Tatterdemalion

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Oh, Constance, how your fingers find their place. They are pale like white stone, like the forgotten statues in Bath. Under your fingertips, Cerwen's palm is wet with fear. It is your turn to be strong; you lean over Cerwen, your murmurs as meaningless and gentle as the song of the river as it dances over the rocks in the spring sun. Look, you intimate, look: your blood lives yet. From the same root you came, and you have not been cleft yet, not yet, not yet. This you know, this you can do; you touch her as if she were Palug, you calm that hot blood, you are strong because she is weak, because she needs a hero, and you are no knight, Constance, no skill at arms you can claim, but you are kind. That is strength.

[Constance rolls a 8 and warmth, faith, returns to Cerwen. You may take it as you will.]

Breathless Dead

First Part of the Second Part: Being the Nature of Princess Redana Claudius, Her Virtues, Her Qualities
QQ: Is Redana A Virtuous Champion of her Ship?
Article: Whether Redana Acted By Virtue in Inscribing her Name upon the Reactor Spike?

Objection I. It would seem that the role of the champion is to loyally serve the gods, their ship, their captain, and their crew, in descending order; therefore it was wrong for her to inscribe her name upon the Reactor Spike instead of bringing the stylus to her Captain.
Objection II. As the Starsong Privateers were instrumental in not only securing the ship but piloting it, providing provisions, and passing peril by; therefore it was wrong of her to assert that Hades had given the ship to her instead of an entire crew by signing her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Objection III. The role of a Princess in her education is to be proactive, rather than reactive; therefore it was wrong of her to follow her tutor’s instructions without challenging their validity by signing her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Rebuke IV. On the contrary, Redana’s heroic flaw must be an unwillingness to act as befits a Princess, and in this deed she acted with the authority and pride that are her birthright, both by mother and father, and therefore she acted by virtue in doing so.
Answer V. There are two precedents that may be drawn from. When Zeus and her brothers divided the greater and lesser parts of existence between themselves, each ceded authority over the domains given to their siblings; in similar fashion, Hades ceded authority over the Plousios to Redana, his niece. When Nero allotted prefectural governors across Tellus, she did not retract her authority over her ministers, despite giving them broad authority over life and death within their estates; in the same way, Redana did not cede her rightful dominion over the Plousios to Vasilia, and seen rightly, Vasilia is an honored servant of the Princess, who listens to her demands with the graciousness of her mother listening to the demands of the governors. Therefore the Princess acted in accordance with virtue when she signed her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Reply to Objection VI. Redana must follow her inherent nature, which is to rise above Servitor and human alike. For as the Interpreter says, self-knowledge is the root of virtue, so that each may seek their role and purpose for right action. Therefore, it is lacking in virtue for her to retreat into modesty and uncertainty, and it is virtuous for her to have signed her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Reply to Objection VII. While the Starsong Privateers are skilled and blessed by Olympus, their skills in command and provisioning do not by necessity translate to skill in possession. Indeed, for this reason the merchant does not pilot his own vessel, and the teamster does not own the caravan. Therefore it was entirely virtuous for Redana to have signed her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Reply to Objection VIII. While it might be supposed that Redana simply did as she was told, it must be understood that she herself considered these things: her relationship with Vasilia, her name and lineage, her determination to continue on her voyage, her ability to care for the vessel and protect it, and even her desire to show Hades that she was properly thankful for his gift. And so her decision to sign her name upon the Reactor Spike was in accordance with proper virtue.

***

The admirable thing about Redana, one might discover, is that when she starts a project, she doesn’t stop until it is finished.

The less admirable thing is that she sees a problem or an opportunity and then dives right in, both feet forward. She’s learning the arts of Ares, after all. No plan! Do!

This wasn’t a problem when she was, say, fixing the dumb-waiter. But the last few hours of approach while she improved the landing hydraulics? Somewhat nail-biting.

Someone should definitely have a word with her about approving engineering projects. But in such a way that, you know, she keeps repairing a ship half falling apart.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Jezcha!

The sound of thunder fills your head and makes you deaf. For a moment, you think that it is just more of the apparitions that have surrounded this arena. But, no, as the smoke and shadows lift, you can see that the great gate of the arena has been blown apart. It is the most terrible destruction you have ever seen inflicted upon your city, and your heart leaps into your throat.

Shamash stands, smoking, in the center of the arena, one fist still extended. That terrible gauntlet vents with a bestial roar, and Shamash lets it fall to their side. "Find the body," they say, their voice inscrutable. "Or what is left of it."

You don't say anything. You can hear the blood pounding in your head. To kill the human, the God of Motion unleashed the Huwawa. How... how terrible... how...?

