Thanqol

Breathless Dead

Eater Of Pancakes!

Swish swish. Bella is sitting down in front of you, but her eyes aren't her own. She's looking at you with an intense, searching expression, staring deep into your eyes that she might imagine the truth below.

"I can't tell if you've changed, Redana," said Bella softly.

She takes your chin in your hand, so lonely, so distant. You see a ripple across her fur and your heavy eyes fall closed again. You feel the prick of antivenom fangs on your mouth and you don't know if she bit your lip as Bella or as Mynx.

She's Mynx when your eyes clear, leaning back on her chair, balanced on two legs and her tail, leather boots up on the table and with an expression like a joke is growing amidst the melancholy.

"Holy shit you're in so much trouble," she said, white teeth grinning with just a flash of your red. "Redana. Did you know? Did you know that you were running towards the Hunt, the Harvest and the Heart? Would it have changed anything if you did?" She's halfway towards falling to easy teasing but the weight on her shoulders and in her heart weigh against the helium of her smile.

Alexa!

"Your wrath is irrelevant," said the Hermetic. "It is as plain as day that Athena has turned her face from you, and I do not require relics to deal with you. Simple Coherent should be enough to eject you and teach you a lesson about respect."

A withered finger raises and points and half a dozen improbably bulky Coherent enforcers approach you, picking up pipes and wrenches, flexing and scowling and striking poses. And, true to the Hermetic's words, Athena is not with you in this. Your mind is filled with fog; you cannot see the angles, you cannot calculate the tactics, you do not know how to smoothly and flawlessly win this battle.

But deep in your secret heart you feel a burning sensation that tells you that an ugly win can still be a win.

Vasilia!

"Oh, you're fucked if you want to keep doing the hero thing," said Hestia brightly. "You've lost the favour of Zeus and she's not the kind of god who takes 'I've thought about what I've done' as an apology. You probably can't even comprehend how much you were coasting on sheer divine favour. Like, that ramming maneuver? Shooting a Hermetic Evoker in the face? That whole thing with Demeter? People way more skilled than you were nothing but blood vapor by this point on your insane journey. Frankly right now you'd be lucky to get steady employment, which I nevertheless suggest attempting because if you pull your husband back into this shit then you will not be able to protect him."

Dolce!

"If she is your Captain then she owes you your wages when you arrive in the next port," said Hera, gently touching her forehead against yours. "If she is your king then she owes you her sword when evil threatens you and yours. But if she is your wife then she owes you everything. And if you do not get your due, the interest in each case will be pain."

Bella!

"Don't you dare move!"

You've had that yelled at you before. But this... isn't being yelled at you. It takes you a moment to orient as the overweight Azura woman jogs up to you, huffing with the exertion and mopping her forehead with her immense cravat. "Oh! You poor dear! You've injured your neck and you might be paralyzed for life!"

She's still not talking to you. She's talking to the crowd - she's making some kind of show out of this, but you can't comprehend what her game is. "You, ser! And you! You saw the whole thing! You saw this poor girl almost killed by this deathtrap, and as Themis is your judge I declare you are all witnesses! I'll have you write your names, and may any woman who does not be held in contempt of the gods and their law!"

And then she's ducked her head into the cockpit to look right at you - and her watery eyes fill with a hard cunning, and she gives a firm wink. "Listen," she hisses. "We play this right and you could be a rich woman. I am Thelis Thist, Path of the Attorney," she tucks a business card into your dress out of sheer habit. "How much can you ham up your injuries? If you're actually injured that's even better."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun
The Trickster

Archetype: Mysterious Rival
It's difficult to judge Zhaojun's intentions or predict her methods. She operates according to an unknowable code of justice, a secret divine agenda, and the turbulent heart of an unknown common girl. Untangling her motivations is as difficult as finding a flaw in her perfectly rehearsed martial arts.

