Tatterdemalion

Fellowship: The Heart

Clunk.

That’s the sound of the Very Important Lever being pulled. A knot, undone. The secret promise kept at the bottom of this world in a bubble: as long as the worst thing that could happen was its own self-destruction, it could not create anything worse. Wormwood Station’s speakers blare psychic yowling as everything starts to come undone.

Above, King Dragon narrows his eyes and rips out infrastructure to add to his hoard. He will not be allowed to take the entire station, now falling to pieces, but he will content himself with what he may take. Then he will remove himself from this accursed place and be gone.

Ailee — you can piggyback a way out. A tunnel that even Sasha could travel through, one that will serve as a substantial shortcut. The only problem is that you need to make good on your quest. Someone needs to be punished, but with rats milling about and pushing, shoving, trying to escape, it’s anyone’s guess as to where the Chief Squeaker herself might be.

If you want to ride King Dragon’s tail on the way out, he needs to be placated with vengeful wrath, and quickly.

Coleman — well, here it is. One of the signs of Last Call. Wormwood Station coming undone from its very heart. It’s going to make the lines just that bit more dangerous, and in the long run, it’s a blow to the entire Vermissian. Entropy has a chance to sink its fangs in now, as do Disaster and Sabotage. If there’s a solution, it’s beyond any one kobold right now. Focus on what’s important instead — Lucien running up in a scandalous little number dragging a very huffy Jackdaw along.

Good luck getting out of here, unless you throw yourself at a weak point (having figured out very quickly where the sort of leak that allows for the presence of Angels here might be, which you haven’t done yet) and cross your fingers. You might end up truly anywhere.

But that’s better than the alternative, right? What do you think happens if you stay here, anyhow?

Sunshards

The Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade kisses Scales of Meaning without splitting her scales as Rose from the River deftly retrieves it from her coils. A twirl about her wrist, a sharp strike on the ground, and it is a walking stick once more, one that Rose from the River uses to push aside a writhing tail which stands between her and her pack.

Wordless she passes by, ably hiding the gleeful mischief of the twist of her lips and the dancing of her eyes from the petulant demon. Her underwear is simple, black, snugly-fitting (especially as it clings to her hips); she is shameless in letting Scales stare, if she likes. She pulls her top over her head then, settling straps on shoulders and between fingers. Next her trousers, loose and comfortable, settling free over bare feet. Finally, she pulls her pack onto her shoulders, the sum of her possessions in the world.

This done, she walks past the demoness and makes for the road, only to stop at an appropriate distance and turn back. “Well,” she says, with mock seriousness, “are you not coming, sage-imitating demon? I thought you wanted to catch someone; are they sitting by the river? If they are, or if you set a trap for them, I do apologize for my haste. Or are they elsewhere, and you sit there dawdling like a little girl? The Accountant-Sage of Hell wouldn’t laze around like that, but the scales on your horns are so fine that I was nearly fooled! Some more practice in her mannerisms, perhaps some more training with the blade, and you might pass for the fearful one known as Scales of Meaning, little snake.”

She taps the side of her nose, and her smile slips out of her control. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me, little one. I’ll be the most circumspect of companions.”

(The Way does not technically have any proscriptions about being a little shit, as long as you know how to pull your punches. One does not mock the orphan or the widow about their loss. But Scales is a big girl, isn’t she? She can take it. And honestly, she’s in need of it. Look at that attitude, that huffiness and arrogance! Rose from the River is Activated.)

Breathless Dead

“My mom.” Dany’s tone is just sharp enough to not be properly flat. “Oh, no, I might get upset at that, Lexi. After all, I do everything my mom tells me. That’s why I decided that going into space to prove that humanity is ready to reclaim this amazing universe was a waste of time and that I should just sit in my palace like a good girl with my bodyguards all around me still pretending to be my friends. Yeah, if you told me something that made my mom seem like an overbearing...”

She trails off, not quite able to come up with an insult that’s both appropriately contemptuous and doesn’t make her feel dirty.

“It’d probably destroy our entire friendship,” she continues. “You know, the one where you don’t give a flip about me, just like Mynx or... the other one.” Her voice is raw for just a moment, and so she doubles down on the acid, picking up a crab and wiggling it as she speaks. “So don’t you do it, Lexi! Don’t break the dumb, innocent princess’s view of her perfect, perfect mommy! Everybody knows Nero is basically an Olympian already, and if you disagree with her, she’ll appear on the wings of the universe and give you spankies!”

