Tatterdemalion

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

"Honored dead of Britain!" You advance on the ghosts like a wave upon the shore, bearing Cath like a royal orb in one arm, chin held high as you squeeze the cat close, your way of letting Cath know that you will not let her fall. "I am this woman's arbitrator. Whatever your quarrel with her, I will guarantee restitution." There. You know that not even the dead would dare strike you (not without provocation, at least), and you know that this is the only way to protect Robena from the anger of the dead. "Share with me her failure, and we may agree on how it may be made right."

How that twists your heart! To speak as if Robena was not here, as if she was some fool vassal and not a brave and clever knight. As if you had the right to speak for her in such fashion. If Robena takes offense and complains, she might bring the wrath of the unquiet dead on you both, and you just have to hope as hard as you can that she's better than that. That she can trust you. That you've been trustworthy, a pillar of strength that has awed her into compliance, despite the best efforts of donkeys and horses.

[Constance does her best to Win Them Over and rolls an 8. She wants the ghosts to agree to be appeased if their grudge is made right. How could I assure you that I can appease your grudge?]

Sunshards

Ancient claws grasp at Rose from the River, holding her fast by the neck, the arms, the waist, and with a deep trill of triumph, the ABC Mechanism drags its prize in.

That is its intent, at least. But Rose from the River does not move. She has dug herself into place, her toes and heels spreading into the riverbed below. As the leviathan pulls at her, losing the battle against her roots, two new arms define themselves and unfold from her torso, unseen by its primitive cameras. (Down here, poor thing, it is half-blind. All it can see is magic, and that like a woman groping towards sunlight from her bed.) And in them she grasps the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade, which with a flick of her wrist becomes a thick-bladed cleaver, keen to a sorrowful edge.

One, two! One, two! Claws are torn from the body by the strain of Rose’s wiry arms. (Her change is slower, now, a thing of breath and growth, but every moment makes those arms stronger and more generously fleshed.) She stands fixed, unmovable by heaven or hell. And so the ABC fulfills its programming the only way it can, so maimed, its cast-off limbs settling all around them: it flings itself forward and traps Rose from the River in the cube like a girl trapping a butterfly underneath a cup. This is a strong yet humiliating move, were there any to witness; it presses its sensors into the packed river-mud, pushing its weight down to prevent Rose from lifting it off of her. Now it only needs wait until the circle cuts off Rose from her roots, forcing her to withdraw completely into the prison.

But even as it constricts around her, Rose from the River (now lit by the soft white glow issuing from the sides of the cube, a figure of darkness within the gentle and invasive light) flicks the ogre’s knife she holds once, and it narrows, lengthens, becomes a gleaming victory spear with a fin-curved head. She gathers her strength, even as her essence without the cube withers away, crumbling and retracting, and takes a breath, fills herself with potential energy until it is enough to consume her if left unreleased.

Dear Thorn Pilgrim! As the jaws of the trap close around her, her spirit shines all the brighter! She takes her weapon, fallen from the strange and pale moon which is the doorstep of heaven, and with it performs the Royal kata, which is a continuous cutting motion. In one flourish, her feet still rooted in the earth, she circumscribes the binding cube from within one hundred and eight times.

This done, she takes her victory spear and moves into the presentation kata. Ten heartbeats pass. Then the cube unravels, torn into one continuous skin, the binding circle translated into a pattern of preservation. Limbs fall ascatter all about, even as the thing that once was a cube twists and attempts to understand its transcription into something different. (If washed up onto a village bank somewhere, it would be a strange wonder, indivisible and singular.)

Rose from the River pulls her feet from the riverbed, flicks the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade into the shape of a pin, and ties her braids about it. Then she kicks upwards and scrambles artfully onto the bank, water gleaming moonish on her eel-dark skin, her blade lit from within by its own virtue where it holds her hair in place, all four arms well-shaped and strong.

Dear Thorn Pilgrim! She looks more like Love, Rising From The Waves than a human; the lap of water on the bank is her shell and her choir of heavenly spirits. Her eyes are molten gold, pierced by thorns; who can meet them? Her hips could crack mountains in the swing. The effect is only slightly ruined when she coughs and has to massage her gills into her skin before she suffocates on dry land. But even her cough is deep, a thing like home-brewed coffee.

Now let the Scales decide whether she is to avert her eyes from the shameless nakedness of this river-nymph or let herself be entranced in turn.

[Rose from the River Defies Disaster with a 12, willing to sacrifice her freedom in order to undo the Mechanism from within. This being done, and done with style, she emerges from the water and offers Scales of Meaning an Enticement with a 7. Is Scales of Meaning interested with what is offered?]