Aesthetic: Divine Possession
Anyone who has attended a festival in the flower kingdoms will recognize the style. She carries the formal paper lantern, patterned with spidery warding kanji and elaborate watercolour flower patterns. She wears the formal robes of blue and white, elegant and impractical, run through with gently clicking soft beads. She wears the stone god's mask, the traditional ritual instrument by which a priestess may address a god as an equal. Her hair is done up in the elaborate and traditional bun and braid, long and dark and heavy. In all ways she might be ready to lead a procession or beseech a divinity.

But there is a difference between seeing a ready fireplace and seeing it alight.

The lantern burns with an eerie supernatural blue. The mask shifts between expressions depending on the light and her pose. Her dress flows in a supernatural breeze. Her hair flicks like a lioness' tail and her fingernails are long and sharp. At times she seems to have the aspect of a cat, as predatory as any N'yari, crouching low to the ground, the shape of her motions clear through her dress. At times she has the aspect of a divinity, floating a foot off the ground so her dress just barely brushes the floor. At times she seems inhumanly normal, able to put her feet up and talk so unconcernedly your mind brushes away the glint of blue fire in the depths of that stone mask. Strange phenomena follow her. Prayer strips tear themselves from trees to float behind her, catching the blue fire and burning like candles. Strange winds or lulls in the monsoon rain herald her presence. Statues of the gods change their postures when she draws near - bowing down, drawing blades, revealing themselves as blessed or wicked.

STATS
Daring +1
Wit +1
Spirit -1
Grace +2
Heart +1

Too Many Feelings: 1
Start at 1 and increase your Feelings by 1 each time you gain a String, someone gains a String on you, or you mark a Condition. You may also choose to increase your Feelings any time you find yourself gasping or swooning over someone. Strings assigned during character creation don’t increase your Feelings.
When you open up to someone whose regard matters to you, reduce your Feelings by 2. When you secretly perform a loving act for someone, reduce your Feelings by 1.
If your Feelings track reaches 4, you can’t hold it in anymore. Tear off the mask and scream what you’ve been holding in, do what you’ve been afraid to do, and damn the consequences. You can give anyone present a String on you to gain a String on them. Stop when the consequences catch up with you, for good or ill.
Afterwards, reduce your Feelings to 0 and clear a Condition. It feels good to get it out, at least in the moment.

Ew, Feelings: When someone offers you Emotional Support and you refuse to open up, increase your Feelings by 1 and choose 1 from the listed options for that move as if they rolled 7–9. If they rolled 10+, they know they got through to you; they gain the benefits of a 10+ result as if you had opened up.

The Mask: When you seek to persuade an NPC of a lie about yourself, roll +Wit: 10+: Choose 2 7–9: Choose 1
They believe a big lie
The lie you have chosen is unexpectedly perfect, creating a new opportunity
They give you the benefit of the doubt and remain convinced even if there is some evidence of your lie

Additionally, whenever a PC Figures You Out, you can give false answers. You must increase your Feelings by 1 at the end of any scene where you do this.

Play the Part: When you use someone else’s personal item or clothing to disguise yourself as them, roll +Daring:
10+: While you remain so dressed, your disguise is perfect; only your words or deeds may expose you.
7–9: Someone sees through your disguise, but they don’t give you away just yet. Give them a String.

Center of the Web: When someone approaches you to get something from you or threaten you, choose 1:
Gain a String on them or they lose a String on you
Ask them a question from the Figure Out a Person move
+1 ongoing against them for the scene

Knives behind the Mask: When someone reveals a secret about you in your presence, you’re prepared with a damaging secret about them. If you reveal it now in retaliation, they mark a Condition. If you keep the secret for the time being, gain a String on them.

I Ship It: When you want to make a match between two other people and talk up one to the other, roll +Heart:
10+: You may give the listener a String on the other person or give the other person a String on the listener
7–9: As above, and the listener can either take a String on you or give the other person a String on you

Anyone involved may mark XP if they become Smitten with anyone else involved, including the Trickster (immediately or later this session, maximum of 1 XP per PC).