No. It must have been justified. You rise to your feet, and with a dry voice, cheer the god who defeated an impossible foe. "Shamash," you cry, and your friends among the stands rise, too, desperate. No, not desperate. They, too, understand it was the only way to win. There will be stories told about this day, when Shamash slew Canada the Destroyer.

"Shamash! Shamash! Shamash!" The stupid slaves take encouragement to cheer their savior, but the prod of their guards gets their tongues working, even as Shamash's chariot descends to take them back once more to Babylon. "Shamash! Shamash! Shamash!"

Only your sister sits and says nothing. Dumb blind fool. One day, you will be rid of her. Maybe you should talk to the Inquisitors about her failure to show piety today...

***

Canada! Marianne!

You fall into the deep places of the city.

Down here there are vast machineries; there are storage-vaults; there are sealed tombs. There are shield generators; there are weather engines; there are hidden chambers. Here, there are passageways that lead from temple to temple, sealed thrice either way; here, there are oceans of oil and seas of circulated water; here, you are not meant to live. And yet you fall into the dust, hours away from the city far above, tangled among each other; and there is nothing but the wetness of your tears. There is no light, yet there is no silence; all around is the sound of strange and terrible device.

You are alone together. How cruel, to be so.

***

Anathet!

There is a huge and terrible sound that comes from the south. The kind of sound that signals disaster; the kind of sound that is so large it echoes across the bay, where the old city lies. Smoke rises, as do Shamash's chariots. But you're not supposed to do this; you're supposed to go and make sure everybody gets released on time. If you hurry, you can hit the release points and get everyone to scatter well before the Seneschal is found, but it's going to be tight. That means you need to stop crying and compose yourself. Get it together, girl!

How do you find solace and do what is needed of you tonight, Anathet? How do you find the self-control to keep going even when you just want to sit in a corner and cry about how awful everything is?

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

“It was...” Oh, Constance, listen to you! How your voice trembles! How lovely you are, even unwittingly! Your distress makes you seem like a tree trembling in the wind, even as you shade your eyes to watch the thrilling conclusion of the joust. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Breathless Dead

“It would take an Empress, wouldn’t it?” Redana laughs as she says it, but watch her carefully: how she starts to think, her brow furrowing, her face growing suddenly solemn. Her mother would have the motive, after all. Maybe that’s what’s in one of the Imperial Vaults: the secret of igniting one of these roaring, howling star-chambers. There’s all sorts of things in there; that’s what mother told her one night, a visiting-night, at the end of the day, sitting by Dany[1] on the side of her bed. There are wonderful things and there are dangerous things and only she knows the difference, and only she holds the keys. When she was little, Dany imagined all sorts of things in there: an entire ocean, a little thin-handled hammer with a golden head, the first seeds of all the vegetables in the world, a tusked monstrosity in adamant chains, a sword so thin you could only see the hilt. She drew them when she should have been taking notes: all the marvelous things her mind could conjure, all the forbidden gifts and curses of the universe.

How easy it would be to seal up Ignition inside there[2].

“Well, if it is her,” she says, and for a moment she is the daughter of her father, her eye the unhealthy green of a thunderstorm, her Auspex the blue-white of lightning, “then you don’t need to worry. We’ll open that vault and let Ignition out when we go home. We’re going to give everyone the stars again.”

A moment; little more. She diminishes with a smile. The echo of the Nemean— no, the reminder that the Nemean is Redana, too— dissipates. “But that’s going to take us a while. Tell me more about how our engines work, please! And if you have to explain something else, or walk me through what it means, first, I’m listening.”

She sits down, tosses one knee over the other, and gives the Hermetican her most attentive, malleable smile. She’s ready to listen to this lecture.

***

[1]: And the hollow air where, one day, a best friend would be. But not yet.

[2]: Even Redana is fuzzy, here and now, on how much that thought is metaphor. The gods do enjoy making the metaphorical literal.

Breathless Dead

“Maybe there’s lost context,” Redana says, because she’s surely expected to say something. A princess does not sit like a lump and refuse to engage with her lessons! “The archivists are always complaining about that. That in previous ages, there are things that don’t get recorded because they’re obvious, or were, back then. Like where Xiban was! We have records of trading fleets and descriptions of their royal court, but nobody wrote down where it was because that was obvious, everyone knew Xiban, until we didn’t. So maybe everybody used to know what made engines ignite, until they didn’t, because there was disruption and tumult and cultural collapse. Or, or maybe that part was an oral tradition, because those are very prone to disruption, if everyone that knows what’s supposed to be passed on dies.”

That’s not a cheerful thought. Lots of serious, devoted technomancers, passing on the great big secret, from the old to the new, and then something happens all at once: Poseidon drowns them all, or the Drive Yards burn with fire and light, or a mad king orders the dissolution of the turbulent priests that ail him...