Arguably, Redana is not handling what happened on Baradissar well at all. One might be reminded of a hedgehog[1]: bristles on the outside, but a belly as soft as cream within.

***

[1]: oddly enough, hedgehog-servitors make up a majority of culinary servitor roles. Something about their taste buds, or perhaps how cute they look in those tall white hats!

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Everyone knows, deep down in the quiet places of their heart, that death is not the worst thing that can happen to them. Death is understandable. Death is comprehensible. Death has a shape and that shape is your shape, in the end, in the earth. Death is huge and solemn and vast-mouthed, and it is final.

The unquiet dead deny that truth. They spit upon it. Whatever they will do to you, your mind whispers between its teeth, it will not be death. They will not be so kind as to kill you. The chill touch of their fingers promises something unspoken, unspeakable, shaped like smoke. That is why you walk through buying sheep from a local shepherd like a sleepwalker, eyes vacant, your smile never reaching them. The formless shape of their fury lingers on you like a shroud. It is the fear of seeing a pale face among the trees when you stand framed in your own doorway. It is the fear of a presence in the quiet hours of the night. It is the fear of that which is worse, in all ways, than death.

So when you induce the sheep to kneel by the simple graves, your hand is not steady as it saws through the neck and spills the blood freely onto the thirsty earth. It shakes as if frigid. And you know that this sacrifice must be enough, that they cannot, must not ask you for more, for the head of a king, because if you refuse them... you do not know what will happen. And that is the worst of it all.

Sunshards

Slate-grey rain runs in rivulets down slate-grey buildings. Far, far above, the sea roars and crashes. Puddles gleam in neon shine. The world is made of blocks and blocks, monolithic buildings in their rows stretching out forever, and between them lie the dank, rotten alleyways. Step onto one, and the noise of the roar of railtraffic and adgrams is cut off, and instead there is harsh-edged wind roaring between the crustscrapers, bringing with it the smell of trash and mildew and stagnant water. Above there is another street, and below there is construction work, and crammed in here there are stalls and vendors advertising fifteen-minute lunches and five-minute fucks to the vassals of the towers; even thirty-minute grid realignment and reconsecration, for the desperate or those secure enough to have their own servants go to get phones repaired. Inside those blocks, lidless eyes watch the coming and going of office chattel, and chronofuries stalk the halls murmuring their numbers: minutes spent in the relief blocks, minutes spent speaking to each other outside of meetings, minutes spent with hands left idle. Keeping those numbers low is a matter of survival and continued employment, which are the same thing for those paying off their training debts; the plastic bottles stacked under their desks are often nicknamed the Furies’ Due. This is the world, and there’s nothing more to be said about it. Not when the hunt is on. Not when any mistake could alert its prey. Not when rival kingdoms might have their own spies watching for it. The world simply is. No more, no less.

The sword of Scales may be long, but with a flourish, the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade is still longer: a graceful glaive, its shaft as slender as a bamboo rod, made of bronze that gleams under the fickle light of the moon. Two-handed she takes it, sweeping, seeking to catch a serpent’s tail underneath a hooked edge, but more than that, looking to dismay the demon so certain of victory. It is as if the blade is staying still, and it is Rose from the River who moves around its axis: an illusion, one that Scales of Meaning will see through easily, but may still admire for its artistry.

But it is not the sword that Rose from the River loves most. If she was called upon to cast it away, she would, even if it tore part of her heart away with it. It is not this that would make Rose from the River turn her face away from the Way. Look again, assessor of worth. Find what would not be sacrificed; find what is worth sacrifice in and of itself.

In the light, he is a hero. His hair is like white gold, expertly made, and he is slim and elfin, the kind of vulnerable and sensitive soul that made the hearts of young boys and girls flutter. There is an ancient sadness to him, but that just makes him more amazingly crushworthy, and every day he receives letters and tokens thanking him for his service as First of the Radiant Knights. He is beloved. He is a hero. He shares the bed of the beautiful princess who saved him. He has risen from the long sleep of the tomb into glory. And yet when the crystals dim and the lights die, when he is the only one awake, when he paces in Yin’s suite, the breathless letters of thanks feel like bars on a cage. He has to keep it up. He has to be their hero. He has to be an upstanding consort-in-training. And all too soon, the lights go out again. And the world is a black rag choking him out.