Truths of Heart and Blade
A Beautiful Lie: When you become Smitten with someone, say why, give them a String, and answer this question:
- What secret do you have that you think would make them reject you if they knew?
I See through You: When you Figure Out a Person during a physical conflict, you may additionally ask one of these questions, even on a 6-:
- Who do you want me to be?
- What are you most afraid of right now?

Strings I possess on others:
Who has seen a hint of what’s behind your mask?
Who has been the worst victim of your trickery?
Whom are you most concerned about?

Giriel 1
Piripiri 1
Kalaya Na 2
Han 2
Machi 1

XP: 2

Conditions:
Insecure

Fellowship: The Heart

Some people, some stories, confused Ailee. Stories about people giving up power. Stories about people who weren't tempted by power. But far more than that, stories about people who were tempted by the wrong kind of power.

Oh, there is such might to be had in the red. In the concentration of force, in the capacity for unspeakable violence and immense, unstoppable presence that speaks its vices so convincingly the world must obey. The heat of being the one, the only one, the orbit around which all revolves - it sears her from the inside. The power to have everything you want at the tiny cost of having this be everything you want.

She could cast her body aside like a glove. Throw away her memories of home, her memories of lanterns as a burden. Never have to think about what happened to Lucien because she could burn his silhouette from her mind along with all the rest of it. She could ascend, return - come home. And coming home would be a battle - an eternal battle, the King locked against the King, one against one, casting fragments of herself into the world until they came back to engage in masturbatory showdowns once again. All the world could be the backdrop to her perfect solipsism, and would that not put the cosmos in its place like nothing else? To look upon all its wonders and all its terrors and decide, instead, that one's own self was far more interesting?

Thus her judgement: That only she mattered
Thus her wrath: That she was the only outlet that mattered
Thus her curiosity: The destructive, tearing search for something else that might matter
Thus her waste: That nothing else mattered
Thus her pride: That only she mattered

Every word followed in sequence, in eternal circular logic. They were written on the gleaming green sigil-tattoos that wrapped her arms, they slipped from her lips, an oroboros proof against the world. King Dragon opened his jaws to swallow her once again.

She took a step towards those jaws. Welcome home. This is where I belong, what I am for. Blood pumped from the heart and now returning for another circuit. Nothing matters, Ailee. Not Lucien, or Jackdaw, or Coleman or any of it. Nothing matters.

And this, Ailee thought, was what all of the stories got so wrong about tempting someone with power.

If she had judged power by how many kilograms of force she could apply to the strength tester in the Carnival then this offer couldn't be beaten. If she had judged power in the ability to resist being hurt or capacity to hurt others then this was the ultimate boon. If power meant becoming one with the status quo here was its ultimate manifestation.

But what kind of person had such a flimsy idea of power?

Thus her pride: My dreams matter most of all.

Her tattoos wheel and spin as her hand reaches for her vest pocket.

Thus her waste: Anything that stands between me and my dreams is worthless.

Soft fingers close around the handle of the revolver.

Thus her curiosity: The more I learn the grander my dreams become.

The revolver whirs open.

Thus her wrath: Anything that asks me to give up my dreams will burn.

Five bullets, one after another, are loaded as she plants her foot on the Dragon's tongue.

Thus her judgement: My dreams are bigger than myself.

She fires five shots. The traditional number, the ritual number. All that was needed for this fight to conclude as it always did.

The jaws begin to close around her.

But she has one more bullet.

Thus her heroism: Power that does not help my dreams come true is worthless.

In the jaws of the dragon, Ailee fires her final shot.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

There is a special kind of resentment that the human heart reserves for those who make it feel old. Robena's dislike for Lady Liana is immediate and defensive. It's a reaction to a criticism unvoiced and undreamed, a criticism that only exists in the weary creak of Robena's back and the lull of her eyelids. She feels like she should explain that she was up all night pining - but that excuse weighs against the fact that she has spent many nights awake and pining and was always able to bounce back the following morning for another day on the road. Perhaps the heartbreak is worse this time, or perhaps Lady Liana's feather mattress is enchanted with the gift of blessed sleep, or perhaps she is some faerie facsimile conjured by Constance to torment her.