Breathless Dead

"I give you your life, Liu Ban," the recording of Mom says. "It is worthless." Molech tears at his beard and weeps, bitterly. The Pallas Rex lies defeated. If it were appropriate to have Mom portrayed by an actor, she'd have her foot on the statue's throat. Instead, in the midst of the Ceronians who have victoriously taken the bridge, there is a spotlight, and the impression of movement caused by shadow filters. Then the lights go out, and the curtains fall. Five minutes to the next performance.

Redana applauds. Bella doesn't. But Redana smiles for her anyway. "Wasn't that great?" It was. It was phenomenal. And one day, she's going to do something just as big. How could she be content to stay in Mom's shadow forever? No, when she gets to see the stars, she'll do things that make this, this grand drama of betrayal and hubris, seem small! Just you wait, universe! Redana's coming to get you!

***

"I give you your life, Liu Bei! Ban! Liu Ban!" Nailed it. Redana (her eyes red and puffy for some mysterious reason) lifts her head and looks down the spear. Yes. That's definitely a spear. She pats it, gently, so that Alexa knows it's okay not to spear whoever this mad machine hermit is. "Hello!" She sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve, even as Alexa very much doesn't lower the spear. And she smiles[1] and pats the spear more forcefully.

***

[1]: The resemblance is impossible to ignore. After all, not that Redana knows it, but here's someone who knew her mother for a very, very long time. Here's someone who's seen Nero both composed and regal and coming unhinged. And here's someone who can recognize the spitting image of Nero, but very much not Nero. It would not take a mad strategist-genius to put the pieces together.

Sunshards

Water. Stillness, broken by motion. Moonlight on rippling scales, dreamlike in the middle hours of the night. Hair hangs heavy, shining pale. One look was too much; when Rose from the River looks away and closes her eyes, all she finds hidden underneath them is silver light and entwining motions. Either way, she is trapped.

So where is the harm in watching?

If she is to see either way, let her see with her eyes open, free of all desire but to witness. She empties herself and stands hollow by the riverside, and allows black and silver to fill her with rippling motion.

And then, so filled, her clothing scatters on the riverbank, strewn about her mendicant’s pack. Rose strikes the water and sinks, heavy, to the bottom. The water is deeper than it looks. Down there, she glitters, gills fluttering feather-soft, the necessary counter-balance to Scales playing upon the surface.

Ah, perhaps this was the harm in watching.

Does Scales of Meaning descend to speak through twisting coil-whorls and sword-dance underneath the water, or does she withdraw to the bank until Rose from the River rediscovers buoyancy?

[A String, offered.]

Sunshards

The sweep of the hillside is peppered with thickets: stiff, brown-edged grasses; trees hunched low like grandmothers in their gardens; bushes beloved of the sheep that pass on by in their roving herds. Here and there are flowers in the soft pink of dawn. But it is dusk, and the slow embrace of night draws a curtain of velvet shadow over the thickets, making them mere suggestions of form, a deeper dark against the grey. From this distance, there is no reflected glint from the lens.

If you came quite close, shielding your eyes from the joyful lights of the Pyre, and let your eyes become accustomed to the subtle distinctions of the gloaming, you might distinguish, here, among the low branches, a long-forgotten tablet. Time has allowed roots to tangle around it, back facing the road, which (should you inspect it quite carefully indeed) is strange, given that it is refurbished in leather and brass, the case distinctly Ysian in its fusion of disparate design elements. It must have been tossed aside immediately after it was made. Who would be so careless? By it lies a fallen tree, bush-buried, something to step over carefully lest there be a serpent slumbering beneath.

One silent, unblinking eye watches the procession. Occasionally, there is the muted chirp of a silenced camera, lost in the sound of night-birds and crickets at play. The wind makes the branches of the trees overhead shudder and clutch at themselves as if pulling a shawl tighter over bony shoulders. Above, Archer’s Ladder shines, almost as bright as the procession and the fires of understanding.

Below, the bells and drums swell to climax and then recede into the distance, leaving behind a mud-trampled serpentess. The lidless eye watches her as she pulls herself up, hissing and cursing the air scarlet, redistributing the filth on her face with each angry smear across her cheeks. Perhaps she suspects the observation from how she glances about, but the world all around is soft and shifting shadow. Then she slithers away, on her own path, seeking Yue of the Terraced Lake. Then there is deep indigo dusk, and a rabbit content to graze in the stillness, and for a time there is nothing here to hold the eye.

If there was anyone here, peering into the dark, staring at the lost tablet, they would be very suddenly surprised. The effect is much like suddenly seeing a picture within a picture, or a young woman in the portrait of the old; various elements and shadows cohere all at once, no longer harmonizing with the world around them. What seemed for all the world roots were truly braids, which whip and entwine of their own volition, releasing the tablet now taken up in mottled hands, slowly bleeding away the pattern of light and shadow that broke form and outline. The moon’s thin light catches teeth as white as mountain snow, bared in a triumphant grin. “Got you,” Rose from the River says, flicking through her gallery.

