could it be that faith is a heavy yoke, and heaviest on those who labor without a sign?

That is why you slip away from the crowd after permitting the winsome knight to carry your scarf and enter the keep for a moment, accepting a drink in the cool and the dark. You are welcome here. And it is here you rest your forehead against cold stone and ask for a sign. Some sign that Lostwithiel will be safe under your care.

Outside, through the window, the tournament banners stream. It will be unusual for you to arrive late, but if you go right now, as you are, you will rise from your seat and march up and down the aisles like a madwoman, snapping nervously at sky and earth alike.

You seek the Otherworld, but roll a 5.

Breathless Dead

“Chaos, right! Right, chaos, yes. I can do chaos,” Redana says, like a liar. She might be spontaneous, but her approach to the secrets of the machines tends to be largely straightforward; it is the direction of her path that is usually unexpected, not the steps she takes while traversing it.

Still, the gods have spoken. Or one god has spoken. The really scary one. Ares, fearful and bloody-handed, has approved of the way she thinks. This is not concerning in the slightest.

She takes up the D-Scythe, closes her eyes and breathes, and feels the incredible power flowing through it. She holds the power of unmaking in her hands. One cut, one blow, and two things that were one will come undone.

Without conscious intention, she slips easily into Epistia’s battle stance: daughter of Ares, scythe-wielder. The tethering cable will keep her from doing the spins and flourishes, but when she steps forward and makes one clean, steady blow, it is as if Epistia was guiding her hands through the stroke.

***

”And it’s cheer up, my lads /
Let your hearts never fail /
The bonny ship the Diamond /
Goes a-fishing for the whale...”

This is the only part of the song that Redana can remember. It is stuck in her head, so it is going to be the only thing she is capable of singing while she works for the foreseeable future. She’ll be cutting and letting the Hermetic follow behind with the omnifoam, and then she’ll break out into the same lines cheerily, absently, as her mind slumbers beneath the simple work.

”And it’s cheer up, my lads /
Let your hearts never fail /
The bonny ship the Diamond—”

There it is. The sound of the scythe has become something like the clink of wine glasses at a feast. She stops, untethers it, sets it down gingerly, and hops back on a leg and a half. There’s a tense moment as she and Iskarot stare at the ominous device.

“Well, that’s not so—“

And that’s when one of the focusing crystals implodes, and Redana dives for the deck with a shrill scream, bearing Iskarot down with her.

It turns out that twisting so that you cushion the fall of a Hermetic is not, in fact, a Smart Idea[1].

“I’m okay,” comes a faint squeak from underneath the saffron robes as the D-Scythe cools and hisses.

***

“Be careful,” Iskarot buzzes. Sweat trickles down Redana’s forehead; she blinks it away from her eyes. She has her knife out, held flush against her forearm, her muscles coiled and ready to strike. Even her throbbing leg is bearing up underneath her right now; she has little choice. If she falters, if she looks away, if she fails, she is dead. She’ll have time to lie face-down on the floor and wish her leg could be quietly and conveniently removed later.

This is one of the greatest challenges of her ability that she has ever faced. Even the Olympics were only preparation for this moment. The world narrows until it’s just the three of them.

Then the giant crab swings the D-Scythe straight into a load-bearing wall.

***

[1]: It is, in fact, much like attempting to cradle an engine block as it falls so that you can cushion it with your soft, fragile body.

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien!

What’s going on here? Pretty obvious. You’re about to be hunted for sport by a bunch of cannibals. The threat of cannibalism is actually a really big part of pulp novels about the Heart, and you know the warning signs: big inviting grins, bones and body parts being a fashion statement, protruding ribs, and physical mutation and horn growth. Yep, this is some textbook cannibal tribe shit you have gotten yourself into. Probably worship that Angel, too.

What will happen if you get away? You’ll end up in another disaster, probably, but that one might not want to eat you or blow you up, so, hey, progress! Whatever’s going on, it’s unlikely you can get out of it completely without some help from the likes of Coleman or Ailee.

What in the environment could hurt you? Well, the Owls with adorable little knit collars that are popping out of the vents around you. Trained Owls. My god. Those cannibals are definitely missing fingers, ears, and tendons from the effort. Their hoots are ominous as they hop and scuttle towards you, extending their retractable talented forelimbs.

What’s the safest way out? Good question! Not the vents. Not the store passageways. Not the cafe with the angel inside it. But if you can get over to that elevator shaft, scramble up it, and crack open a door higher up? The Owls can’t fly up that high with their fluttering jumps, and the cannibals won’t have good lighting for shooting you down.

Good luck.

***

Ailee!

The hive deliberates. This takes longer than you probably want, but the Bees have to debate amongst each other: are you what you claim to be, are you aligned with Calamity, are you part of the Working. The glyphs were for your benefit; you have to watch them and consult the book to eavesdrop on their discussions.

