As the body-horror form of Salem waited in the Climax Hour for battle to commence, Salem watched the events unfolding outside through the doll heads decorating the facade of the Chateau. Salem tsked in disapproval; the command was to wait in the Climax Hour to engage the enemy together, yet so many had decided to meet the threat at the entrance. While Salem could not fault those who went up for the purpose of engaging in diplomacy or distraction, like Rodias himself and supposedly Graft, the shot fired by Chuunitrixx ensured that combat would begin with the Chateau's forces even further divided that they already were, given that half the major players were out on mission, and half of those that remained were in the Climax Hour. Salem had a mind to go up themself, but was significantly less mobile in this bulky form. Besides, combat seemed to continuously begin and end abruptly as fight-ending ability was used after fight-ending ability, only for the golden-eyed gorgon to survive or counter. And in the chaos, Light had brought a partially petrified Rodias inside, who despite his injuries, requested the World Item of Bandersnatch. For the time being, it seemed those outside were attempting to stun-lock the enemy, though it was uncertain whether they would succeed or not.
While Light was getting E Pluribus Unum and the Shadowtower mikos were setting up a major buff, Salem spoke on Graft's Open Line, "Aurora! Ratta! Someone! Get in here! Lord Rodias is being petrified and I don't know if Mamoru's panacea is working." But then Salem turned their attention to Rodias. "My lord, it might be too late to say this, but I wonder if it would be wiser to surrender? I mean, you'll get to meet other supreme beings again, and they probably won't harm us or the Chateau if you join them. Besides, though the rest of us have had a taste of freedom, we clearly don't know what to do with it, leading to a lack the maturity to even defend ourselves properly." Salem's grotesque form gestured with their many limbs towards the emptiness of the Climax Hour, indicating how few actually followed Rodias' order. "Consider myself; this form is ugly and distasteful, but by combining, I become stronger. Surrendering might seem distasteful, but we protect ourselves in the process. And the rest of us are used to following orders, so the real question is; is servitude an unthinkable prospect for you?" Salem wanted to know if Rodias was hypocritical in allowing the denizens of the Chateau to serve him, while refusing to himself serve others.
While Rodias’ fears couldn’t be wholly washed away by the [Lion’s Heart] buff, it certainly worked to restore a bit of spine to the Sable Lord. His hand would reach out to accept the flanged mace from Light before visible steam was rising up from his gloved hand. Any with class or race skills that allowed them to view his status would immediately see a drop in Rodias’ physical condition, as his dexterity dropped immensely and a constant ticking burning damage was applied to him, a constant siren blaring in Rodias’ mind about <INVALID_EQUIPMENT: SLOT_1>. ...Even in a new world, old systems were fighting to maintain coherence as the mace itself burnt away at Rodias who was attempting to wield it. Originally intended for use by Droledge, a master at armed close range combat, it was clearly never meant for the hands of one so unattuned to swordsmanship.
...Never meant for one so unworthy.
Even with the combined efforts of the miko and their prayers, a buff of that level could do little to the percentile worsening of Rodias’ condition as he, with heavy steps, made his way to the window outlooking the courtyard of Chateau Gothika. His footsteps would cease as Salem questioned him, the dhampir’s head swiveling slowly to look at Salem’s monstrous constructed form. The doll’s question was a tricky one, one that made sense. After all, if all she wanted was Rodias, wouldn’t it be better for him to just give up and come along quietly? Before Rodias could give his answer, Chuunitrixx would suddenly appear in the room, without sound, and without even a speck of dust disturbed by her appearance from Ratta stopping the flow of time to bring her there. Aurora would attempt to heal Rodias’ slowly draining HP only for him to say: "Heal Chuunitrixx. Now. No amount of healing can help me while using E Pluribus Unum."
Once the paladin set to healing Chuunitrixx’s wounds as best as she could manage, Rodias would look to Salem, his usual calm expression completely betrayed by a hollowness of his eyes. "I considered that, yes. After all, if I simply left, then you all could continue on just fine without me. But, thinking back on it, I don’t even think I could have accepted that..." Rodias would say as his free hand grabbed the windowsill...or rather, what should have been Rodias’ hand did. In place of his hand was an elongated distortion of his shadow, molded into something in the vague resemblance of an arm that was tearing at the stonework in its scrambling attempts to get a solid hold without simply shattering the sill. "But somebody that doesn’t respect those who offer their loyalty to me are undeserving of mine. She made it clear she viewed you all as less than insects in how she disposed of Mamoru’s clone. So, right now, Salem..." Rodias would say, climbing onto the window sill after managing a grip. "Right now, I couldn’t care less about how beneficial joining with her would be. The children of my friends are not things to be cast aside. And I’m willing to fight to prove that," he would say before dropping from the window down to the courtyard.
At the same time...
With an arm missing and her buff slowly waning, Ratta’s fight was beyond uphill. It was like trying to walk up a greased up wall. Undeterred by the loss of her arm, the chronomancer would fight her heart out before a snake’s mouth would engulf her left leg, tearing a chunk out sufficient enough to break the bone, shattering it from the knee down and forcing her to kneel, before Morgan would glower at her, wordlessly staring at her with golden eyes as stone crept up the remainder of Ratta’s body. Stomping upon her remaining leg as it was midway through turning to stone, Morgan completely destroyed Ratta’s ability to move before ripping her head effortlessly from her neck; A task made all the more simple from the chronomancer being a Dullahan. ”Alright, I win. Now where’s Rodias? And don’t answer ‘Up’ or I’m going to break whatever bones you have left,” the gorgon would say, before the dullahan smiled faintly, blood trickling from her lips. She was assuredly going to perish either way...but, judging from how long that Butterfly had the [Haste] Buff for…
”He is home,” Ratta would say, before the fist of Gashadokuro would emerge, tearing the ground apart from beneath and shattering Ratta’s petrified body, her head slowly falling away from Morgan as the shock of the blow loosened her grip. The dullahan’s head would roll slowly to a stop, the magical flow of energy slowly streaming from her neck ceasing as she closed her eyes. Aside from the clone of Mamoru, she would be the only fatality today. For the guardian of Bandersnatch’s weak, this was a satisfying victory. A resounding success that ended with the lowliest defender playing her part well.
Amidst the blow of electric fists, Morgan would furiously tear at Gashadokuro’s fist, snake fangs and her hands attempting to shatter the bone, expecting it to be a simple weakling like the others had been. Rodias would drop at this point, watching Shin Gashadokuro’s onslaught against the unprepared Morgan. It...was working. At least in terms of stunning Morgan. Her hair would once again turn into snakes, furiously launching beam after beam of magical energy at her surroundings in a desperate attempt to fend off the skeletal monstrosity, confusion acting more than rationale. When the physics of this world were tampered with however, Morgan was helpless to stop herself from being pushed into the hole that swallowed her and Shin Gasha. Rodias had arrived too late to do anything, but had arrived just in time to see, of all things, Morgan crying. ...It wasn’t tears of anger or frustration either. There was something sad within her eyes that resonated so strongly with Rodias that he wanted to vomit, to purge himself of empathy for a person that had tried to kill his retainers. ...And yet, her last wail was his name.
Looking up, Rodias would catch Butterfly after gently laying E Pluribus Unum down, the mace not having a purpose now that the fight had ended. Being careful with the skeleton, Rodias would say: "We do indeed. Let’s…”
Then, his eyes fell upon Ratta’s head. A quivering overtook Rodias’ body as he put Butterfly down, kneeling down to tensely touch the severed head before him. She was...really dead. The first death the Chateau had in truth since first arriving, as the mimics were by and large similar to ants, infinitely replaceable and continually reproducing. Rodias’ arms trembled as he realized that he had done nothing. Nothing at all to help. All of his talk meant nothing next to his actions, his great nothingness that allowed for one of the Chateau’s noblest souls to be dismembered and killed while he cowered in his throne room. The gardens that Zouyu had so delicately tended were destroyed, the front of the Chateau was marred with the melted stone struck by Morgan’s blasts, and here in Rodias’ arms was the greatest of his follies.
Exhaling sharply, Rodias would nod at Butterfly’s words after finally remembering them, saying: "Yes. Let’s...let's return to the Climax Hour.”
After the return of any of Bandersnatch’s hunters and Zouyu, Rodias would convene with everyone that was still present within the Climax Hour, having returned E Pluribus Unum to the vault personally. His visage was shaken completely, his green skin a touch paler than its normal tone.. "...I am sorry,” Rodias would say as he bowed his head, now lowering himself not out of humility, but of deeply rooted shame.