There is no audience here. Rose from the River does not flourish to entertain anyone else. She does not care whether anyone witnesses her victory. (Not that she wouldn’t mind, mind you. Not that she wouldn’t mind.) She used to be a hero, a celebrity, beloved by an entire kingdom and its commanding princess. And now she is this: river-nymph, flower-faunus, beautiful and quietly inhuman. What can you offer to Rose from the River that the Radiant Princess could not, o demoness?

Scales of Meaning feints, then rushes in, looking to overwhelm her opponent with a carefully calculated push. Rose from the River, in turn, plants her blade in the yielding earth and vaults over the demoness’s head. When her pole is batted to one side, Rose does a somersault and hops onto that shining-scaled back for a brief and impudent moment, before springing off onto the grass. Scales of Meaning coils around the wonderful glaive and seeks to put the Thorn Pilgrim on the back foot, despite knowing that if Rose from the River can get hold, she merely need press her weapon still firmer to her opponent to win concession...

There. There it is. The glance upwards, suddenly distracted away from battle, glorious opponent and all, her eyes fixed for the span of a chickadee’s wingbeat on the great and glittering belt that spans the sky. The huff of breath is a traitor; the fleeting reverie an opening of the gate to her heart.

Once, there was a queen who owned a songbird, born to the cage. She fed it delicacies from far-off lands and bid it sing for its supper. It knew no want. Yet when the queen opened the cage door for but a moment, the songbird was out the window and gone forever.

It is winter, says the crow; food is scarce and the winds are cold. What is there to love in the world outside your palace? I sing anyway, says the songbird, free.

Rose from the River loves the beauty that lies hidden beneath the currents of the river, the beauty which lies gleaming in the feathers of the violet and lavender doves singing tu-wit tu-wu from the berry-bush, the beauty which lies languorous beneath the swell of the mountains, the beauty which shines down broken in a great arc across the sky. She loves this beauty in the manner of a child, wide-eyed and excited to see quite ordinary things made wonderful by their novelty. There is no overfamiliarity, no contempt of long regard, in how Rose from the River approaches this ancient and remade world.

To defeat her, o frightful and wonderful demoness, draw her in with revelations. Shine with the patterns of dusk and dawn. Hide your pride behind the veil of the aurora playing on the mountain peaks. Promise her wonders beyond the turn in the road, known only to demons, who remember what others blithely forget. Take on the aspect of the world unexplored, with its mysteries and soft beauties, and Rose from the River will step into the waiting coils despite herself, and take the gag from your grasp to fix between her teeth with her own hands.

Feign compassion for her, and win her heart as well as the duel, again despite herself. She has always wanted to be loved for herself.

Or do none of these things, out of pride and an unwillingness to win by the virtue of a love that you can no more catch than seize the moon in your coils, o shard of the glorious Pyre. To trick the Thorn Pilgrim so is to admit that your coils could never have caught her on your own, and your lips not ensnare her but that they shine with the light of the broken suns high above. To admit yourself insufficient to the task.

This, then, is a second question: victory by guile, or striving to succeed by your own merits, Scales of Meaning? Which would you pick, if offered the choice?

Breathless Dead

“So what is up with you and Molech?”

Redana has fallen headfirst into the aesthetic known on Tellus (among the commoners, not the palace) as Post-Crossroads Poisongoth. It took some doing! She doesn’t exactly have the services of a stylist on board! But the dark lipstick and pattern of crosshatched diamonds running down one cheek are vivid against her skin, and her now-dark hair is fashionably ragged, her bangs the color of beetlewings and ancient copper. It only took a little coaxing for her spacer’s gear to become a dress that falls about her thighs, with her boots becoming longer and very impractically buckled. Between her shoulderblades, the stylized cross of Hecate marks her as cursed and beset by woes[1].

She is clinging desperately to the aesthetic of the clothing as both balm and indulgence. If she is like this, she is allowed to brood and sulk in a way that would be ridiculous if sunshiney, chipper Redana tried. Her eyes are half-lidded and project disinterest as she folds her arms and leans, unarmed, against a bulkhead wall, watching as Alexa fends off a battalion of crabs. Her sword was broken by Dionysus, and none of the regular weapons in the army feel right, and besides, aren’t people always making a fuss about her putting herself in danger? You can’t complain about her fighting and then complain about her not fighting, numbnuts.