Robena restrains her sigh and her grumble. A hart. Xrisos, she hates hunting harts. Apricot loathes prolonged chase and she has to employ foul language from every corner of the Mediterranean to keep his pace up. And of course, if she encourages her horse in the manner he is accustomed to, she will seem very far from purity indeed. Especially in contrast to this pioneer willow girl who likely urges her horse to a full gallop with bats of her eyelashes and earnest speeches about the sacred bond between knight and horse.

"Very well, then," said Robena with a smile that was more like a grimace. When she was in Jerusalem a Bedouin trader crushed some dark seeds into a warm drink that was the equal to a week's rest. She hadn't carried any of those back to England either. Fool.

Perhaps by the afternoon she will concern herself with the state of her soul once more, but sleeplessness cares not for the devil. She seeks the stable.

Sunshards

In ancient times the skies were still free
So come, come, my darling, to the skies with me

The fragment of that ancient song hovered on the edge of perception, on the edge of mind and heart. The tune is so vibrant that it makes you wish you knew the language of music so that you could do it justice, that the wind wasn't rushing through your hair so you might try to hum it. Despite its gentle, internal presence it is not of you - it is the whispering, brushing thought of an unguarded dragon whose heart overflows with music as the distant Sky Castle appears through the clouds.

And oh, the flags! The kites! They soar in their thousands, hanging in every colour and arrangement from every house's roof and balcony, from every exposed metal strut and from every ancient stonework! They fly and twist in the breeze, wind given form and colour and a population of hundreds of thousands! Perhaps without these schools of airborne fish, these ribbon snakes, these paper birds the Sky Castle might seem a grim thing. Perhaps it might seem to be what it once was - a huge and heavy vessel with a beak to crack asteroids and suck the water from comets. This is only a perhaps, though, for even if all the gifts of the winds were to be packed away tomorrow the flat and ugly ship would still be buried beneath the waving roots of impossible trees.

When we were still children the skies were free
So come, come, my darling, to the skies with me

And around and above the kites buzz biplanes, triplanes, marvels of wood and fabric, the pride of each household's collective labour and effort. They glitter like dreams against the sunshards, bounding and leaping and diving in that strange flock logic that perhaps makes sense to each individual bird but together, from a distance, makes them subject to strange arcs and turns and dips and flows.

It's the border of the world, the Sky Castle. If you are cursed then you must come here to find a cure; if you come here without a curse you will obtain one. If you have a childhood friend who goes away to live here she'll return a daring air pirate to snatch you away one night when you least suspect it; if you go away to visit it for the summer you'll fall in love with a goddess of the wind and will ever afterwards feel her fingers in your hair when the east wind rises. If you catch the golden ladder that hangs from the bottom of the castle and climb then when you reach the top you'll find a glorious dragon with her full court awaiting you to give you a wish; if you steal in with devil magic you'll find yourself overthrowing all to become king for a glorious season before the palace coup sees you fallen back to earth again. All the stories agree: you can't visit a place like this without it changing you somehow.

I still love you and the skies are now free
So come, come, my darling, to the skies with me

You touch down onto the cool metal, softened by moss and corroded to natural colours by rust. Princess Jessic lands a moment later, pacing rapidly and flexing her wings to cool down after her long flight. Countess Keron takes the time to stroke her neck and give her a large flask of water before finally turning back to you.

"So, what should I do with each of you?" asked the Countess, moving close, serpentine. She casually takes Rose, then Yue, by the chin, turning their heads gently this way and that as her aloof dark eyes calculate. "Everything has its place, but what is yours? It'd be such a waste to throw such pretty girls in the dungeon when they might still be useful..."

Breathless Dead

Redana!

You only catch a glimpse of it for perhaps thirty seconds, distant through the window of the Plover suit. It does not move fast and it is the same storm that carries it that conceals it from your eyes before you're finished taking it in. It passes like a flock of birds; sustained enough to draw someone's attention to it, but too fleeting to finish fumbling for the camera.