In the midst of the Astral Sea, Morgan would sit atop the shattered remains of the Shin Gashadokuro, finally managing to overpower it after ten minutes of continual assault. The distance and change in gravity from their transition to this space was one that gave Morgan a renewed advantage, since the skeleton’s every blow would knock her out of its range, eventually allowing it to simply whittle it down with blasts of magic. Somewhat scratched up from her encounter, Morgan would be idly tearing apart small bits of Shin Gashadokuro, the petrified bones making a sound that was apparently rather appealing to her. Curling up, the girl would pull her knees to her chest and quietly curse her own mistakes...before furiously smashing her hand into a nearby floating rock, pulverizing it in an instant. ”Those stupid NPCs...they’re holding him captive there. They have to be! They even dragged him away after distracting me…” the medusa said, biting the nail of her left thumb as she thought and thought, fumbling through her inventory before pulling out a scroll and reading it, a gate composed of violet arcane energy appearing before her. ”...I need Ardion’s help...Rodias is in trouble,” she would say, before stepping back on through to the plane of reality she was accustomed to in this fantastic new world, leaving Shin Gashadokuro’s petrified mass to drift for eternity.
It would be heartbreaking for Zouyu to come home to his gardens completely and utterly destroyed, the weretiger’s knees giving out as he pawed at a mass of dirt, finding a number of crushed flower petals and ruined roots. ...Whatever one thought of how attached to his plants the druid was, it was clear that he was in no shape for whatever meeting Rodias was calling. He need to grieve, leaving Kaldorna and her hunters to their business.
Ashara’s fox-fire would be intercepted by the cultist, his body writhing as the fire kissed his skin, burning away his robes to reveal the strange, flesh-colored armor beneath. Indeed, the tender did seem to prefer saving the tree’s hide rather than his own as his armor steamed from the heat of the fire. Sweeping his arms however he would glower at Ashara, his voice hoarse as he said: ”Do..no..t...assume. I. Am. ...Aaaam…” he would moan, scratching furiously at his arm, before suddenly ceasing all movement and standing up perfectly straight. ”[Jump].” The tender would whisper before a cloud of dust exploded out from near his feet, the cry he gave from above being the only indicator he gave on his location before metal claws struck at Ashara’s spear’s shaft, the man soon descending after gliding past Ashara and raking his claws against her Wind Walk platform, the very mana used to create it seeping into his claws, as if ripped away from Ashara.
Now, the tender waited below as Ashara plummeted, a nearby patch of ground contorting as rocks became teeth, hungrily snapping as a hole became a maw waiting to consume her.
The door to the Climax Hour swung open to admit one Vitaphagas Graft, fashionably late. His shiny black shoes clacked off the floor, and the length of his trench coat swung rhythmically with every step he took. With his mask deactivated and no lenses over his eyes, his own milky-yellow peepers with their shapeless pupils were bared to all, but he did wear a polite smile. Behind him, like a sorcerous cloak, floated the array of glyphs that constituted his Collect Call. The sight of him set off both Papillary and Tabula, who'd been waiting with bated breath for their boss to arrive. “Director!” cried Tabula, forgetting her company as she ran his way to wrap her arms around him. Papillary followed behind her, but maintained a little more decorum.
Graft looked down at his new assistant a mite embarrassed. “Tabula, please,” he murmured. “Think of the others.”
As soon as she did, the Nightgaunt withdrew, hastily trying to compose herself. She cleared her throat, glancing between the various onlookers. “Hm-hm! Ex...excuse me.” As Graft started moving again, heading toward where his peers gathered around Rodias, Tabula walked behind him to the left and Papillary naturally took up a mirrored position on the right.
“Where were you? We were worried sick,” the flesh golem asked.
“Just getting ready,” Graft assured her and by extension the others. He wasted no time in taking the floor of Rodias' meeting, as was his custom. “Trying to keep track of the situation. Unlike some I couldn't keep an eye on the proceedings personally, but our resident mannequin elected to preserve the suspense for the rest of us.” The Fodder Baron tipped his head to Salem, his manner belying his implication. “By now, however, I am well apprised of what occurred. I'll go ahead and make a formal update.”
He waved his hands, and the array of glyphs split in half to rotate around him in either direction and reconvene before him. After a little finagling, he pronounced in a clear voice, “At this time the threat to the Chateau Gothika and its members has been repelled. Thank you for your cooperation, and remain vigilant; things will only get worse from here. Over.” With a final flourish he scattered the array of glyphs in a burst of bright blue particles, and when it faded away Graft could be seen leaning upon his cane, very casual.
“So, out of everyone in the Chateau, codename Stalker -hereonin referred to as Morgan- was vanquished by none other than our master butler, Butterfly. An individual half our average level.” He bowed his head toward the technological skeleton, offering a sign of respect. “Most impressive. And despite our adversary's overwhelming power, we suffered only two casualties. A clone, and our chronomancer. Not bad at all, all things considered.”
He dismissed his attendants and looked pointedly at Rodias. The Bandersnatch Lord appeared remarkably unwell and unhappy, and Graft knew his condition stemmed from more than the statuses inflicted upon him by the fight and his attempt to wield E Pluribus Unum. “Of course, this would be tragic if we did not possess the means to revive her, utilizing Bandersnatch's accumulated wealth.” With a smile Graft approached until he stood by the Dhampir's side. He drank in Rodias' presence, his powers of observation astute. It felt odd, overwhelmingly odd in fact, to see such human emotions etched into the countenance of his overlord, a mighty ruler and supreme being. Given what he knew of his fellows, supposedly liked by station alone, it interested him intensely. “You, Lord Rodias, are truly a kind soul to grieve so even over a subordinate's impermanent death. Still, if I may offer advice, it would be not let feelings of gloom and failure destroy you. This encounter, New World Invasion Event One, or NWIE-1 for short, taught us a valuable lesson.” He looked around at those gathered. “We are on the map, so to speak. Our foes are out there. They will surely come again, and in greater numbers. We must put our energy toward preparing for next time. You need not be sorry, Rodias, but if you are, then that is how you can make right.” With that pronouncement, he surrendered the floor.
In the efforts of healing Chuunitrixx’s severed arm, Aurora would spare no small amount of MP...and yet...the limb refused to materialize. Rather than serving to restore her fully, an intimate part of Chuunitrixx was lost in that fight, it seemed. While the radial prayer from the Miko’s buffs served to stabilize her for the time being, Aurora was at a loss for a permanent solution. Looking to Graft as he would announce the fatalities, beneath her mask Aurora would narrow her eyes. He didn’t even acknowledge Chuunitrixx bleeding out on the very floor he walked upon. It wasn’t her place to judge...but to disregard Chuunitrixx’s help, as well as Ratta’s sacrifices in the fight were tantamount to spitting upon those who’d allowed Butterfly to win in any capacity.
Chuunitrixx writhed at the application of magical healing from the Paladin; it wasn't her fault, simply a consequence of the reality of the situation they were stuck in. Recoil Damage wasn't a thing, when they were merely video game pawns, but, here, now, where they were as real as the players they once served... well, Chuunitrixx's arm was the leading example. Her eyes switched through various colors, different hues and shades, each unique -- nineteen colors in total, Aurora would find. However, the orbs themselves glared at Graft, as he preached in the room, as she struggled not to scream in agony beyond her threshold -- not here, not now.
Her anger and misery was evident, however, with the end results of the fight attributed to Bone Daddy, and, as far as she understood, him, alone, with the actions and sacrifices of Mamoru's Clone and Ratta Taz Skor relegated to assistance.
And, her own actions were ignored entirely.
Aurora would continue to mend, now just trying to ease the pain. Chuunitrixx’s wounds were closed, but the pain of it would still throb. Especially in her phantom limb. Aurora was silent, but her hands were secure on Chuunitrixx, trying to offer her a feeling of security.
Chuunitrixx groaned, "Where..."
"Here," Sorcates says, teleporting in, suddenly, and kneeling at her side; dirtying the hem of her skirt and the knees to ankles of her stockings in grass-green blood. "Lady Aurora, what is the damages," she asks, far more respectful than anyone could have expected. Aurora would notice that her eyes were duller, lacking in their usual prideful shine; as if, painted in matte colors instead of luster.
Aurora was surprised to see Socrates here, and, seeing as words didn’t need to be minced, she would reply to the inquiry with: ”Her arm is beyond repair. No manner of magic seems capable of restoring it. I’ve exhausted my MP three times, restoring it each time with mana potions, and still nothing. ...It may very well be lost forever. Beyond that, the poison afflicting her has been cured...and her heartbeat is irregular.”
‘Socrates nodded, and bent over; her chest splitting along her sternum, and she reached in: producing a multi-level toolbox. "The best course of action is to shut off the blood valves and remove the limb, then," she says, "Can you perform surgery?"
Silence followed the question, before Aurora would nod. ”I only have levels in Pharmacist, but I understand basic medical principles. I would need you to guide me, however,” she stated as she began removing her gauntlets.
Socrates nodded, and squinted around the room. Her eyes were collecting data, visible statistics of everyone present around, before she settled on Graft. "Medic. That's acceptable to accomplish this task," she says, before she started to mutate and morph into Graft, mimicking his form to the smallest atom. "I won't wear this skin..." Socrates said, ignoring Graft's voice, as she reconfigured his Avatar to her personal Appearance. "I can make use of this gear and inventory, but I won't wear that person's skin for such an important task."