“It’s okay that you don’t know,” she adds. “I’m not mad. Thank you for telling me what you do know. I really appreciate it. Can I keep asking questions? Or is there a limit? Oh no, have I run out already? Why do I keep asking? I’m sorry!”

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Set!

“Grrrrrmph...”

The Seneschal is looking at you more appraisingly, Set. As he sinks his stylus into the malleable surface of the tablet, he’s not looking at the glyph he signs: he’s looking at you. There’s a wicked cunning there, a foxlike intelligence and refusal to give up.

You’ve made him all the more zealous in wanting to stop you, to catch you, to punish you for what you’ve just done; but he knows now that he will have to be clever and decisive. Set, avatar of her god, is a dangerous enemy clambering up the Chain.

Ah, but there it is, you have the release orders now. What’s your parting gift for him?

***

Canada!

Shamash buffets you with waves of sound from what feels like every side; they’re here, they’re there, they’re kicking up great clouds of sand as they damage spacetime. It’s an unsteady and berserk assault, and it’d be easy to punish if your feet weren’t sunk into the arena.

How heavy is your shield? How do you protect your ears and eyes? Why is Marianne doing this?

***

Marianne!

The world is growing dangerously thin. That great brute chews their way through the world, and their insistence on staying in one little arena is making things quite, quite threadbare.

What begins to leak through into the audience? What signs and portents and stray thoughts are made manifest among them as their god threatens to send them all hurtling down into your demesne?

Breathless Dead

Redana considers carefully. A good question has to demonstrate not only comprehension of the material but the vision to build upon it and make connections to previously learned material, because that is what is expected of an empress. But what can she say? Most of what she has known about ships up to this point is on how to deploy them, how to manage construction requests and delays, and practical knowledge stolen from planetary romances and contraband codices.

“Is the Engine a sun?” It sounds so stupid even as she asks. “I mean... are they sacred to Apollo? I’ve always wondered, but nobody ever thought I needed to know that. If they are, did he teach us how to make them, or did Hermes, or did Haephestus?” The words tumble out faster, as if getting squeezed from a press. “And how do the engines harness its power for propulsion? I haven’t had the chance to look at them yet, but Vasila said it was too dangerous to meddle with them without good reason and the blessing of as many gods as would listen...”

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Oh, Constance! How your cheeks burn with shame when you come to yourself. This is undignified! You have made a scene! You take a seat, accepting a glass gratefully and sitting among the Duchess's advisors. You move your legs nervously, tempted to pull them close to yourself, silently willing everyone to turn their eyes away from you and back to the list.

Ah, the joust! Which has stopped being a joust; your champion has dismounted! You watch her with mingled shame and curiosity; shame that you still do not remember her name, but curiosity at seeing the way she handles that mock-ax. How will she handle it? Will she move with the irresistible strength of a mountain or the subtle grace of a river? Your heart is a faint and feeble thing in your chest, but still you watch.

Fellowship: The Heart

Ailee!

The smell of the flower blooming is indescribable. Lenses and speakers bud and blossom, glowing from within, as you are examined in turn. The Bees buzz furiously and agitatedly; some throw themselves against the metal flower and burst in a shower of sparks, while others lash out and sting you because you’re the closest thing to sting. Throbbing waves of growth cause showers of static as the flower looms over you.

“Welcome to Wormwood Station!” The voices of the speakers entwine like snakes fucking, one black and jagged and rusty, one shining neon sugarpop. “Please be mindFUL and follow all POSted secuRIty measures! Security is [bzzzzzt] byword! Report SUSpicious aCTivity to your near [bzzzzzzt] injury, maiming or DEATH. Mind the Gap! Mind the Gap! Mind [bzzzzzzzt]!”

***

Lucien!

You’re halfway up the shaft when there’s a gravitational inversion. Up becomes down, and down, unfortunately, becomes up. This means that you’re now hanging upside down to a rusty elevator chain, trusting in your core strength to not hurtle down to your doom far above.

The other problem is that the crashed elevator far, far below is hurtling down towards you with a hideous screeching sound, like a bat out of some terrible hell. You have to outrace the descending elevator to an exit without falling to your doom!

***

Jackdaw!

The Chief Squeaker crumples and begins to sob. They sob so hard and with so much volume that salty puddles begin to form. Wait, no. There are waves moving in them.

In no time at all, there are waves breaking against the carefully maintained glass dunes, waves glittering like ice, but infinitely sharper.

And that’s when the floor underneath buckles and gives way, sending everyone in torrents below.

***

Coleman!

You get your answer when the water starts leaking from the roof. Wolf and you react almost at the same time, scrambling for cover as the roof caves in underneath water and glass and screaming mice and kobolds.

But as you’re scrambling together (and, one might note, Wolf leads the scrambling, as she’s still got you on a leash), you see a familiar raggedy fox on her way down...