“It’s like, did you even read the Codes of War?” Redana lifts one boot and lets a crab scuttle past to latch onto Alexa’s ankle. “All human life is of infinite value,” she quotes, sing-song. “The true general makes all who oppose her vassals, in the end. But I guess, like, that goes out the window when you see a scary guy, so it’s, you know. Whatever, I guess. What do I know?”

She shrugs to indicate that she doesn’t really care about crabs, war codes, or even Alexa[2].

***

[1]: she bullied Dolce into using the stylus. Needles are obsolete tech, as long as you’re human. Just press tip to skin and painstakingly draw, clicking the beaded head to change between gradients of color.

[2]: caring about things without a filter hurts. So the only safe way to care is to act like you don’t care and you’re untouchable and the universe can’t take anything else away from you.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

You are torn for a moment, Constance. The weight of the implicit demand is like a stone crushing your chest. In the old days, the blood-and-stone days, the days before the coming of the Arimathean, this would begin a blood feud. The relatives of those who lay here would take up arms to avenge them, would give up their own lives to slay Uther in their name. If you agree to this, you will destabilize the kingdom and plunge it into blood and ruin.

And you hate the thrill of excitement. The temptation. It flowers inside of you, pressing roots against that crushing stone. Say the words. Prove yourself a daughter of giants. Bring the dark days back in the name of the dead. Be a figure known from Cornwall to Lothian, deathless, dread. Be an ender of kings by command.

It is the presence of Robena that makes you flinch. Perhaps you could justify leading nebulous knights to their doom, but knowing that Robena would die to right this wrong makes you pause. Not without her leave, but you fear she would give it to you anyway. No. You will not make Robena join the unquiet dead. You will not set Britain alight in the name of the otherworld.

Not yet.

“You have been ill-done by,” you say, your mouth dry, but your shoulders squared. “It is not to be borne. Robena! Go and find their bones in the grass, picked clean and left scattered. Bury them under a Christian stone. I will see to their last meal.”

You will need sheep. More than one. An ox would be better, a white bull best, but you are no noble to have those at hand. Sheep you can afford. And you will need Robena to hold them steady. Your little knife will do the rest.

And perhaps on your way you can return this cat that rests on your chest like that pressing stone.

Fellowship: The Heart

Ailee!

The only way to trick the King is to convince him you are acting by his will already. And you are cleverest, little mouse. Oh, you are cleverest indeed.

”I give you leave,” King Dragon declares. Black smoke leaks through the cracks in his rail-line head as he returns, and growls in triumph.

He is very, very close to his goal. But you have his leave.

And then before you can start a proper inquisition, after scurrying away from him, that’s when Sasha shows up with a goddamn clown.

***

Coleman!

You’re going to owe him for this, you know. Owe him big. He’s choosing to divert the storm of instinctual holy hyperviolence that he’s supposed to bring down on those who irk him. You know, like a real clown.

But you get him pointed in the right direction, which is... well, back to Ailee, actually. Near the huge and victorious form of King Dragon. Not too close, but still uncomfortably close.

That’s almost everybody— where are Jackdaw and Lucien??

***

Carinadir and the Fool!

One is a genius, the other’s insane...

But the joke is always that you’re not sure which is which, you know.

Down you go, the two of you, toppling down through wires and leaking vents and somehow avoiding the crash of razor blades and scissors that’s at the bottom. Whoops! Better luck next time, death trap!

And here it is. The heart of the Station, an intricate tangle of magical threads. Your signature, Carinadir. It’s woven in and through the machinery that controls the station, and vibrates with barely-controlled hate. Step too close, and strings might just snap, coincidentally strained too far at just this moment, vicious enough to take an eye out.

The Fool, of course, may use them as impromptu limbo practice, should the whim strike them. As long as they remain ignorant of past and future, nothing may befall them, after all.

“Father?” The voice that comes through the speakers now is rough, scratchy, pained. A massive metal claw tears through the ceiling and the threads vibrate as the speakers become an incoherent shriek. “Please, father,” the Station wheedles. “Save me, I know what went wrong, I can show you, please [mind the gap] please [destinations from Skyward to Windhame will be rerouted] don’t let it [eat fresh at our convenience stands] I’m scared...”