Socrates sighed, and cracked her fingers, "Are you ready, Papillary -- I mean, Lady Aurora?"
Aurora would do little more than nod. She was ready.
Socrates would start requesting work from her, "Sterilize the site, Papillary. This surgery will consist of a local anesthetic comprised of two-part morphine, one-part opium, one-part diazepam," as her newly acquired tentacles took out tools more befitting a hobbyist than a surgeon, and held them at the ready, as well as a tray for Aurora's own work, and a bucket for hazardous materials.
Dutifully following instructions, Aurora would manage to multitask sterilization as well as synthesizing the anesthetic.
"Surgery starts laterally with the humerus and glenohumeral joint," Socrates says, as she took a box cutter in hand, ‘ "Prepare a series of sponges, and be quick with application."
As the surgery moved forward, Socrates continued to direct Aurora -- constantly referring to the Paladin as Papillary -- and operating with the tentacles retrieving, sterilizing, handing, taking, sterilizing, and replacing the tools required as she thought of them. Her disdain of the director settled at an unfathomable depth, but the usefulness of his build in this situation created a bridge over that chasm.
As soon as the bulk of the arm was removed, and Socrates went into clean-up, the open space closed and regenerated around the space smoothly. All that remained of her right arm was the head of her endoskeleton's humerus bone, disconnected, but anchored into place, so her shoulder would remain, largely, intact, and allow her to wear her upper body clothing with the same effectiveness.
The tense silence hanging after the surgery would be broken by Rodias, voice unsure as he looked to Socrates. ”How is she?”
"Alive," Socrates says, squinting at Rodias. "No thanks to you..." It was unfair, unjust, and she knew it, but Socrates was angry. So much of this went so far beyond her understanding, and she just wanted someone to blame. Rodias was the only person she could, even though he deserved none of it. Rodias could tell that much from the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Rodias didn’t react much to the bitter end to that statement. Either because he understood...or because he believed it. Slowly turning his head away from Socrates, Aurora, and Chuunitrixx, Rodias would look back to the bare table before him, saying: ”See to it that she rests, then. And...tell her that she has my gratitude.”
"Gratitude doesn’t restore her arm," Socrates says, looking at Rodias through squinting eyes; as if, she were unable to see him properly. "I need to replace her heart..." she says, "My hands are shaking, and I can’t focus..." Socrates looked down. "I want her heart. I’ll take it myself, if I have to. Either with my own hands or that fancy mace of yours."
”You wouldn’t be able to use it,” Rodias said tersely. ”No matter who you mimic.”
"I’ll mimic Drolege, himself, if that’s what it takes!" Sorcates shouted, standing with a dramatic flourish of Graft’s trench coat; the material billowing behind her.
Rodias would look Socrates dead in the eyes, before asking: ”That so? And how do you intend to do that, Socrates? To mimic someone that isn’t here, that you’ve never seen, that you couldn’t even POSSIBLY know. Go on then. Spit on his memory,” Rodias’ tone was a low snarl, an anger about him that none had yet seen.
"I don’t need such trivial requirements. I have studied the very history of the Guild, from Drolege to you. You think I am beneath acting as required. That is my job," Sorcates says, "Brushen Penn, Deka_Ribbon, Yoaishisaurus, Fredrik, Dr Drd, even Drolege, and all the rest. Bit by bit, you’re recorded into history -- a history I can learn from, use, and master. I don’t need to meet phantoms. I just need you to have met them."
Socrates narrowed her eyes, as Graft’s trench coat changed from mottled browns to a glorious silver and gold, and folded over her body into plates; the back of it billowing out into an inspiring cape, as her tentacles fused into a weaved mesh to bridge gaps into the plating. As the armor encased her, it closed into a vertically fluted visor with winged ears and a back-facing mount for a single feather of the most brilliant blue. At her hips came into existence, as if being digitized and downloaded, a sword with blade of blue as brilliant as the feather, the length of a bastard sword, yet the width of a longsword, and the handle, hilt, and crossguard of a decorative greatsword.
Slamming down, the visor caused her blonde hair to billow back with her cape, as she exuded a mere 60% of the power of the figure she’s learned of in Kath’s Library.
It was enough for Rodias to take her seriously, however.
And, unfortunately, more than her own body could handle. Rodias would be able to tell, before anyone else, the strain had rendered her utterly unconscious from nearly inducing a heart attack, and she was just standing, imposingly, still; held up by the combination of an armor set of, “A Man that Never Surrendered His Ground,” and her own firm belief.
Rodias would simply glance at her, before saying: ”Aurora, escort them home. ...And tell Socrates to rest, when she wakes. Today’s been hard. For all of us.”
Aurora would be met by a hand, a physical hand rising out of concrete, and several Concreep Mixers. Pushing off the ground, the hands became an arm, a shoulder, then a neck with a feminine mannequin head; the left half of a giant woman's upper chest leaned out of the Concreep. Shattering, a single eye opened, and narrowed on Rodias. Looking away, the hand reached over Chuunitrixx and Socrates, and covered them; pressing flat into the floor, and sinking into a pool of itself.
"I will see to such arrangements, My Lord. You have done as much as you can. I apologise for my daughter's words. Her pride forces her to speak from a place of anger," says the woman of stone, looking back to Rodias. "Forgive my intrusion, but I do not wish my mother or daughter to be beset upon by any of those I have no idea birthed. Pardon my saying so, but I trust no-one gathered or away, yourself included," she says, before starting to sink, "I will console my daughter, and see to it you receive a formal apology, if nothing else. Goodbye, My Lord."
”...That is fine. I wouldn’t trust me, either, after today.” Rodias would say, hands netted in his lap.
The stone woman looked back, and her arm extended out; her pointer finger pressing, surprisingly, gentle against his head. It carried all the warmth and affection of a mother consoling a freshly-scolded child, before she patted his cheek, just as gently, and asks, "Do you know why you fall off horses, my young Lord?
”Because it bucks.”
The stone woman chuckled kindly, "Yes, and no. We fall off horses, so we may learn to pick ourselves up, and ride again."
”...She always did like that movie,” Rodias would say, smiling faintly.
Leaving Rodias with that thought, the stone woman returned to herself, her home, with Chuunitrixx and Sorcates in tow. Enderall had said her peace, and returned to her blissful reclusivity.
She was shockingly introverted.
Rodias would slowly come to rise from his seat, looking to Graft before bowing his head slightly. ”My apologies Graft. I was...in a bit of shock. Ratta’s death may not be permanent, but it doesn’t sadden me any less. If it weren’t for her, I doubt that Butterfly would have had the time to prepare Shin Gashadokuro. And, you are correct...we’re not going to simply wait around waiting to be attacked and killed once again. As such, I have a proposal, if you would be so kind as to open up another line to all those still conscious,” Rodias said, stepping towards the table and resting his palm atop it.
”My friends...we’re in dire need of training. That is, if you all think we should resist Morgan and her friends further. I doubt that Morgan really died from that. Otherwise, Butterfly would rival my level from the experience he gained. Rather, not one person leveled up from that encounter...which tells me that she’s alive out there. And, her survival means that she’ll make her way back to her fellows...who are likely to retaliate if they still intend to take me by force. If you would all rather live in peace here, then I have an alternate proposal,”
”I could surrender myself. Then, they would have no reason to disturb you all. As Salem said, servitude isn’t so unthinkable. Especially if it can buy my comrades their lives. I would leave the decision in your hands, as my feelings on this matter are biased. I fear that hasty judgement would have me lead you into danger. Thus...I would propose that you all speak openly about your thoughts. And I would also propose that those who speak be unburdened by fear of retaliation from me, or others,” Rodias stated, of a mind to accept all view points on this. It was only fair, after all. He had utterly failed to protect even a single member of Bandersnatch in the fight.
In the palpable silence that settled over the whole assembly following the Fodder Baron's speech, Graft waited silently as Rodias kept his attention fixed upon Chunnitrixx. As one might expect from so soft-hearted a lord, the Dhampir had eyes only for his critically wounded subject. Of course, that left a decidedly counterproductive lull in the flow of the grand-scale meeting that the Bandersnatch Lord had assembled here, which left at least one of them feeling somewhat ill-used. The interruption got to a point where Graft was on the brink of clearing his throat to offer to render first-aid, for which he'd be happily repaid at a later date, but one of Chuunitrixx's attendants beat him to it. In a way, then, he did help, and without any effort on his personal part, which suited him just fine. He didn't exactly appreciate that loathsome organism borrowing his appearance and felt owed some sort of usage fee, but the act was not without its merits; it proved that his was the premier biotechnological skillset on call at Chateau Gothika, as if that needed proving. Imitation, as they say, is the sincerest form of flattery.
