Thanqol

Breathless Dead

Dyssia!

All of Azura warfare has been founded on the principle of gravitation. Starships perform their maneuvers by banking off microsingularities. Citizens walk the Rail-Path their entire lives. Treatises are written, combat manuals disseminated, biomantically engineered species are seeded on laboratory worlds, given access to the Rail, and passively observed to see if there are techniques that the Skies' own cultural bias prevents it from learning. In all of time, no object has been as closely researched as the Grav-Rail.

And yet, sometimes there are heroes. Legendary figures like the Furnace Knight who stand alone against armies, sorcerers or even Gods. And with an uncharacteristic lack of curiosity, the Endless Azure Skies collectively shrugs its shoulders about it. Sometimes you just get a real fuckin' badass. They're probably a demigod. Society can but tremble before them.

You've done this a million times before. You've been on planets being moved by the Rail. You've never done it like this. Matter is not dead. Energy is not meaningless. A tool is not neutral. The only thing that has changed is your spirit, and that opens you to the infinite power of the spirit world.

The arrows formed from Hermes' fingers are not extensions of her body. The hollow where her heart should be does not pump blood from the wounds. Her eyes are stone carvings, painted green. The God of Travel has not taken a single step this entire battle. She has not moved beyond her tiny circle in centuries. As you move towards her with blade in hand, you feel more like Hermes than she does.

But that is not to say there is nothing inside her at all.

She draws her own swords from the flesh and bones of her hands. One long and one short, heads like arrows, tick-ticking as they clack against each other. She raises them in a gleaming parry, elongating the moment, straining parchment-dry flesh against your perfected vitality. Into the corpse left by the Goddess creeps the influence of the Titan, black and gold pouring from her head.

"You can leave," said Kronus. "You can take any path except for the one that goes through me."

Beyari: a Tale of Colossi

/Archival: The Perils of Power - speech at the Carnagie Innovation Center, by Ganesh Prayagraj

"If a prey animal kills a predator animal even 1% of the time, the predator will go extinct.

"That is not strictly speaking accurate. The ratio is sometimes better for the predator, but sometimes much worse - it depends on reproductive cycles. It takes over two years for an adult tiger to manufacture two more adult tigers, for example. Over that same interval, that tiger needs to kill 100 prey animals. And to be sure, that tiger is fearsome; it has single-handedly slain 100 times its number in single combat without taking so much as a scratch. But if even one of those 100 deer turns his head and gores the tiger then the predator population will be in a state of slow decline."

"Predators know this. They hunt the weak, the sick and the small. They hunt from stealth and with overwhelming force. If a true predator has decided to kill your company then you will either not notice it happening or be powerless to stop it. The only way to avoid this is to avoid the scent of weakness - and this means that to survive, you must pay attention to the self above all. You must refine your spirit, practice discipline, stand proud and tall, put on a show even when it feels like nobody is watching. You cannot see the tigers, but the tigers can see you, and so you are the one required to perform."

*

The Angel of the Harvest does not perform.

She has in hand a miniature whiteboard and a thin sliver of graphite, held with preternatural gentleness through white rubber gloves. It is an ugly compromise - all the ink dried out centuries ago, and while the pencils survived longer eventually they rotted away until they were just slivers of inorganic graphite in the midst of a dust smear of wood rot. Graphite does not bond well to the plastic surface of the whiteboard, but it does leave enough of a trace for basic note-taking and sketching. And that is just what the immortal machine does; circling the colossus slowly, observing slope and structure, taking notes as to the intervals between mudslides, the cyclical angles of bending knee and falling seeds, calculating angles, angels and predators.

Doing something as an act of spontaneous joy is not incompatible with gathering detailed notes beforehand.

It notes too, though with less interest, the movement patterns of the marauders. Do they seek to injure the beast again? Can it calculate a trajectory they are sending it along? Do they patrol, do they try to climb the giant, do they have a garrison up above or means of easily scaling or influencing the creature? Despite the minute scratches it makes on the whiteboard the Angel soon fills the entire board with notes before sealing it in a clear plastic bag and producing another. Through ash-darkened binoculars, it allows itself the luxury of scanning to see if the art of paper making had survived into this strange future.