It's an opal. An opal the size of a skyscraper, surrounded by a cloud of fragmented chips, carried somehow aloft in the vastness of the storm. Was this some strange meteor, the cargo of the wrecked Achae, some natural blessing that has been aloft above this gas giant for so many thousands of years? You see it through the clouds, miles distant, a huge and shining silhouette in the sky below you before the violet clouds close around it again. Another mystery, glimpsed at a moment when there is no time to go back and investigate.

You might have thought it a dream if you didn't find the chips of shattered opals embedded in the self-sealing rubber joints of your Plover suit when you land.

The sea may be terrible, but it has treasures too.

It is after a long day with muscles that burn with the exertion of Hephaestus upon his forge that you make your way back to your quarters, opals clattering in your pocket. Galnius informs you in passing that they have the shapeshifter Mynx but you're too tired to see her tonight, too tired to acknowledge the statement. You slump down in your bed, your room and keep well earned by your efforts today.

And in the morning, you hear the sounds and the smells of an angel cooking you pancakes.

Alexa!

It's a fool's errand to guess at the true shape of a Hermetic underneath their robes. They deliberately create strange scaffolding to break up their silhouettes, conceal their scents beneath perfumes, run soft backing tracks of their personal theme music to mask footfalls or conceal whirring gears. Despite all such attempts at concealment, when your base material is 'elephant' there is only so much that can be done.

It arrives with a clattering, scattering set of knucklebone dice thrown across the floor. "The runes have been cast," it states in a soft, expansive voice with a hint of a lisp. "The War Goddess does not favour you any longer. So in whose name do you dare disturb my workshop and misuse my sacred tools!?"

Vasilia!

"Dunno," said Hestia. "Suited, unsuited? Heartbreak, love? That's all Aphrodite's business. What I do know is that you've never once talked about your past or your future. I know that you don't have a dream house you're just waiting to finally build. You haven't built a playlist of movies and shows, sorted by viewing age, that you intend to show to a future kid. You haven't faced your own fears enough to convincingly tell someone that there's nothing to be afraid of. I don't know why, but if I had to guess it's because I don't think you think you'll be alive for any of it."

She knows you don't want cocoa, but she pours you another cup anyway just in case you change your mind.

"You can't build a future if you don't have a past, Vasilia," said the Goddess of the Hearth. "You live like a lightning bolt, trapped in an eternal present."

Dolce!

"Dolce..." whispered Hera, her celestial peacock dress crumpling as she knelt down before you, touching her forehead close to yours. "They're all already shouldering those burdens. Every heart is already broken. Every soul aboard this ship is already cursed. And for all the brilliance and industry you see around you, all the smiles and all the confidence, nobody can manage by themselves."

"It's impossible," muttered Hades, a sapphire star in the distant black.

"Yes," said Hera. "It is. The task before you is impossible. So you cannot fail."

Bella!

Despite the smouldering chaos in your heart, the anathematic violence that seethes around the edges of the calm of Apollo, still the god smiles. Still he lays his hand on the prow of your ship and draws a spiral sun shape into the prow. Still he gives you his blessing and protection for the terrible voyage ahead.

And then you launch.

For all the Hermetic reputation for secrets, you were surprised at how plain their discussions of Engine technology were. There was a... fear in those schematics. There was the scent of uncertainty in the rawness of their language, how freely they admitted the gaps in their knowledge, the plurality of authors invited to examine each document and suggest their insights.

They don't know. They don't know how to make new Engines. They don't think anyone knows. There are plenty of wrecks in the void to salvage still, but this is a non-renewable research and the ordinary games of knowledge and power are suspended on this topic. Some of them project a future where travel between the stars might become far more difficult than it is now. Some of them were turning their attentions towards imagining how the Order might adapt and survive in such a future. Already doctrines are changing to prioritize the survival of what Engines remain, to develop diplomatic alternatives to void combat, to outlaw weapons capable of breaching an Engine core.