Here it is: the gaudy, enticing carnival of desire, whirling and whorled, a familiar expression of excess. In another life, on another path, they would be rivals. Goblin-bushes and hunting-stags would harry the Pyre and trap stolen sub-souls in prisons of vine and flower, all for the glory of the Princess of Undermountains, crowned in the full glory of spring. And instead Rose stands on a hillside, alone but for the distant rabbit, and leans against a twisted trunk as she lets herself be briefly enticed by the colors, the cloths and silks, the gags— she exhales quick through her nose, imagining the lovely sensation of a full mouth and a soft cloth pulled tight over her lips. A shudder runs through her braids, flowers unfurling their petals and retracting in turn, all shades of dawn muted in the moonlight. Then, in reflexive embarrassment, she glances to either side, and then back to her task.

Having been a prisoner trapped in unquiet sleep for centuries gives one a complex relationship with restraint. So does not knowing if your desires were written into you as a means of control by your creators. So does not having a private space any more to experiment with one’s new body. Say what you would about Yin, but at least she was willing to tie her knight down...

(When it didn’t feel wrong. When her body didn’t feel too heavy, too ill-made. When their schedules coincided. When the Knight made himself open for her.)

But self-indulgence for the sake of self-indulgence is selfish. While not the worst of sins, sloth and excessive self-pleasure are dangerous enticers that keep many pilgrims from pursuit of the Way. There is work for her to do, heroics to enact if she plays her part, people to help. Taking the place of the Voice of Ballet, dressed like a Ysian concubine, is a thought that will keep her company when she lays down to sleep tonight, but it is only a fantasy, and one to only lightly indulge in lest it cause her to falter in the face of the Pyre.

A moment’s consideration, pausing on a shot of the Scales of Meaning. Here. A smaller, more comprehensible aspect of the Pyre. As inviting as the wild carnival may be, her instincts are telling her that her own path is entangled with that of the serpent. (A fellow serpent, even. It’s been some time since she took on a serpentine aspect, but she was still fondest of her eyes.)

The tablet is holstered in one of her pack’s outermost pockets. A fine silver wand is retrieved from another pocket, where it lay hidden from the moonlight. A wave, and it becomes a walking stick, light but steady. Thus armed, Rose from the River begins to follow her quarry, humming a half-remembered jingle from a neon-shadowed ramen bar. The rabbit raises its head and scurries away.

Breathless Dead

”You’re welcome,” the Nemean says to Alexa, gesturing at the bone knife lodged between two of her ribs. Owls swarm around her, but they might as well be waves crashing against the foot of a mountain. ”Not that I did it for you, but— we both know the little princess would have been inconsolable if I let her break you.”

She pulls the knife out. The one thing that you’re really not supposed to do, and she goes ahead and does it anyway. She makes a restrained grunt, like she’s not in considerable pain, and then takes Alexa’s hand, prying fingers open with inexorable force. The bone is slick with dark, dark blood.

”Keep my trophy for me,” the Nemean commands. It’s different from Redana’s (undeniable) requests; the Nemean speaks and brooks no disagreement. Might as well try to argue with the tides. ”Take the little princess and her pet back to your shuttle. Their champion is defeated; the rest should give you no trouble at all—“

The smell of ozone becomes overwhelming, and then Redana faceplants into the wedding dress, limp and half-conscious. She doesn’t look to be torn apart with wounds, but perhaps the Fates need to keep their threads in order, and she might very well be dying from what should have been fatal, should she have experienced it. Who knows? It’s a mess.

What is undeniable is that her skin is clammy and she can’t lift her head and also the two of you are surrounded by Kaeri. Congratulations, Alexa! Top-notch bodyguarding!

Breathless Dead

Boom! Crack! Kaeri scatter like ninepins, too quick and clever to be caught by even the Nemean’s sudden onrush. All save Lorventi. The halberd is pulled from her hands, the haft snapping like wet wood under those powerful fingers. When the head strikes the floor, it sinks down low until its terrible heat no longer suffices to melt— too low to be retrieved.

And that’s when the wrestling starts. The Nemean is Redana, if a different sort of Redana, and so she loves wrestling: the strain of muscles, the planting of feet, the throw and the crush. Lorventi tries a dozen approaches in the space of a breath and the Nemean shrugs each one aside. Claws drag uselessly down her underarmor, every attempt at a grapple or hold is broken with a flex of muscles and a husky, dangerous chuckle.

Alexa, however, will note that there is a flaw in the way that the Nemean fights, like a missing scale on a dragon’s belly. What is it? How will it mean her doom if the Kaeri focus on her and her alone?

[The Nemean rolls a 9 to finish Lorventi, and I toss the energy back to Alexa.]