Then the Bees begin rhythmically lighting up a passageway, indicating that you should follow. You descend, and come out in what once might have been a ticket office.

The room is calcified. Thick pulp and wax have turned manuals and pamphlets into solid blocks, and the only break in the slick glaze all around is an iron spike growing out of the ground, rusty and malignant, twisted into some strange floral form.

The Enemy, the Bees around you signal. The Enemy, The Enemy. Friends = scattered, lost. An animal that consumes other animals. Danger.

Exit? Remain? Destroy?

***

Jackdaw!

“The law is avarice. Rule by want. And I want what you have more than you do, as you can plainly see.” The Chief Squeaker pulls out a scale, which seems to be favoring one side very definitively. Then the scale is gestured at emphatically before being folded back up. “Now, hurry up, hurry up, before I make up my mind about what I’m going to turn you into! Probably a kobold. But if you move any slower, maybe a bug!”

***

Coleman!

“Why?” It’s almost snarled. “Crew?” This seems to satisfy her for a moment, as she rolls it over in her head. “Crew. Needed. Mmhm.”

She lets you up, but doesn’t remove the carabiner. This is a little awkward, but it seems rather important to her that she have the ability to knock you down or drag you around. “Scattered? Disaster. Skeleton crew. Bonecrackers, Angels, Squeakers, Bees. Owls in pipes. Dead. Minimum?”

Bonecrackers? That sounds ominous, doesn’t ring a bell. Squeakers? Rats, bunch of dragon cultists and surreal imperialists. Angels? Heart-fauna, very dangerous. Bees? Unlucky, possibly invasive species. Owls? Pack hunters, go for the hamstrings.

Breathless Dead

The D-Scythe is heavier than it looks. While she’ll be able to go at a slow walk (necessary, to be gentle on the splint), it’ll still be one titanic workout for her. That’s good. She likes workouts.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t tell the Captain first?” She turns the bleakly heavy weapon over. This thing scares her a little bit, the longer she holds it. Like it’s judging her, handling her, deciding whether she will be an acceptable wielder or whether it will decide to slip and take her apart piece by piece. She holds it firmly. Show no fear. Be Imperial.

“Because once I begin the work,” she adds, thoughtfully, “I don’t think it will want for me to stop. I mean, beyond the problem of having to go back and reweld everything.”

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

There is always sacrifice. Gifts must be repaid: the spoils of the earth, the bounty of the rivers, the rains and the sunlight and the winds. If you do not give back, you become entitled, selfish, rapacious; but by giving back you satisfy... something. Maybe you really are fulfilling ancient pacts with the living soil and the turn of the seasons, but deep inside you there's doubt, isn't there? That if you really were, it'd do... something. The crops would spring to life if you sacrificed enough, the rains would come if you screamed until your voice was hoarse and bloody, that you could do something. That you could grab the wheel and make it turn.

But you don't. You don't know that. Maybe your rites are true and potent. Maybe you just carry them out because if you don't give back to the world that feeds you and clothes you, you'll all stop being mankind and start being something else, something with iron in its heart. And for all you know, perhaps the blood of the giants that Brutus fought, those ancient natives whose overthrow was great and terrible, it is becoming less and less with each generation. You are less than your mother, the Bristol Avon, and if you ever have a child to pass on the old blood, she will be less than you.

Doubt gnaws at your heart like a worm in rotten wood, but you carry out the steps anyway. What's important is that what's done is done. The summer and the sun and the earth don't care what's in your heart, not like the God whose death you now wear around your neck. (And the Christians dare cluck at the oldest ways of blood dashed on the stones, as if they do not mark themselves with sacrificial death, one and all.)

You turn the wheel. Sunlight glints as you put your shoulders and your back into it. It's painful going, but you don't let the knight step forward. No daughter of giants should need assistance. Not in this. Drums echo from the walls of the keep, the tramp and trod of dancing feet is all around you, and you turn the wheel. From your lips the welcome drips: Lordly Summer, be welcome. Infuse our crops with your light, and allow us our rain in neither excess or want.

(Does he listen? Or must you suffer because it reminds everyone that their life is not free? Is the Risen Christ listening? Does he command the sun to stand still for his prophets? The metal is hot under your palms.)

When the children hand you the fruit, you take your flint knife and cut the flesh open, squeeze them in your hand, let the hot earth-blood drip down. Where it strikes the ground, it is dark and sticky. The little ants and flies will feast. It is better for it to be fruit that is offered up; it was not always so. But if wine can be blood, so can this. In little pots on either side of the idol, smoke curls up, cloying and thick, corn-heads withering into ash: let this be your share, fire, and let this be your share, sun-that-kills. Keep us far from disaster. We remember where our life comes from, and where it will return. (And even the Christians agree that one day you will be dust; they simply disagree on what happens afterwards, and whether you may come back in different shapes and forms. How sad, to imagine that everyone will come back just as they were, all at once.)