Standing aboard a ship is always about the Engine. Muffled, distant, still its rumbles and echoes and moods run through everything like a distant bass chord. Aboard this skiff it's a different matter. Now every rise and fall of that machine's breath is as close and present as your own, and as it starts to burn and you start to pick up speed, so the Engine's breath raises like a runner's. You can feel it shake through you and struggling against it promises every bruise. At the same time you need to be tense. You need to be tense and alert and run without sleep or pause because there is no room for mistake at these speeds. You need to fight it even as it fights you. It's going to be one of the longest and most exhausting fights of your life.

But sometime the middle for a period that could have been seconds or could have been weeks you weren't fighting it. You were somehow in tune with it. Every part of your body was relaxed and still your hands were steady and every motion and correction happened in a timeless, endless, perfect moment of sheer unity with the forces of the stars. For just one eternal moment that spiral sun seemed to glow and you understood Apollo. In that moment it felt like you were seeing reality as it really was, unburdened by the expectations of your own mind. You were matter guiding energy, the brain of a shooting star.

You're not sure what triggered it, or what broke it in the end. But the experience would not be one that was easy to forget, even as the spaceport of your destination appeared dark against the distant golden sun.

Fellowship: The Heart

It's the easiest thing in the world to be as he is. She just has to, for the first time, really relax.

Do you know what it's like to go through the world with a mind like hers? Always aware that she could rip out hearts, abuse and torment, escalate to violence before anyone else would dare to think of it? To be a fountain of will in a world of retiring sheep, having to cloak her true nature in fluff to avoid spooking the herd? Harsh language was not a sign of rudeness, it was a soft wrapping around the fury in her blood. She casts it aside here now.

Now to cross her is obliteration. Not in blood or death but in the shattering of the ego, the psychic demonstration of exactly what the hierarchy of the cosmos was and where you fit in it. Her thigh-high boots step across kneeling backs.

To have a fire like Ailee does is to be afraid. Constantly feeling out the edges of people to know how hard they want you to step on them. Making decisions to reveal jagged edges to those who you guess are foes and hope that you're choosing the correct enemies. To pretend that you're not imagining those before you on their knees and struggle through a conversation with them as equals. Now she lets that resonating willpower speak all of its hidden toxic whispers. Now she lets her magic, infinite if you're prepared to pay an infinite price, boil out of her. And that's the secret the rats are blind to. They seek to maintain themselves, to scratch at the dripping blood of power, to be their wretched selves but somehow more. It's the same secret the so-called Archmages of the University were blind to, thinking themselves mighty if they could bind a single word at the end of a lifetime of study. She bound five in an afternoon.

Her father once told her that if you borrowed ten pounds from a bank it was your problem, but if you borrowed a million pounds it was the bank's problem. She feels King Dragon stir. She doesn't think he expected this, even as he dreamed fitfully of her approach. He thought like she had thought, of the world as a vortex of sycophants and delusional slaves, scratching around the edges for a power they could never look directly at. Now here she is, cutting directly towards the Heart, looking him in the eye.

It would be a mistake to say that they are the only two people in the world that matter, because neither of them would for a second acknowledge the other's validity. One of them is the King Dragon, the King of the World, the Heart of the Heart, and the other is just like everyone and everything else - a subordinate, a slave, a toy. But as Ailee steps deeper and deeper into that violent rainbow both realize that this toy is insane. It is insane to dream itself a king, and it must be fixed and broken.

"Get out of my Heart," said Ailee.