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Put thoughts of the unquiet dead from your mind a moment, Constance. A cat knows if your attention is divided, and they will not stand for it. Cath will wander into the keep if you avert your eyes for a moment, just to teach you a lesson.

But you know better. You offer a direct look, then slowly blink and look away: I feel safe with you, you say. You crouch low, hand extended for Cath’s inspection, open and inviting. And when the cat comes over and puts one furry face in your palm, holding you in place with one claw, you scoop and lift before Cath can scamper away.

There’s a tricky moment where you worry you might drop the dear, a moment where you struggle to lift all four of her paws off the ground. How heavy is this cat? But you are a daughter of giants, and you will not be denied in this. That last paw rises, and now you have the darling in your arms, held close, fingers offering placating scritches through the fur.

“Hush,” you say, as she finishes the treat and begins to wiggle the wiggle of escape. “You need to stay with your Auntie Constance, Cath. Now be a dear.” You shift your weight, cup Cath close to your shoulder, and raise your chin to survey the restless dead. Approach, shades! They are permitted. Just don’t ask for you to do anything with your hands. You are already beginning to sweat, holding this strangely heavy cat.

Breathless Dead

The Nemean is a nightmare demigod, an oncoming storm. But the seed she grew from was the same, even if she blossomed under alien suns and in strange waters. When she growls in frustration, it’s a disarmingly Redana sound, like when she got her yarn tangled up while working on her latest craftswork assignment[1].

”Little snake.” One hand takes Bella by the chain, the other pulls her crushingly close, fingers in her hair. Safer to stand by a shuttle’s engines as it launches. Safer to curse Zeus’s name. If she squeezed... ”We are not done.”

The end of the chain is jerked up and slammed into the wall. The Nemean roots around in the guts of the marble until she finds what she wants: a suitable hook. It’s too high up for anything but scrabbling on tiptoe, collar biting into the skin as gravity pulls Bella down, almost all the way to the ground.

”When I am done with you,” the Nemean breathes like an oncoming wind, hand still on the small of Bella’s back, ”you will be tame.” A promise. A reminder of punishments for losing a princess. And then she is gone with a blurred stutter and a sharp crack, leaving Bella trapped[2].

***

[1]: an Empress does not simply know how to command. She knows the mechanisms of the gods. Athena may be the tactician of heaven, but even she may succumb to the allure of a shared hobby from time to time.

[2]: the Nemean never had a Bella of her own. But even Redana would have failed here, wrapping rope around Bella’s wrists and telling her to stay put. Bella is not another biddable part of the environment, and wanting her to stay is an empty wish.

Fellowship: The Heart

Ailee!

"I am here," your master says. Each word surrounds you, wraps you up in power, and a smaller and more pathetic mouse would be a quivering heap. Even in weakness, you are too strong for your own good. "And wherever I go, there is something that should belong to me." One giant railtie claw grinds down through cables. "Why, I thought you brought me here for a reason, little one. Surely you saw? I would hate to think any creature that acts in my name would be careless."

Around you, would-be rivals squeak and jeer, but under their breaths. The rats of the Heart are not mice at all. They are as close to you as gorillas are to the likes of Lucien. They are shaped different, think different, and are a bunch of primitive screwheads who flock to King Dragon because they desperately want to emulate him. But not you. You know better.

He toys with you because he must. There are no equals. There is only the dominant and those who submit, and by definition, he has dominion over all things. He is the Dragon, the first and most terrible. And yet he cannot tear open your skull and see your true thoughts (right? surely not?). Which means that you can walk away from this if you show him your acceptance of your place. If you are exceedingly clever, you might even be able to redirect him and have him believe it's his idea (because whatever he chooses to do, he does of his own overbearing will).

***

Carinadir!

"Hello, father," comes the scratchy, hateful voice over the speakers. It is a voice drawn taut with pain, a voice dripping with malice and ill intent, and the voice of someone abandoned to rule over a prison cell for eternity. It is the voice of Wormwood Station, come to life. And because you cannot admit to failure... you must have planned for this. It is only right and intended that the station grew aware of itself. "Please. Come down. Pull the lever. I'll clear up the tunnels just for you."

And that's when the big nightmare machine of drills and saws blocking one end of the tunnel springs to life, roaring and howling and pursuing you. Which, yes, that's one way to clear the tunnel (by chewing up and processing anything in its path). There are supposed to be well-lit signs and exits, though! This is not how the design was supposed to work!

***

Coleman!

...honk.

Did it come from the left?

honk honk.

No, wait, it definitely came from the right.

hoooooooonk.

Oh no he's behind you.

You can either talk really fast, right now, or start running. He might not be a full-fledged clown yet, but if he's in the rage he'll chew through anything in his path, up to and possibly including Sasha. Which, on the one hand, if you could just point him in the right direction, that could get you some real breathing room. (And would it be so bad to leave him here? It's a tempting thought, right?)