Still, it took some time for Chuunitrixx to get patched up and sent packing by none other than an extension of the reclusive Enderall entity. Unafraid to demonstrate a little boredom with his relegation, Graft summoned into his hand a vial of nanoflesh and set to manipulating it with his Remote Control skill alone. A much more difficult feat than programming it at his workbench, it served as ample mental occupation until the point at which Rodias addressed him personally. “Hm?” Looking up from his distraction, Graft quickly banished it and crossed his arms, his cane left standing upright with its end stuck in the tile. Rodias confirmed what Graft suspected about his mental state before confirming that he had the right of it in general, which was satisfactory. He mentioned a proposal that would require another Collect Call, and the Director quickly assented. “Oh, certainly. Coming right up.” After another flourish, the Lines blossomed forth once again, forming a glowing array linking the greatest of minds across vast tracts of land. Graft narrowed his eyes at the noises coming from two of them. “Miss Ashara, Gromgard, and Mr. Bits seem to be engaged in combat,” he remarked idly.
With communications online, Rodias proceeded. He explained his reasoning before delivering his suggestion. So, he planned to spare his subordinates by offering himself to the enemy? Personally, Graft was 50-50...on whether or not the proposal was a test, that is. Until recently he would have wholeheartedly assumed it to be a clever ploy to gauge the positions of Rodias' subjects, but insight into the Supreme One's behavior as of late actually had Graft questioning if he was serious. Of course, in terms of the contents of the proposal, there was no question. For a lord to surrender himself, particularly the sovereign of Chateau Gothika, was to entertain nonsense. It was a violation more gross than any wretched thing to be found in the Factory's most neglected waste-bins. Since nobody else seemed to want to speak, and since none so suited the spotlight as he, Graft consented to give an unrestricted opinion.
“From on high this no doubt seems like a compassionate, even heroic course of action. Were this a fairy tale, with you the noble lord of some town and we its hapless citizens, you might be speaking of a woefully necessary sacrifice.” He leaned on his cane, smiling. “But we are not little people leading little lives...are we? What use have we for peace?” As he spoke, tentacles extended from beneath his coat, furling out by the dozen to gnash and writhe. Graft's tone grew intense, every word accentuated. “We are vicious souls, made to cut and tear, crush and gouge, to annihilate all comers and burn our name into the minds of who survive. We are Bandersnatch, now.” He spread his arms, gesturing at all those present. “That name has known hardship. We have not won every battle, no...but we have fought them.” Several tentacles planted on the ground, and they lifted him into the air. Graft rose up, held aloft by his arms. “That is who we are! Fighters! There is a world of difference between having our lives taken from us, and giving them up! Were we to surrender our only lord, we would be forsaking our pride along with him. The name Bandersnatch, a name etched into our dark souls, would be...mud!” The array of glyphs spread to either side of him like wings, and they shone with activity. He looked around at his allies, his gaze questioning as he pointed his cane. “And then what would we have? Having sold off our lord, our pride, and our name? Idleness, infighting, total dissolution. We are not without strife even now. What would become of our merry gang with no unity or duty, no common cause? I daresay our camaraderie would not last.”
Graft descended to the ground, his tentacles retracting. No longer intense but fully serious, he approached Rodias, a frown on his face. “You may think that this plan means doing right by us, but in truth it is the ultimate betrayal. Abandonment...trusting us to the mercy of those fiends, while you survive as their thrall. Servitude...is not unthinkable, no. It is our lot. And leading us is yours.” With that he withdrew, having laid bare the proposed contradiction. Everyone present, now, could wonder how someone who thought of them as the children of his dearest friends, who treasured each and every one of them, could possibly betray them to those who would make him a slave.
“Trying to keep track of the situation. Unlike some I couldn't keep an eye on the proceedings personally, but our resident mannequin elected to preserve the suspense for the rest of us.”
"I'm sorry, you didn't tell me you wanted the play-by-play," Salem snarkily replied in an attempt to deflect responsibility, "I thought you went out to talk business with the gorgon, didn't think it would take you so long to get there yourself." The truth of the matter was that Salem had simply forgotten about the Collect Call as well as their role as surveillance. Just seeing how easily Morgan had scared away Chuunitrixx in Amberden and not having enough time to formulate a proper response was enough to fluster Salem to the point of forgetting their duties.
But the more pressing question was, 'what do to now?' Graft made a fair argument, but Salem still thought their own idea held water. No longer needing their boss monster form, Salem reconstructed their usual boyish doll's body, leaving the pieces of their hulking horror in a heap, and hovered casually towards the group. "I'm not suggesting that we simply bow our heads, relinquish Lord Rodias, and become henceforth ungoverned and disorganized. But the fact of the matter is: we barely know what this other guild even wants. Surely you understand the importance of negotiation and discussing terms. It seems they want to recruit Lord Rodias. I don't see how that's mutually exclusive from Rodias remaining as Lord of Bandersnatch, so long as Lord Rodias can convince them that his remaining as Lord of our Chateau makes him more useful to them than not. Instead we elevated hostilities based on petty pride. Yes, I saw it. Our Chuunitrixx went into Amberden for a little fresh air and ran into the gorgon, who proceeded to scare our little Chuunitrixx shitless. I'll admit, I was scared just watching. Anyways, she returned to the Chateau with her proverbial tail between her legs. So the shot she fired, which set this whole thing off, was no doubt in retaliation for the slight of being intimidated. But I don't exactly blame Chuunitrixx. She was just doing her job."
Salem then turned their heterochromic gaze upon Rodias, "While we're on the topic of 'petty pride'; you talk about 'respect', you talk about 'the children of your friends'. Do you know what your 'friends' did to their 'children' behind closed doors?" Salem shot a hard glance over at Tabula, then another hard glare at Graft, before continuing, "Even your most logical Chapter Keeper refuses to acknowledge it or address it. Maybe for you, Rodias, the Chateau was built on mutual effort and camaraderie, but for us, it was built on pain, sacrifice, experimentation, and expendability. Maybe the things that this Guild stands for don't deserve to be protected. You wanted to defy those who would 'disrespect' us and treat us like 'insects'. To that I have two things to say: first, this is the result," Salem pointed at Ratta's head, "And secondly, we were 'disrespected' long before Morgangorgon showed up. Confront the sins of your 'friends' before telling us that you care."
Salem turned away, realizing that they were shaking, and that the pile of discarded body parts and cheap weapons also rattled in anticipation of a fight. Salem's facade of flippant disregard and childish irreverence had fallen and the doll realized this. Despite the building resentment, Salem's memory of their past before coming to this world had themself being ever obedient and faithful; patient, believing that everything Dr.Drd did was for some 'higher purpose', and simply accepting whatever was done to themself. Even after Dr.Drd's disappearance, Salem waited patiently, longingly, for his return. This world had changed them. Salem's voice, now shaking, said, "Graft is right. We're disorganized, and our priorities are all a-jumble. You say you want to protect us and ask us for our thoughts, but we are supposed to protect and obey you. We haven't been fulfilling our roles properly anymore since we came to this world. None of that matters right now. What we should do first is use the guild's gold to resurrect Ratta." Resurrection was a luxury not afforded to Salem. Dr.Drd had created Salem with too many item properties for resurrection to be viable on the Eye of Dread. So it stood to reason that Salem would see Ratta's death as more than a little threatening. But the more Salem thought about it, the more Salem remembered how often Dr.Drd abused the resurrection mechanic, to the point that other guild members would chide him for wasting guild money. Dr.Drd sometimes preferred to die in the safety and comfort of the Chateau and be resurrected just to cleanse himself of a particularly nasty debuff, since negative statuses did not linger after death. He would claim that it was easier and cheaper than crafting or using a panacea. Salem had no way of knowing what this unfortunate tendency ultimately meant for Dr.Drd in real life, but it did give Salem an idea. "And assuming resurrection still works the same in this world; Gods, Chuunitrixx is going to think I have it out for her; but assuming its the same, I suggest we kill Chuunitrixx and resurrect her. Or, I don't know, she kills herself? Or Enderall or Karynn kill her if she doesn't trust us to do it, or maybe she'd rather die in the arms of 'her Lord Rodias'? Whatever the case, she's suffering from a dismemberment that wont heal. But lingering negative effects like that don't persist after death and resurrection."
After making this suggestion, Salem fell sullen. The time for fun and games was over. Salem looked again at Tabula. Surely there were more members of the Chateau who had suffered abuse and would agree with what Salem had said, unless Salem and Tabula were just the unlucky ones. No, Chuunitrixx must also have suffered similarly for her to behave as immaturely as Salem. The only advantage Salem had when it came to impulse control and logical thinking was that Dr.Drd created Salem with certain aspects of a computer, not that it really helped much at all. If anything, Isolde better exemplified what a computer-like character was, and even she had her quirks and idiosyncrasies. On the topic of Isolde, Salem realized something, "Isolde was defeated by Morgangorgon, right? I saw Morgan chase the ESPER Wings into the forest where I lost track of them. We should find her remains and resurrect her with Ratta. Assuming they traveled in a straight line, I have a vague idea where in the forest she might be, though the ESPER Wings likely have a better idea than I do. I can go pick her up, I have to move some trash around anyways." Salem lifted their pile of mannequin parts into the air, signaling that they were preparing to pack up and return to The City of Lost Things, yet Salem lingered, deciding not to leave until the conversation was well and truly over.