Sunshards

This is not the first time you have flown, Yue. Your adventure started with you whisked off into the sky in the arms of a girl with the grace and power of the full moon. Your feet stepped upon empty air as though it was solid and you felt the wind run through your hair and dress and heart as though they were transparent. That was different from this; Hyra's flight was the magic of dreams. This is the machinery of muscle and fire. The forces involved in each flex of those mighty wings, each rush of air and rise and fall across those strokes of wings, it all contributes to a fearsome respect for what flight is. Flight is not a game for Princess Jessic, not least when hauling three maidens bound together in a tangled net along with two riders. Gravity is not a trivial force to be disregarded. It takes not just the power of shining muscles to send a dragon aloft but hard-won skill, understanding of wind and momentum, when to climb and when to dive and when to glide and when to angle your course to catch the thermals emanating from long black roads crossing the land below like ribbons. Flight is natural for dragons, you may have thought! Well, running for days at a time is natural for human beings.

To fly so long and strong over such a distance while carrying five humans - that's not something you can do just because you're a dragon. That's something you can do because you're an athlete, because you train for it, because you're filled with passion and dedication and the desire to be the best you can be.

This might be the first time you have flown, Chen. Certainly, you glide regularly, and Sourcefall is an enormously vertical city with many brilliantly designed elevators and marvels of vertical transportation. But flight? Upon wings of fire, overland, from this altitude? This is a rare gift indeed. You might even find more time to appreciate it were you not somehow on the bottom of this pile, crushed beneath Rose from the River. Perhaps you would be able to appreciate the soaring rivers and valleys, the strange rectangle clusters of houses, the distant horizon where you can even see your home surrounded by clouds and mist, along with the glittering space elevators that ring the equator at regular intervals. If only you were not being so crushed by a girl too good to even say a harsh word to.

This is the first time you have flown, Rose. The ancient world had no use for the open sky, filled as it was by the feared and hated suns. Even when the suns had fallen they did not turn to flight in atmosphere, instead weaving mighty elevators all the way into outer space so that they could bypass this clear and blue sky entirely. The ancient world, for all its hubris, never dreamed of flight. If anything was to take to the air it was to be drones or demons.

And now here you are. In an open sky beneath a shining sun and a glittering orbital ring of sunshards, performing an action that your programming never conceived. The blockage of your cognitive functions emphasize rather than dampen this effect. You've got no way to rationalize this, no way to compress it into your worldview. You were born ten thousand miles below ground and the fires of the planet's core warmed the forge where your alloys were smelted, and now here you are above it.

Breathless Dead

Redana!

The shuttle doors open revealing a howling hurricane beyond. Within the atmosphere of the gas giant is a storm worthy of Poseidon, a colossus of destructive fury larger than some planets. Even the bulk of the Plover suit struggles against those squalls like boulders, even the pulse of the plasma that floods the suit's engine through the thick cable whines from the stress of the celestial forces.

Down below, far below, a mighty cruiser hangs suspended on a curtain of hydrogen more solid than steel. The ancient derelict has been hanging here atop the storm winds for many hundreds of years, a lost marvel half consumed and holding strong. Its faded nameplate is recognized by your Auspex - the Achae. A legendary warship destroyed in battle with the Azura, its corpse marked by the Order of Hermes and left for future recovery. That day is now.

You, half a dozen of the Coherent, and two Magi wear mighty Plover suits on this mission. The goal is to sever the mighty beak of the Achae and raise it from the gas giant's depths for the Plousios' new crown.

It's time to jump.

Alexa!

Your quest is for nothing less than the favour of a wizard. A perilous mission indeed.

The ancient autodog limps behind you through the decks of the Plousios. The Coherent were no help - they're manual labourers, and something this old and complex is beyond their limited abilities. What you need for this project is one of the true, ordained Magi but in the ancient tradition of wizards they are aloof, unapproachable, and endlessly busy. As a mere petitioner with no ties to their order or history of devoted service you are finding it extremely frustrating to corner one. The autodog watches you without judgement or understanding. It knows you're doing the best you can.

So what is your best in this case? How are you going to gain the attention of a Hermetic Magi?

Vasilia!

Hestia makes more cocoa. She does not magically conjure it, she does not pour it from some ever-full horn. Such is not her way. Her way is the joy of the quiet moment of the kettle heating. Of fiddling awkwardly with the packaging before leaving to find scissors. Of the gentle wafts of steam and the taste that isn't miraculous but for the promise that you could have something this warm and sweet every day from here till Hades.