Return to Thellamie

Rurik!

"A tragic tale," said Rurik. "But why are you, Seli and Keli, the ones telling it?"

He is upside down and being shaken by his ankles. He is maintaining a shocking level of decorum despite this. Were someone to visit his home they would find a mysteriously large wheel outside, one upon which the Seneschal was tied and spun while reciting all ten thousand pages of the Dhorma Protocol.

"Do you have some personal connection to Ms. Juniper?" said Rurik. "A particular passion for uniting true love? You are simply extremely invested in changing the fate of Thellamie? Or is there another paw at work here - one that seeks to remove a rival for the Faun? And given the particularly last minute nature of your shakedown, one who perhaps had other plans for Heron and Civelia that were thrown into chaos by discovering that the Dark Dragon was disguised as Heron during that fateful dance and poisoning? It would be very convenient for such a figure to draw Princess Heron out into the open again now that they have lost track of her, with a bait deliciously set with a tale of star-crossed lovers."

He smiled as coins fell out of his pockets and disturbed his mustache. "Look to love, as the wise woman says. But not love of her - yah?"

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

One of the great secrets of battles is that they are things of momentum. With the backing of friends old and new, enchanted weapons newly to hand, shining in cosmic dress silks and atop a cresting wave of serene violence, the full force of the cosmos stands behind Fluffybiscuits. An enemy entrapped in a combo cannot react; all they can do is alternate impact animations as they are juggled. This is no different if you are a gigantic space crab.

The detonation severs its claw entire and sends it spinning into the void.

But with the shattering of the claw, enough space is opened for the crabitalist to escape from its stone prison. Without pain or regret it squeezes free of its borrowed shell, crimson-blue carapace shining in the cold sunlight. It clacks its remaining claw and knows no fear.

And then it fills the void with poison.

Huge spines bristling along its back launch like missiles; they fire indiscriminately and where they detonate they send enormous clouds of clinging acidic gas billowing around it in all directions. These are not fired to kill, but to restrict - to shut down maneuver and box the foxgirls into narrow safe areas.

The second wave is the one designed to hurt. The crabitalist's unblinking eyes analyze, and then launch nine more spikes. Each of these is like a nightmare photograph of the foxgirls - three for each. Their limbs are wrong, their dresses merge into their skin, their faces are impassive masks, rather than swords they carry black-painted assault rifles. In the absence of its own ideas, its next assault is you, but more, with Stepford smiles and product placement. There is no advice or strategy here, only a blind invective: conquer yourself!

Breathless Dead

Dyssia!

Sword.

It's strange how common these are becoming on this journey, and how at the same time they don't feel new at all. It's like they've always been here, like learning the name of gravity. From all that you were taught you would never have derived the idea that compassion had a cutting edge, but here it is again. For all the strength of biomantic claws and bone your arm has never felt as complete without this sword.

The ruined castle rises up above you.

The Corpse Empress Hermes-Nero determines to put that thought to the test as she draws another arrow of bone from her fingertips. She is not wasteful - each distal makes one arrow, and the one for each of the middle and proximal fingerbones. By the time she has reached the metacarpal enough of her hand will have regenerated to provide a new source of death. Her promise death is swift and dispassionate and distant, and yet it clearly hurts her even more than her instantly slain victims. An unsustainable method of war, perfect for this Valhalla.

The circle keeps her bound still. The Shogun's eyes gleam from where an arrow pins her against the floor. She has a pistol in her hand and such long experience with death to paint a convincing picture. The strange broken pink vortex where the rest of your companions are trapped in the instant of a falling sword gleams like an opulent jewel amongst the ruined palace. The war rages all around, giant machines making the Skies fall in flaming sheets, not understanding that there are always more Skies besides. All the marvels of all the ages of this terrible future come here to die - except for you and your cavesnake weapon, a sharpened hunk of metal.