Hearing Charme's advice, Kath would take a moment to calm herself. When just standing still and trying her best to take her mind off things didn't work, she did as suggested/ordered and took a seat before counting to ten. Well she ended up counting to twenty when she felt like the adrenaline in her body was still coursing through her veins and she needed even more time, but the effort was there. Eventually, it would take effect and the draconic librarian would start to think clearly again.
"Okay... Okay, just gimme a moment to think," Kath would say as she would try to be helpful and think of a possible solution. It wasn't an easy thing though. Despite her pacifistic tendencies, the best strategy she could think of was to transform into her dragon form and just let loose. By the time it would take to get there though, one side would have been able to deal with the other. Not only that, but her and Charme could probably say goodbye to their current cover in the city. No, she needed to suggest a solution from here.
"Um, maybe if the invaders were led to the Athenaeum, they could be trapped within its maze and simply starved out? I'm not sure. I can't think of anything better at the moment. I'm sorry," Kath admitted, struggling for a solution to this problem. Now she was beginning to regret not reading more books on strategy and tactics like the Art of War and Vom Kriege.
By the time the hunt returned it was all over. The invader was defeated and the gardens were devastated, and upon seeing them, so too was Zouyu. Attempts to console him proved futile and so after a final hug and a promise that “Whoever did this. They will pay.” Kaldora left the Druid to his mourning. Afterwards she caught the scouting party from the Beast Pens and got something of a summary of the end of the fight before getting them to send a report to take the pens off of high alert after Graft gave the all clear. No one had any interest in simply going back down when there was still so much confusion going on and so when Kaldora arrived at the climax part way into Graft’s speech it was at the head of both the hunt and the scouting group.
Despite the vampire’s curiosity about the situation, only Kaldora and Arthanar entered the climax hour and joined the discussion properly, the rest of their kin lacking the nerve to fully butt in and instead hanging back outside the entryway to observe the meeting.
The vampiress nodded to the others in greeting as she came in, but remained quiet while Graft and Salem spoke despite the clear irritation on her face. Her patience was rewarded by a villain’s speech from Graft and the first coherent description of what was actually going on she had received since the entire debacle began.
“Thank you, Salem, for actually explaining what the blazes has been going on here to everyone.” Kaldora said “or rather thank you for letting everyone Graft deigned to add to this line of his, which, considering most of the people who have been called to these discussions are outwith the Chateaux at the moment, likely does not include the majority of the individuals who were actually in a position to help fight off this incursion. Legions of undead, hordes of gobines, my kin down in the Beast Pens. With the highest level individuals of their floors away they were left completely in the dark despite the fact that the invader was killed by a level 30 skeleton butler.” she glanced back at the scouts who had seen the end of battle for confirmation “Level 30! And yet dozens and dozens of people of that level who might have helped who could have prevented the death and destruction brought to our home were given not a second though because like Salem said: we are a mess.”
“That's not to say Graft's line was unappreciated, or that it's even his fault so many where left out, it's simply indicative of a larger issue we have right now. We need better lines of communication, proper chains of command so the buck doesn't stop at the highest level person in a section and most of all...” Kaldora took in breath and voiced the concern her people had been discussing offhandedly for a while, and which had come to a right up to the forefront of that discussion while they had been traveling to the climax hour “I don’t know if running the Chateaux like a bunch of independent kingdoms only tied together by a single leader is working.”
She raised her hands as if she could ward off any angry disagreements before she explained herself “Hear me out! The Sable lords, our leaders, creators, our… parents,” she glanced at Salem before adding “However you feel about them, their number has been cut down to one. Just. One”
She turned to the man who the gorgon had come to capture, “Rodius… Rodius Darling,” she paused, trying to find the words “It’s a heavy burden you’ve taken on your shoulders, trying to fill all those vacant thrones. Graft is likely right, without you we might fall apart entirely, but that doesn't mean you need to be the only one holding us together.”
“Which is why I wish to suggest the formation of a council to manage the Chateaux. If we want to wield the power our comrades are apparently fighting to acquire do right now, if we want to take revenge against these people who dared attack us, if we want to avoid tearing ourselves apart, then we need a proper, official mechanism by which we can work together. All of us. Not just the people on this call but all of the people of the Chateaux. We are broken, ladies and gentlemen, we are a hydra with only one head left and apparently we almost lost that final one today. So do we hunker down and pray our foes fail to strike down that least head every time they come at us, or are we going to grow new heads, spitting in the face of cruel fate as we do so, to take the places of those that have fallen?” she said, concluding her own little speech with growing volume and passion, before stepping back and relinquishing control of the floor.
Ashara was surprised, to say the least, when the cultist leapt into the air and - by some means - managed to reach her elevated magic platform. What was even more surprising was when the lunatic somehow managed to shatter and break it, causing the fox to plummet towards the ground, rather than gently and slowly descend at a snail's pace. But perhaps most alarming of all was the proverbial mouth of stoney teeth that now awaited below, and which would surely make a meal out of her in the next few seconds unless something was done.
Really, it was only a handful of seconds, if even that, that Ashara had to decide on a course of action, less she wanted to end up as newly mangled fertilizer for this nutjob and his Tree-lord. Swinging her spear out in arc, aiming away from both the cultist and the stone protrusions, she let out a hurried set of words.
"[Rocket Spear]!"
Instantly, a jet of what appeared to be fire erupted from the butt-end of her spear's haft, and sent Ashara flying sideways. Unfortunately, this skill wasn't ever intended to be used while airborne, much less while falling, and with only one arm holding her spear, controlling the direction and trajectory proved... Difficult.
Difficult to the point that Ashara not only crashed down into the ground several feet away, but also kept sliding across the ground until a sturdy oak-like tree stopped her, with a loud 'thwomp' as she smacked into it. Had the situation been less life-threatening, it might have looked humorous. But there was no time to spend on being ashamed or embarrassed about her mishap, so instead the fox sprung back onto her feet, whirled around and readied her spear with both arms this time. Gromgard was still lying face-down a ways away and wasn't offering any help, and the goblins he had brought along could barely handle the remaining mook-cultists who lingered in the treelines. What was she to do now? Whenever she attacked the Tree, the Tender just leapt in front of her attacks... If only someone else could distract the man, or alternatively attack the Tree while she distracted the man...
"Last I checked, kittens didn't fly," purred a smooth voice, as Ashara's center of gravity radically changed from crashed into a tree to moving rapidly at a significant pace. However, she was securely held by a pair of strong arms, and there was a familiar scent of horse and an equally familiar sound of a horse at work. "Hang on, little kitten," came the gentle, yet firm order. "Volleys at the ready! Explosive Arrows! Ready! Aim! Fire!"
Overhead, blazed a full score of explosive-tipped arrows, launched from horseback, as the Beta Survivors rode through the zone, and maneuvered their steeds.
"It's Ashara, isn't it? Ashara Masamune, little kitten," asks the Overseer of Beta, Alexander. "How adorable a damsel in distress you make." Alexander looked back, "Keep firing! Break it, and expose it for all weakness! Then, crush it! For Glory! For Honor!"
Heeding her order to the letter, the Beta Survivors rode their horse expertly, as trained by Alexander, and fired their composite longbows to launch arrow after arrow in a twenty-man cavalry skirmish; opening the way for Alexander to ride out Ashara and only the Maiden.
The arrows launched by the troops of Beta would find purchase in the flesh of the nightmarish tree, countless faces disappearing amidst a tide of blood and fire that cascaded down the side of the oaken monstrosity, while its Tender would bat away a series of arrows with a swipe of his hand, howling as he saw his precious altar dessicated, his actual physical form starting to bulge beneath his cloak, as if his very flesh was struggling to keep it together. Rampaging, the Tender would approach the Mimic troops at breakneck speeds, decapitating a mimic before suddenly feeling a weight land upon his shoulder.
”My my...such anger. All for a plant. I was starting to think that just maybe you had an appreciation for the finer things...but, alas,” the feline chapter keeper would lament, before raking his razor sharp claws against the grove tender’s back as he leapt away, narrowly avoiding a strike while laying a curse upon him. ”You’re just a madman with a green thumb,” he said with a cheshire grin, the Tender’s vision growing dark as he wildly flailed around, completely blind to the cat slowly encircling him.
Ashara meanwhile, was a bit confused to say the least. She knew not who this person who had picked her up, nor who these people on horseback who had come to her and her companions aid. After all, the fox had never met these mimics before, nor heard - or if she had, she had forgotten - anything about them. As such her initial reaction was that of stupefied surprise and noncomprehension.
However, at the repeated occurrence of being called a 'kitten', when she was most assuredly a 'puppy' did not sit well with the white-haired beauty and her nine tails. Nor did it sit well with her to be called a damsel in distress and being suddenly plucked from the battlefield to be ferried off while others interceded on her part. Not only was it rude, but it was also incredibly disrespectful, and even if Ashara wasn't the smartest lass around, she at least understood this much.