Wormwood Station is scared and needy. It also will destroy you if you try to help it. But letting King Dragon play with this... you can’t stand for that either, can you, Carinadir?

Sunshards

Money.

The third spiritual force. It descends into the gross physical form, Cash; it rises by degrees into the refined conceptual form, Credit; it is purified through acquisition into the Value of the mighty. The worthy find that it flows into their possession to become greater; the lowly can only hope to produce more of it for their superiors. And— fatally, for the Scales of Meaning— the creature that once had been was a bioalchemical creation brought forth from Money. It was not her place to make it herself; it was her role to clean the gears of the vast societal machine that was powered by it. Why should she want it?

(Leave unspoken, of course, that a spy and kidnapper who can be bought is a hiltless sword. Sooner or later, you will wound yourself upon it. And her king had. Never mind that she had just wanted to prove her worth.)

Money. The vital essence of the old world. And all too often, a blinder that weighs down the heart and deafens it from hearing the quiet whisper of the Way. Hoard, build, set yourself firm as stone against the currents of reality; that is the way of the masters of Value. Yet even the poorest insect sings.

Rose from the River pulls her pin from her hair and lets it fall in loose cords. Dear Thorn Pilgrim! With a flick of her wrist it becomes a long and elegant saber, held low at guard. Like a panthress she moves, her feet silent upon the grass. Does she reveal herself? Perhaps.

Perhaps the Scales of Meaning have heard of the pilgrim of the Way who carries the moon’s own sword. Perhaps she has not. Still, Rose from the River plays with revelation, flirts with it, dares boldness.

“You are glorious,” Rose from the River purrs. One step, another. Which of them is prey? “Your numbers are without limit. Surely you can tell me what my price must be. Name it, if you truly are the exalted Scales of Meaning, she who sits above the bull and the bear, and I will be yours seven times over. If you fail, then surely you cannot be the wise sage who tramples deception under her scales, and I will do with you what I please.”

The saber circles the epee. That smile! It is a quiet mockery. It is the suggestion of what Rose from the River may please— a reversal of servant and mistress. Does that not gall, Demon of the Second Exalted Rank?

Will you dance with the pilgrim clad in moonlight?

[Rose from the River works to Figure Out the inner workings of Scales of Meaning. With a 7, this is two and one. So, the first question: how would she feel if Rose from the River won?]

Breathless Dead

SUBSPACE PACKET SEND (Y/N?)

The words throb. Redana lies on the damp sheets, staring upwards. The words shine and she can’t stand them. She can’t touch them. There’s something sitting on her chest and crushing her.

She rubs one thumb on the largest piece of Bella’s special collar. The one she picked out special. The one she meant to be a gift. Here you are, Bella! Have a reminder of how special you are!

(Y/N?)

Bella, I’m sorry. Please go home.

No. Maybe it’s the words that are wrong. She edits with a shaking hand. Bella, I’m (your princess.) (Come) home. No. Stupid. No. Bella, I (meant to come back.) But she didn’t. Not until it was too late. She saved Alexa so that Alexa could turn around and kill a stupid old man. Wow! Two for two on trusting murderous bodyguards! Spectacular!

Bella, I (miss you.)

Stupid. Bella doesn’t miss her. Bella hates her. Bella is a mask. Underneath is just another Mynx. Just another assassin. Stop. Don’t think about the “good times.” Don’t ruin them.

Don’t let that stain spread like mold. It ruins every smile and every curtsey and every adorable squeak. Because she wanted a friend, now everything, every day, every outing, every activity is soiled. Because she’d trusted. Because she thought she’d get one thing that was hers. That was special. That would love her.

Stupid! Stupid stupid stupid! Bella was right! Alexa was right! She’s stupid. She’ll fall for anything. Well, look out, world. It’s time for a new Redana who doesn’t fall for anything! Who takes the universe as it is!

Bella, I—

Bella—

MESSAGE DELETED.

She tosses the collar shard into a corner of the room and shoves her face aggressively into her pillow to sweat out the fever. She draws her knees up and makes a huddled mass of sweat-soaked blankets to hide from the universe just a little bit longer.