Your trial is to close the distance.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

--- The Daily Affirmation Of The Way <3 ---
--- Tactical Guide ASMR ---

Phase One: Giant Enemy Crab Claw
Type: Rock/Water

Attack: C
Defense: A+
Speed: D
Special: B
Wisdom: F

Moves:
- Giant Crab Claw Pinch
- Incoherent Flailing
- Withdraw Into Shell
- Untranslatable Monologue

It took all of evolution's wicked might to create this masterpiece: the one crab crab-bucket.

You see, the crabitalist only has a very narrow hole in its [the incredibly erotic sound of a single page of paper being turned by delicate hands with sharp fingernails] shell, meaning it is continuously at odds with itself if it should extend out its crab claw or its eye stalk. If it sees something it desires, such as a luxuriously fluffy fox tail, it immediately and instinctively reaches out to snatch it, blocking its own vision in the process. It can attain a much higher degree of accuracy in a close bubble around its structure, but it is easily baited into overextending. When punished, it withdraws back into its shell defensively and learns nothing from the experience.

The real danger comes from its psychic attack. If you have not completed the optional Idol!! sidequest, Adam and the Orbital Laser will be involved in this fight and will establish a telepathic connection with the crabitalist during turns when it activates this, feeding it targeting data and allowing it to use Giant Crab Claw Pinch [a gentle rustling of papers, the clink of a silver ring against a ceramic mug] even at extreme distances. If they are not present then this becomes a crude direct damage attack. This attack scales over time, as the crabitalist works on its translation and thinks of increasingly higher numbers of dollars to bribe Actia with. As such, it is recommended to conclude this phase of the fight quickly.

Top Tip: Due to the crab's exterior Vault-shell, any explosive projectiles that enter through the breach will be super effective. Damage done to the shell will help the crab more than it hurts it, so save your energy for a precision strike!

Beyari: a Tale of Colossi

Difficult problem.

There was so much it was not. It felt shapes in its mind; the ghosts of connections. It felt sculpted angles and composite steel; a strength it could rely on to undo the wicked - an atrophied muscle, a missing arm. It felt a fine leather and a golden beak; a dance of fingers that knew how to heal hurt - a hand trapped in an iron glove. It felt leather and oxygen and all of the world's horrors washing off its skin; an alien nobility that knew how to lead the way - lost and hungry, holding the torch alight even still.

This was not a problem it could solve with honey.

/Considerations > 01
Is it a problem at all?

No. No, Ailee had a problem, but the Angel of the Harvest did not. It held no grudges and the particular state of human politics had never had much bearing on its own directives -

Until they did.

Stop that. Unhelpful. Solace is unavailable, do not emulate it. There is a far more straightforwards goal here, one achievable given your current assets, that will be satisfying to your own state of curiosity and skillset.

"I am going to climb it," said Harvest. It already was inside its mind; tracking the flow and rhythm of roots and branch and wrinkles in skin. An encompassing, blinding desire; a practical expression of skill and strength wielded, an urge to kiss that distant wrinkled head and learn the magic of a world renewed from its height. The sorcerers who had created this beast had eclipsed its own creators; it was a god the likes of which Harvest had not even aspired to be. Perhaps if it was lucky, Sandra would allow it to learn from it for a while.

Return to Thellamie

Rurik!

There is only one Hero of Ages.

It hurts to learn this. It hurts to know that your dreams are dreams. It hurts to know that you might not explore the world, you might not find love, you might never see the dresses you have made worn, that your youth might slip away unacknowledged and leave you in an autumn of regret. It hurts to consider the weight of duty. The sacrifices that must be made to keep the Thellamie from the jaws of entropy and all her vicious children. It hurts to know that there is only one Hero of Ages, and you are not her. It hurts to know that she is desired and that you are not, and it hurts to know that it is your fault[1] that her absence will hurt more than yours.