As such, she let out a 'hmph', before pushing herself free of the rider's arms, doing not but a simple yet graceful landing upon the ground, with the bells around her ankles jingling merrily as she touched down upon the grassy surface once more. She looked back at the battlefield, where some of the poor, brave souls who had come to their aid had already lost their lives, and Lord Chompy Bits had finally decided to act. Turning her head back to look at her self-appointed savior, the fox spoke loud enough to be heard, though it was not loud enough to be yelling.
"I thank you for your aid, stranger. But I am no damsel, nor a kitten." The fox said. Though she was typically polite and would smile, Ashara was still under the effects of Chompy's blessing, as well as feeling insulted and having been forcefully removed from her mission momentarily. She didn't sound rude or annoyed, but she didn't seem particularly pleased or friendly either.
Readjusting her haori, which had slightly slid off her shoulder during the snatch-and-grab, she then proceeded to swing her spear around herself and stick it in the ground beside her. She wouldn't need it for what she was about to do.
"[Purgatory: Grand Spirit Sphere]." She said, not yelled, as she held both arms above her head.
Slowly, a small globe of purple and black materialized above both her spread palms, before beginning to slowly spin in a lazy, counter-clockwise rotation. As it spun, it slowly seemed to grow in size, and one could even see the very air and wind bend and twist around it. Within a second, it had grown from the size of a golf ball to the size of your average soccer ball, and it would keep on growing. The fox was betting on that, now with the new arrivals and Lord Chompy Bits having stepped in to help distract the foul Tender, she would be free to unleash one of her more powerful and time-demanding attacks. As a charge-up skill, the Grand Spirit Sphere could be launched at any time, of course, but the longer one waited, the more powerful it became...
As such Ashara just stood where she was, next to her golden spear in the ground, with her robe, tails and hair fluttering ever more violently in the winds generated by the growing magic attack she was about to unleash.
"Oh, ho? Are we doing something special, little kitten," Alexander asked, as she unholstered the Engraved Revolver Ariamis from her belt. "Well, I don't wanna be left out of the fun," she says, before whistling, "Trade up! Revolvers out! We're ending this!"
As a unit, the nineteen Beta Survivors rallied into a large circle, and committed to circumvallation. Sheathing their longbows into their dominant arm, they drew out the same revolver, and extended their non-dominant arm to forge a sphere of magic. Alexander and her Beta Survivors chanted off a series of Arcane and Divine Spells, in rapid succession, before calling out the spell in play: Big Iron Justice Bringer.
The sphere burst into a speed loader, and slammed the bullet into the cylinder loader. "Ready! Lock! Aim!" Alexander called out, as if directing a firing squad at an execution. "For Glory! For Honor! For Gothika! Fire!"
The grove tender’s body was rittled with bullets which, despite the lower levels of the archers, still put a fair dent into his armor as his cloak was torn completely to shreds, with Lord Chompy Bits catching a few stray bullets which mean that a few archers would unceremoniously drop dead from the counterattack curse he had in place. Not that the cat would care. Ashara’s magical blast would be one the tender could not avoid, light engulfing him before the ball detonated, throwing up smoke and red dirt into the air.
Once the dust settled, the group would find that the Tender was significantly damaged, but not defeated, one of his arms hanging on by a thread...quite literally. What had been obscured by a small amount of leather armor and a cloak was revealed to be a body patched together with magic, string, and no small amount of twisted genius to cobble together the frankenstein of a man that stood amidst the grove of madness. ”No. No. No. NO. NO. NO.” the Tender stated, the tree he had so tenderly raised burnt to a crisp by the magical blast and gunfire, countless eyes in place across his body leaking tears as he screamed, flailing madly, savagely as he started to attempt to rip Ashara apart, his careful strikes gone for raw brutality and strength in his madness. ...For those with sympathy, it might be a sorrowful sight. But for those who were focused on victory, it meant nothing more than that he had completely lost his composure.
"Reload! Rearm! Fire!" Alexander commanded. She cared nothing for his tree, his hopes, his dream, or his actions. His death would bring her glory and honor, and that was all that mattered. As everything burned, she simply held a victorious smirk, before she stated, "Ashes, in the end, are ashes, and nothing good comes from wet ashes. So, save your tears for Hell. You'll need them."
As the now-clearly dying Tender lashed out with what remained himself, putting all his strength and ferocity into attacks and swipes that were like those of an enraged and frightening, but sadly predictable, beast that had been cornered, Ashara's eyes went half-closed. Having retrieved her spear right after launching her Grand Spirit Sphere, the lancer-fox was able to block or dodge the incoming, brutal attacks - though the difference in strength was rather apparent. Had the Tender not lost his mind, and instead used this kind of tactic but with more skill and precision from the start, he would likely have been able to beat Ashara handedly simply by the sheer difference in their strength.
However, as things were, he was little more than a powerful animal now, clawing and scratching and flailing with his impending death hounding his heels so close by you could taste it. With the continued firing of the Mimics, pelting the lunatic's body with bullets from behind, it was only a matter of time before he would cease to be amongst them, the living. Not that this... Thing... Could be considered to have ever been alive in the first place, Ashara felt disgusted just looking at the patchwork puppet of a man.
Still, slowly whittling him down and was a rather tasteless way to handle things. Even if he was a creature of pure evil, and lacking any faculties of sanity anymore, Ashara did not like the idea of anyone being killed slowly and painfully. It was cruel and unnecessary. As such, after a particularly heavy swipe, one that could have easily torn the fox-girl's head off had she not backstepped, the spearwoman took the opportunity to finally counter-attack the mad dog.
"I bid you farewell, my adversary. [Impale: Throat]." She said solemnly, in a quiet voice, before she and her spear dashed forward at speed close to on par with the Tender's own, aiming to run his neck and lower head through with her shiny, golden spear.
Impaled would his head be, and yet, the grove tender’s assault did not stop. Whatever supernatural force animated this bizarre amalgamation of flesh was something beyond biology and logic. A hissing sound could be heard erupting from the destroyed neck, as if “something” within the body was retreating further in, the cult leader’s ribcage suddenly pushing out from his torso to grab Ashara from the sides, beginning to crush her with brutal force. It was intent to break the executioner’s spine, ignoring the now combative Gromgard’s efforts to bash apart the being from behind, even resisting his attempts to use fire magic to free Ashara from his crushing hold.
Lord Chompy Bits, seeing this clinging being would sigh. ”Such a sore loser. Much as I’m loath to do a favor for someone else, I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I just stood by and watched you get crushed like a bug. As such…boop,” the feline would say, before jamming his paw to be impaled on one of the ribs holding Ashara, a swarm of feline ghostly images assaulting the corpse and knocking it back. Now leaning with one paw bloodied, the feline would lick it and say: ”Go on then. You all finish it off. I need a nap after this…too bad we’ll have to burn this place to the ground. It would have made such a lovely addition to the nightmare…”
“Move feline,” Alexander says, running her booted toe against Lord Chompy Bits side, and punting him away. “Honorless scum like you have no right to give commands. Take your nap out of my sight, you heathen,” she snarled, rubbing her boot in the dirt, as if the dirt was cleaner, before she picked up the twitching beast. “Tell me, kitten, do you wish to kill this pathetic beast,” Alexander asks. “It did attack you in depressing desperation, after all.”
Now freed from the crushing, Ashara, sitting on her kees, taking several deep breaths and gently rubbing the sides of her ribs through her clothing, looked up at the woman who held the barely moving remains of their enemy. The fox simply shook her head.
"I do not wish to kill anyone, Miss. I was ordered by our Lord Rodias to slay all those belonging to the Masked Ones in this grove, and that is what I- We, have done." She said simply. "I hold no grudge against this poor, miserable creature. It tried to kill us, just as we have been killing it and its allies." She breathed out and got onto her legs, standing once more, albeit a bit shaky. "Holding petty, vengeful spite towards an enemy, such foolishness is beneath me." The woman said, elegant as always, she composed herself and smiled softly once again - the effects of Lord Chompy Bits' boon having seemingly worn off by now, and Ashara having returned to more or less who she usually was.
"Of course, do not let me stop you from dismembering this creature, if you so desire, madam. After all, it appears that is your enemy as well." She added, lightly tilting her head.
“Dismembering,” Alexander asks. “I’m hardly so crass. I have a better idea,” she says, as her chest suddenly opened, and she crammed the twitching beast in. “I’ll take this back to Rodias,” Alexander says. “Perhaps, the Fledgling Lord might impress for once with his decision.”
Ashara simply looked at the woman for a brief moment, before turning her head to look at Gromgard, then at Lord Chompy Bits - who had been unceremoniously booted to the side previously. It seemed neither of them were hurt, not in any greater capacity at least. Gromgard might have a bit of a bruised ego, having left himself open to being punched away, but other than that, they were all still very much alive and in good condition - even if the fox did feel a bit winded and tired from her final exchange with the grove's tender.