And yet doubt gnaws at you. It may be that Summer's answer will be cruel, despite everything you are doing. You cannot march up into heaven and demand his cooperation. You cannot promise these people who look up to you that because they made the offerings, they will be rewarded. It may be that the answer is that the sky darkens yet and the sea rises higher. It may be that night shall be thrice night over you, and the sky an iron cope.

But this is what you can do. And this is what brings them hope. And perhaps because you carry out the rituals just as they have been done for generations, perhaps the tide will turn yet. And so the wheel turns, and the wheel turns, and still the wheel turns.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Marianne!

Slaves and Annunaki alike are being packed into the stands. You have picked, likely out of sheer mischief, one of the University Boxes. So it is that when a gaggle of students on the Honors Track enter, whispering furtively to each other, you are there to greet them. And, ah, look who’s right there!

If it isn’t Celestine Ravenelle, staring you dead in the eyes as her classmates gasp and her Thornback minder bristles. The Thornback declares his intent to go and get the guards in his high, waspish voice, and that’s when the door slams shut behind him.

You have some of the city’s bright young minds in here with you. A captive audience, even. Give them a show, collaborators and brown-nosers and cowards all!

***

Anathet!

The Seneschal’s strikes are more measured, now. His rage is burning cold: you can feel it. He’s furious that you would dare be here. You don’t know your place. If you defy the proper order, the position he’s entrenched his identity inside doesn’t mean anything. But he’s not a rampaging blinded bull, no matter what the symbol of his master might imply.

“If you have come to speak—“ He feints, testing. You don’t fall for it, so he recovers smoothly into a high kick that forces you to bend back over the model of Caphtor. “You had better do so while you have the opportunity. Caphtor? Summon assistance.”

Caphtor bows and winks out, and it’s just the two of you, dancing. He’s not willing to damage the model, which makes it a wonderful centerpiece for your back and forth. One solid hit could send you flying into a wall, and for that reason, you do not allow him a solid hit— but you don’t have any openings on him, either.

“You are degenerate,” he adds, matter-of-factly. “You are diseased. You and Canada Taliv and Marianne.” A lance of silver-white light blows a chunk out of a window shutter, redirected by a clever portal. His glove vents energy in a backwash that makes his wispy veil flutter and his braids tremble. There’s something to remember about how that works. “The priestess of a dead barbarian god, my daughter’s oblivious tool, and anarchy. Go on. Speak!”

***

Canada!

Shamash lands in the arena with the classic superhero landing: on one knee, fist down, head lowered. The shockwave sends sand into your face. It stings.

Then they stand, lift one hand, and bellow so loud that spectators clap their hands over their ears. As if in response, a thunderclap, a blinding flash: a lance falls from heaven neatly into Shamash’s waiting grasp. They spin it almost contemplatively between their fingers. It writhes and shudders as if trying to stop being a spear, barely contained. This is a bad weapon. You don’t want to get touched by it.

“Champions! Esteemed Lord of the Upper Airs! Malicious and Contemptible Rebel!” Jezcha’s sneering voice rings out from the Seneschal’s Box. And there, beside her...

Tirzah sits, listening to all that is going on.

“By command of Most Terrible and All-Consuming Shamash, Breaker of Horses, you fight to... destruction.” Not even Jezcha can bring herself to say death. Maybe even if you lose, you’ll be spared.

You just won’t enjoy it. At all.

Horns blare. Trumpets ring out. Banners are flown. This is a production now. And here you are at center stage.

Good luck.

Breathless Dead

“The Plousios has suffered major flooding,” Redana says, brightly. “Everything from the old shrine, here, to the cargo holds.” She points at the grand cross-section of the ship with a baton. “As you can see, if the grav-plates here get misaligned, the backwash will flood the engine room, and we’ll be lucky if it only kills everyone inside when that happens.”

She smacks the baton into her palm. “So why don’t we just dive down and vent it into space? Because there’s evidence that there’s crabs, and worse, down there that will invade the rest of the ship if we disturb their nests. That’s why our response has to get rid of both the water and our uninvited guests in one fell swoop.”

One press of a button brings the next slide onto the board, showing the solution. “Hear me out,” Redana says with a sheepish smile. “If we expose the lower decks to the outer airs, we can sanitize them and vent the water at the same time. As you can expect, it’s going to take a lot of manpower to do this right, but when we do, it’ll be the safest and most effective solution.”