(1)

It is your fault everything is your fault you just slowed her down you didn't do it right you weren't funny enough or kind enough or calm enough and she decided she did not want to be your friend and there is nothing that can change that and it is your fault. Love is earned, and you were judged and found wanting.

There is so much hurt in that moment it wants to reach out and break hearts in return. The hurt wants to connect, to show these two brave girls that the world is hard, actually, and the sooner they learn that the better. That it's better to realize the sadness of it all when you are young so you have more time to get used to it. Better the sadness than the anger. Better the sadness than the endless negotiations with ghosts in your head. The sooner he could get them there...

His lip twitches.

There is only one Hero of Ages.

"I am no deerlet to be woven with riddles and eyelashes. Be specific what it is you require," said Rurik, pushing their hands from his shoulders. "Whose heart and life is on the line? How? And tell me too what deal you might make with Walking Elm. Give me the facts with none of the sauce and I shall decide if this matter is worthy of -" the Hero of Ages "- my attention."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE######MMM,,,,,,######

It wasn't a sound, exactly - but it was trying to get into your ears. FFFFFFSS######JJJJJJ###. It crackled and popped in poor, defenseless triangles across some impossible spectrum. But even if it couldn't be decoded into language, the killing intent was clear. This was an attack. The desire was to hurt.

MMMMMM#####$$$$$$$$$$

The tone changed, shifting downwards. It was a prettier tone, soothing, pleading, offering - but it still hurt the ears. It was just at the wrong frequency - every word broadcast by the terrible space crab was scratching against a language this world no longer knew how to speak. And so, in the absence of a delusion of meaning conjured in a receptive brain, that underlying desire to inflict pain was clear. UUUUUUUU#####$$$$. It rotated through words and sounds, trying to find the ones that would cause its prey to do what it wanted.

BLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL#######,,,,,,,

It did not seem particularly invested in this attack, in the same way that a poisonous cobra does not need to think about the pattern of eyes around its neck in order for them to strike fear. It had nothing to say to anyone - it was just a crab. But the ability to try and manipulate intelligent life through their language was the one evolutionary refinement that technological civilization had contributed to the crab's divine perfection, and the monster burned through spectrums trying to find the one that would cause its opponents to lower their guard.

Beyari: a Tale of Colossi

The Angel of the Harvest wished it knew what season it was.

Not that it mattered for California, the land without weather. The trees are no guide either - everblue Eucalyptus trees long ago murder-suicide-arsoned all their competitors. Ghostly white bark peels from their sides in massive cascading sheets, maximizing burnable surfaces, while a constant rain of broken branches and fallen leaves render the ground as flammable as a carpet of tissue paper. The Angel had no internal clock, and the idea of checking its chronological state against Pope Gregory's numbering system felt quaint and small minded. The world was what it was.

But still, the long arc of its existence bent towards wanting to know when the flowers would come back.

Surely at least some of them had made it.

But...

But...

But! First! But first!

But first it ran!

That crouch-curtsey-bow, one leg back, tensile spring coils bent to tension setting 05, the other leg up and crooked like a ballet dancer - then launch! Touching down for just a second, and skipping! Skipping at speed, multiple short jumps, each gentle brush of toetip communicating a mechanical pulse of energy. Hitting a tree branch and pirouetting up, across to the next, reaching up to grasp branches. She flips upside down like an unlucky cockatoo, adjusting away from the dry rot, swinging across to a huge clustered parasitic branch and scrambling up. So many branches were dead or dying, grave goods for future funeral pyres, but the core of the structure was as solid as oak, and it was that she made her way up. Every movement brought risk, swimming through a haze of structural calculations and constantly adjusted route mapping, a fog of thought that took a second priority to strength, to speed, to height. Up. Up. Up. The world through the wicker mask glowed in the light of that long distant sun. Enough of maps, of lore, of calculation, of digital updates and bloodless factoids. She wanted to climb as high as she could and see the world through her own eyes. She wanted to see the colossus through her own eyes. She had a thousand years of rust and regret weighing her down, but it was not enough to outweigh the buoyancy of getting to meet the sun again.