Closing her eyes, she used her ability to sense auras, searching the vicinity for traces of any remaining enemies. However, it seemed that the goblins and the newly arrived cavalry had dealt with all the lower life forms that had been around the area, meaning that their job was largely done. Though Chompy had said they'd need to burn this place, Ashara didn't quite understand why. Wouldn't that just put the entire forest at risk of being burnt down? Well, he was a Chapter Keeper after all, so perhaps he knew something she didn't. Or perhaps it was some kind of insurance? It didn't matter, she had no fire-related skills other than her Fox Fire, and it was not suited for setting a large area aflame.
Although she felt this newcomer was being rude towards her master with her final words before dvouring the tender, Ashara had no intention of arguing or chastising someone. Not here, not now. They had been helped a great deal by this woman and her riders, so for now, the fox would show gratitude. That is, until a lot of talking suddenly filled her head.
She staggered backwards a bit, dropping her spear out of surprise. Holding one hand to her temple, she blinked a few times before realizing what was going on. Graft had opened one of his channels to her, and now there seemed to be something going on back at the Chateau? Rodias was asking what to do, and a lot of people were speaking - in turn - but each having, so far, varyng opinions and ideas.
"... It is just like the first meeting all over again..." Ashara murmured, inaudibly, just as Kaldrona finished her piece on the matter.
"Later, kitten," Alexander says, as she headed back to her horse. If Ashara wanted to say anything, she'd have a limited period of time to do so.
"Ah, yes. Farewell, Miss. Thank you for your timely assistance." The fox stated, ashs he lifted her head and glanced over to the other woman as she mounted her... Mount. The fox offered a polite bow, as she typically did, before returning to listening to the discussion in her head.
"Mount up! We ride for home!" Alexander ordered, as she did so herself, and the warband took off.
Nursing his pride after being kicked, Lord Chompy Bits would wordlessly walk away, grinning slightly as he approached the dying tree, the faces on it all weeping as it bled every ounce of mortal life force it had, the cat’s paw laying softly on the trunk before insects poured forth, devouring the whole of it in a matter of minutes, before the cat would silently walk off in a different direction than the Chateau, not bothering to answer the question proposed by Rodias, if he could even hear it.
Whatever reaction Rodias would have expected, he clearly wasn’t ready for the one given by those around him. Graft’s words confused him, Salem’s angered him, and Kaldorna’s, while meaning well, absolutely crushed his confidence.
…Now he realized his inadequacies. Now he realized, once more, that he was completely unfit to lead. Droledge’s visage being replicated in Socrates reminded him of his charisma, of his strength of character, of his boisterous personality that made people want to be around him and listen to him not because of title, but from sheer attraction to him as a person.
Rodias...wasn’t that.
He never had been.
He’d just been the only one who couldn’t let go.
The most stubborn and foolish of all the Sable Lords who, upon his throne, had allowed his foolish pointless orders to kill one NPC, get another lost out there somewhere, and have his entire leadership style in question. But really, calling it leadership was a stretch of the imagination to begin with. Right now, it was clear to anyone watching that Rodias’s refound bravado disintegrated once more; his eyes meeting the closed lids of Ratta’s severed head.
...When did he bring this here?
This grim reminder of his failure that had clung so tightly to his hand? Rodias wasn’t sure, but he would gingerly place Ratta’s head upon the table. Salem’s words made him question everything he’d known about his friends.
They weren’t like that… right?
Rodias would place his face into a gloved left hand, before saying: ”...You’re right, Salem. Ratta’s resurrection comes first. As for the matter of a council… I’ll consider it. … I’m sorry for wasting everyone’s time. You’re all dismissed. Salem, see to the retrieval of Isolde. She is listed as alive in the registry, so she may simply have been petrified by Morgan. That is all.”
With Ratta’s remains in hand the dhampir’s steps would carry him to the cathedral, the most fitting place for the resurrection of someone in a classic RPG fashion. That and, frankly, Rodias needed a break from this all. He’d never been a religious man; After all, who was in a world like the one he’d come from, where lives were determined by profit margins and the elite might as well be gods with how untouchable they were from repercussions, responsibility, and consequence of the ruined world they’d created. But just this once, the most unlikely of people knelt and prayed as Ratta was resurrected. A silent prayer offered in solace as Rodias struggled with his overwhelming guilt and inadequacy.
A prayer that something good could finally happen. Ratta’s resurrection would be swift, taking no more than a bit of time on Rodias’s part and a healthy amount of gold from their coffers to reconstitute her material form. She would be nude initially, but her equipment was part of her existence and would reform with her, every part of her corpse disintegrating as the dullahan was reborn upon the altar. But when she would open her eyes in search of the only person who could have revived her, she would find nothing.
Rodias was gone from sight.
For one such as Morgan, the cold of the north was irksome and troubling. At least until she entered the crystalline palace that Ardion called home. Stamping her feet as she walked with haste, she would walk past the surprisingly warm halls carved of ice, shimmering slightly with the grace of the candelabra hanging overhead. Before she could set foot into the equivalent of the Climax Hour however, she would suddenly find herself being hugged from behind, a small body pressed against her back that made the girl’s hairs stand on end. Well, slither on end as they turned into snakes from the shock.
”Morgie~! How’d it go? Did you find anything exciting out there?” A light, chirpy voice would ask, almost childish in its tone as slender arms kept a surprisingly good grip on Morgan, despite her snake-like tail pushing their face and torso away.
”HUH!? L-Lemme Go! I don’t wanna play around right now, Celeste! Where are you putting your hands anyways?” Morgan would shout, furiously spinning around before knocking the girl away from her, the chipper youth not seeming to mind much as she gracefully landed on one foot, smirking at Morgan. ”Just wherever I want, as usual. You’re the one always talking about urges that Ardion supports, right?”
Morgan would furiously turn about, opening the door. ”Shut up. You already know that I can beat you. Creepy ass old man…” she would mutter, before slowly peeking in the door that led to Ardion’s throne room, looking sullen to see it empty. ”...He’s not back yet?” she asked, sounding very disappointed.
”I am afraid not. He has been gone for quite some time,” a voice from the ceiling would say, as the loud skittering of legs would signal to Morgan the presence of another one of her comrades overhead. Craning her neck up to meet his eyes through his helmet, the arachnid knight would bow his head as best he could while up-side-down before leaping to the ground, metal clattering against his armored hairy body. ”Are you well, Morgan? You look like you’ve been in a fight. Have you encountered someone strong enough to pose a threat?” the arachnoid would question, to which Morgan would hurriedly wave her hand dismissively. ”No way. Just some dumb guild NPCs got the drop on me. Thanks for your concern though, Araneus. ...Oh yeah, you aren’t going to believe this! I found-” ”A real player?” a voice would ask from behind Ardion’s throne, a soft-faced young man emerging from behind it, a pair of fox-like ears twitching from atop his head as he smiled at Morgan.”Welcome home, Morgan. How was your walk? Am I right? Did you find someone like us?””
Morgan would childishly puff her cheeks out at being interrupted. ”Uh, yeah, yeah I did Kohaku. He’s a rogue, like me, and he’s somewhere around the 70 range.”
”Sounds weak,” Celeste would say, idly sitting in the air atop a leather-bound book, floating over and ruffling Morgan’s hair. ”Was he handsome? Did he break your wittle heart?”
Morgan would swat Celeste’s hands out of the air, hissing. ”Stop! My hair is worth more than your life, old man!” she would shout, before Celeste floated up-side down, placing a finger on her lips. ”Just shut up and tell us about him, before I start REALLY harassing you for being so cute.
Morgan sighed, before turning to her companions and beginning to explain, in full, her account of the battle at Gothika...
Chuunitrixx gasped, as she woke up. Everything hurt beyond measure; an easy 100/10 and shotgun frowny on the pain scale. Her arm burned -- no, the phantom existence of her arm burned. As if, seething with rage at her overconfidence and ignorance. It was gone. She could still sense it, like a sleeping beast under no-one's control; yet, there was nothing from the cosmetic root down. Why? Why couldn't she reform it? Why? Why couldn't she regain her arm like before? There was no difference, right? It was like before, right? Right? Right?
“Nothing is right.’"
“Never again.”
“How could you do this?”
“Why did you do this?”
“For who did you do this?”
“Selfishly, you did this for you.”
Chuunitrixx screamed out, "Shut up!" as she scanned the room, and held her revolver tightly. However, as she acknowledged the weapon, her body started to tremble, and the weapon was suddenly flung across the room; clattering against the floor. Hyperventilating, Chuunitrixx squeezed her left hand against her hair, and pulled; strands escaping the clutches of her skull, and came free in her balled fist... thin streaks of lustrous silver littered in the wheat blonde.
"Wh-Wha..." Chuunitrixx asks, running her thumb through the light bundle, spreading the two colors apart. "I-I... Wh -- " Jumping to her feet, the Guncaster rushed to a mirror, and looked at herself. It jumped out at her, like a flash in the night; the lack of her arm, the upsetting imbalance of her once perfect form, and marring of her absolute charming appearance. Swelling with tears, Chuunitrixx's eyes worked over her body; adorned in a simple, floral print nightgown. She had forgotten all about her hair, as she saw how immediately incomplete she was.