She sets down the cup in front of you. She's wordless, just leaning down on her elbows and waiting patiently for you to keep telling your story.

Dolce!

"Once upon a time I had a pain like yours," said Hera. "I wondered if my wife's wandering eye was my fault. My weakness. I wondered if I was simply broken and I had to fix myself so that I would be worthy of love."

Her eyes curved along her arm as it flicked out, threads of divine sleeves ending on nails of perfect shape.

"It drove me to madness for a time," she said quietly. "Do you know of the torment of Sisyphus? It is not, as many think, a tale of the cruelty of Hermes. At any moment the king could step away from the boulder, but he does not. He thinks the flaw lies within him. He's sure if he exercises enough, if he perfects the angle, if he approaches his task with a clear and perfect mindset he will conquer his mountain. I watched him for many years and with each failure he kicked himself and declared himself insufficient. Not once has he blamed the boulder."

Bella!

Say what you will about the Order of Hermes, they know how to manage an evacuation. All void-capable ships were launched, the vast majority of escape pods have been fired, and they somehow did all this while leaving no one behind. All you have access to is the escape pods, which will fire you directly down at the planet; the problem there is that you'll likely land somewhere in the ocean, and you understand instinctively that if space travel is bad then traveling via water would be truly wretched.

That leaves you with the only mode of available transportation the grim products of the repair deck. Apollo lights this place up, seated quietly below a tool rack with that smile upon his face. It's an entire floor of the station, a massive area of stilled foundries and exotic tools carelessly dropped in the middle of a job. The reactors hum through the walls and all manner of marvelous and archaic machines can be found here; tall MRU walkers, in-progress cybernetic limbs, some manner of mechanical hydra, and there at last - a voidskiff.

Starships are almost always immense things. The smallest ship in the Fleet still has a crew complement of almost five hundred. You understand vaguely that this is to do with the massive size and expense of a true Engine making anything smaller impractical. It was only too late that your attention was turned to the threat of a voidskiff when Redana escaped on one.

Voidskiffs are the toys of daredevils, smugglers and adrenaline junkies. They're barely armoured by Imperial standards but built for ludicrous speed and agility and can cross interstellar distances at a pace even full warships can't keep up with. They pay for that, though. You grimly remember where you found Redana's abandoned voidskiff - torn half to shreds from the stresses of deep space travel and crash-landed on an alien world. Cautiously stepping away from the cursed thing and seeking an alternative is the natural response - even if you gather from Apollo's position that this is going to be your only real option.

Fellowship: The Heart

Things fall down into the Heart. People, religions, ideas, seeping down from the distant surface like rain into subterranean oceans. But of all the things that have been sent below the greatest is the grand city of Lothbruk.

Grand Jelt and Skotsheim were eternal rivals; two petty kingdoms struggling for control of the same muddy island. Skotsheim chose to invest its resources in a mighty army, a glorious city and overseas colonies. Grand Jelt chose to invest its resources in magic. Turns out that was the winning evolutionary strategy, because on the glorious Seventh of August the Arcane Council wove a mighty spell to hurl the entire city of Lothbruk physically into the Heart. The anniversary of this terrible weaving was made a national holiday and referred to euphemistically as 'The Act of Union', the day when Grand Jelt truly became grand.

As for Lothbruk itself? It was the payment taken by King Dragon and the perfect canvas for him to express himself upon. What could be more Wasteful than to have an entire city to oneself? What could satisfy one's Curiosity more than rummaging through every house and office, learning every secret in the entire fallen kingdom? What Judgement was more mighty than acting as adjudicator of nations? What better target to vent one's Wrath on than one of the world's greatest cities?

And what would be a greater boost to a king pride than to make one's solitary nest here in this dark and sunken city?

Bit by bit, Lothbruk was sinking. Here and there it was burned. It had fallen far, even though it still had much falling to go. It still made a worthy throne for a dragon, but before too long it would be time to seek out another.