The baton strikes the key points like a whip. “There are seventy-five hundred key points that we need to sever using our saws in preparation for separation. Once this is done, we can secure the two halves of the ship with a series of seventy-two cables and then do the final saw work on the hull. We’ll close off the decks using our portable seals, and then we’ll use a series of shaped charges to force the lower decks to separate from the upper. Before you ask, the force of our acceleration through Ocean will keep them together prior to this point. Then we will retract the cables, weld the contact points together, and do a sweep of the lower decks to clear out debris and do inventory.”

Redana beams like sunlight as she reaches her conclusion. “Given the number of points we need to sever, this operation requires the entire crew. While the Master Hermetic and I prepare the cables, seals and charges, all of you will be sawing our ship in half— and then welding it back together better than it was before. If we all work together, we’ll be finished by the time we arrive. Do you have any questions?”

Redana smiles at her audience of one, beaming like the sun. “So how did I do,” she blurts out, before Iskarot can offer questions. “I know this is a lot but I think they’ll see the necessity...”

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Canada!

Really, you’ve got nobody to blame but yourself. You fell for one of the classic blunders: the old “snatch them up with air support while occupying all of their attention.”

You’re dangling a hundred feet in the air from one of those animal control grabber things exiting out of a port in the hull of a chariot, which buzzed down low, pulled you off your feet, and then achieved high altitudes while you caught your breath. It’s heading directly for a giant battle arena back where you first challenged Shamash.

If you break out of the grabber... well, that’s a very, very long way to fall. If you try to scramble up the grabber, good luck getting a handhold on the spaceship’s hull. (Because it is a spaceship. It’s just called a chariot because the engines that pull them are like horses. Really, they’re more like podracers from Star Wars than anything.)

This would be a really nice time for one of your teammates to pop up and explain that Shamash is in charge of the fleet and of course he’d have very skilled air support, but there’s just you, the rushing wind, and the city lights far, far below.

***

Anathet!

You interrupt Caphtor as she is relaying a message to the Seneschal and his household advisors. It looks like it’s an all hands on deck situation; the Seneschal is wearing a corset and a loose skirt, the Annunaki equivalent of a sports jacket and reasonable pants for running around to put out fires.

The crisis team here is circled around the scale model of Caphtor. It’s not a hologram or computerized; it’s practical effects, a perfect replica of the city-ship that unfolds like a flower to depict the decks below when necessary. Little figurines, like the toy soldiers nerds paint and play with, represent Shamash, Canada, and a wing of chariots. The assembled Annunaki were so intent on the model and on Caphtor that poor Shelia and Muta’al, over in the dancers’ alcove, were being completely ignored.

You step out onto the luxurious carpet, in your most intimidating form, and the Seneschal’s reaction is immediate. The jewelry on his arm shifts and slots together, crackling with power as he spins on his heel and moves smoothly into Inexorable Bull Form.

The only way to speak to the keeper of the city is by holding your own in a martial arts fight against him and his handpicked advisors in his office, the windows open and letting in the cool night breeze. Which, of course, you knew, which is why you have your staff out and ready.

Heaven or hell! Duel 1! Let’s rock!

***

Marianne!

Chariots scream overhead. Ah, poor little Canada! She’s been caught like a mouse in a trap. And now the time has come for her to die.

In the city below, slaves are herded down streets on foot, rousted out of beds; in the city above, rickshaws and chariots bear Annunaki, just as compelled. It would not do for a single seat not to be full.

How do you make it to your seat on time, o fearful demon of the night airs?

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

"Tybalt is fine," you blurt out. You do not explain who Tybalt is, or how he thinks himself lord of every sunbeam, and how he got into a fight with a badger early in the spring but now is well recovered. No, you have a priest to deal with. You don't think of Cerwen as a bad person, or a serious adversary, or anything silly like that; you are aware that she is doing her best to understand the world, to do what is right, just like you do. Her saints and prayers and Mary are a different side of a coin, and a monastery is a different sort of coven. Insofar as you are rivals, you are like two players in a game of strike-the-ball.

But this is what you are for. This is yours, and you dig your heels in on instinct and lift your chin. "And you expect me to yield on your say-so, Cerwen? Really?" She's playing from the wrong script; this is how you approach a Father Abbot, not a child of the Old Blood. So you gesture meaningfully at the bundled gifts in the knight's arms.

You don't actually mind yielding. Much. But here she is, encroaching on your rites, and it's not like you interrupt her while she's talking to her Mary and Child. The absolute least she can do is acknowledge the rules that you play by. You offer a gift. You make a request. And you let the Lady of the Low act on your behalf.

Play along, Cerwen. Bend a little like a reed, and the two of you can call upon the Christ-Child and the Wheel of the Year together, asking for mercy side by side; or she can cling to her pride, and watch it break upon the rocks of stony majesty. She'll blink first; you know it.