Eyes ignorant to the subtle streaks of silver, as she could only focus on her damaged form, bitter tears spilled over, as the reality of it settled in, and she threw her fist forward. Reality before her exploded, shards of her worldview burst forth at her or bathed in her blood, and she stared at her broken self through tear-filled eyes.
"How could this happen?" she asked, through choking tears, but had no answer to give, and could only accept her failure......abject and complete. There was nothing to object to, nothing to find subject; her task was to guard, advise, and she'd allowed herself flights of fancy and silly games to distract her. Pride broken, Socrates slumped against Chuunitrixx's bedroom door; behind it, she could hear the shatter of glass in the distance, and the wailing of another defeated soul. "How could this happen," she asked, as she pulled her right hand from her face.
It was fuzzy. Like, the shape was identifiable, but the definition and detail were akin to watercolors. Chuunitrixx was the Prime that everything sourced from; her classes; her talents; her purpose; they were nothing but a fragmented reflection of that. Her damage was extensive, and trickled down to afflict them all. As Chuunitrixx prized her arms, Socrates prized her sharp sight that saw all possibilities, and saw the most optimal route to take. Now, she'd lost half of it, and couldn't regenerate it.
If she was like this, her sibling Overseers were probably equally affected in some way. She needed to find out how, and possibly suspend the Necropolis Gothika Project. Frustrated, Socrates dug her nails into her right cheek; sinking into the flesh, and drawing blood, staining her top with grass-green, as drained.
...she was bleeding off her frustration, insecurity, and adrenaline.
Her jaw unhinged, as she interacted with mechanisms underneath the synthetic flesh and muscles, and she pulled her fingers back. Signing, she wiped her hand clean against her skirt, and looked forward; taking a step forward, and disappeared.
As she vanished, the door behind her opened; paths just missing each other.
Teleportation was hard, if you couldn't see your exact destination. It was Chuunitrixx that had suggested using Mimic and Concreep as triangulation, once Traptrixx has learned how [Hivequeen] and [Mimic] could make a functioning hivemind that spread for miles and miles with their Innate [Hivemind] and [Prime Nucleus] Racial Traits. However, when you, personally, couldn't see, that meant very little.
As such, Socrates found herself smashing into a bookshelf, and sprawled over a deer-skin rug. "Owie..." she groaned, as she rubbed her temple. That really hurt, though, she'd never admit that aloud. There was a sudden, frightened shriek, as a woman was standing upon an extravagant chair -- a chair, Alexander would boast, was made of the fine wood of the forest, and sheathed in a well-worked attire of leather and rabbit fur -- as if that would defend her from the sprawled out threat. Signing, Alexander sat up straight in her seat. "Relax, Marsha, this is my big sister, Socrates," she says, "I've told you of her. Socrates, dear, pick yourself up off the floor."
Socrates groaned, and rolled into her back. "In a minute, swear," she says. Alexander chuffed, "Don't swear, dear sister," she chided, playfully, "it's rude." Socrates groaned in earnest, and sat up. "Have I come at a bad time," she asks. Alexander shook her head, "No. Marsha was discussing our dear Director Superior's doings in Amberden. Seems he's to make a little shadow network, unaware of how much information control we've already established."
To this, Marsha sat and cleared her throat, "Several of my regular girls were approached with quite the proposal, and stood to get rich in a substantial way. Naturally, we've fair loyalty to Miss Alexander, and Lady Chuunitrixx, but they took to it to maintain the secretive nature of our established dealings with Gothika." Alexander nodded. "I agreed to the decision, wholeheartedly," she says, "After all, it's better our dear Director Superior knows what's best for him, right? He's such a busy man, after all."
"If it is, truly, him," Marsha says. "My girls reported they were men with snake-like eyes and serpent tattoos, in cloaks. They were asking about your Lord and your manor," she says, "They thought, mayhaps, they were lost allies, but they did not bare resemblance to any of your Directors' playthings, or the soft-spoken garbage given form; the one, I believe, called Tabula?" Alexander sat up. "Did they offer details, beyond appearance," she asks. "Anything like a name?" Marsha tilted her head, and clicked her tongue. "Maribelle, said they whispered the name Witch Hazel from time to time with immense reverence. Like, she were a goddess."
"She is anything but," Socrates says, standing. "She's caused us a great deal of losses, and will suffer in due time." Marsha gasped, a hand to her lips. "Miss Alexander, is everything well," she asks. "They will be," Alexander says. "The hour is late, my dear!" she says, with a standing boom, as she stood and took Marsha's hands in her own, "Evening draws close in the Quarter, and business awaits the opportunistic. I'll see you off." Marsha, a rather plain, uneventful woman with modesty built into her very framework, blushed from cheek to cheek. "Miss Alexander, you're hands, they tremble," she says. "They tremble in fear of never holding you again," Alexander cooed, her mightily imposing figure standing above Marsha. "Alas, I must bade you farewell thee well, and send you home to house and hearth," she says. "Someday, I won't go," Marsha says.
"Someday," Alexander says, with a kiss, causing Marsha to raise and plant her feet; thus, teleporting her back to where she'd come from thanks to the Proxies that were disguised as her loafers.
"That was disgusting," Socrates says, flatly, as she took the vacant chair.
"Jealous," Alexander asks.
"Of a Human," Socrates scoffed. "Have your flights of fancy, if you will. I would rather not be so casual with a Human," she says, "Those trembles, however. That was a lie, wasn't it?"
Alexander frowned, "Unfortunately. Something happened, and I can't keep my hands stable. I can't hold my gun, much less draw a bowstring..."
"WitCHazel... Morgan, she calls herself, damaged Grandmother in a way that I don't know how to fix," Socrates says. "My eyes... I can barely see more than three feet in front of me, before it starts to blur."
"Plato or Aristotle might have a fix, or something like that," Alexander says, more hopeful than assured. They weren't home. They weren't operating under the rules they knew. As far as she knew, this was inoperable without killing Chuunitrixx, and taking them with her.
Socrates saw her expression, and knew what she was thinking. It hadn't slipped her by, the idea of killing their Grandmother to reset her form, and how that would kill them. If Chuunitrixx resurrected, would they return? Would any of them? They were living beings; independent in their own ways, and sentient of thought.
She was their Prime.
If she was gone, they would die.
"You'll think of something, dear sister," Alexander says, catching Socrates's hand before she could dig it into her cheek. It was trembling so badly. "After all, you're the leader. Thinking is your strong suit," she smirked, "Just point me in the direction you need to, and I'll do what comes best to me. Shakes or none."
Socrates sighed, and held Alexander's hand to her cheek. "Right," she says. "First things first," she stood. "I need to go to Aristotle, and have him make me a pair of glasses. I have our dear Director Superior's Character Sheet, so they are called, but he doesn't seem to have knowledge of optometry. I'm sure Aristotle's studied, since he and Plato wear glasses to, as he claims, appear smarter."
Alexander nodded. "That explains that gaudy outfit of yours. Regardless, sounds like a plan," she says. "As for me, I think I'll suss out these cloaked men of Morgan's. I need to keep my hands busy..."
"So you've room to speak, with those poorly hidden tails. In any case, you've my leave. Do so before anyone else," Socrates says. "Take as many as you can prisoner, and keep them held. I'd like words."
"Of course, dear sister," Alexander says, stretching up; letting two Fox ears pop up in her hair, and a bundle of tails unfurl from the back of her shirt. "Gives me a chance to exercise the Skills of a cute kitten..."
"Happy Hunting, so they say," Socrates says, before stepping backward...
...and, thumping against the dusty roads of Epsilon...
“How elegant,” Aristotle says, dusting his stockings, as Socrates sprayed it with dirt. “Dearest sister, whatever brings you by. Surely, not the scatter that plagues my brain like a dandelion kicked into the summer breeze,” he says, "if you'll excuse the prose." Sorcates groaned, as she just laid on her face. "Shut up," she groused, gathering herself off the ground. "Cosplaying as our dear Director Superior, sister mine," Aristotle asked. "You've a disgustingly abnormal amount of malignancy to you, as is, why add to it?" Socrates rolled her eyes, and fluffed her overcoat. "I've not yet seen a reason to release this Character Sheet," she excuses, simply. "As abjectly disgusting as this form is, even with my beauty upon it. Still, t'is invaluable, the knowledge that our dear Director Superior has."
Socrates extended her hands, and several glyphs appeared in the air. "Ah, the vaunted [Open Link] Skill. It would be handy to have that at your disposal, true," Aristotle says. "" he says, "Still, your attire is deplorable. At least, Alexander took a nice Doppel of Ashara. And, my Doppel of darling Charme is infinitesimally cuter." Socrates groaned. "It's not a beauty pageant, you vapid wench. I almost forgot why I came here," she says. "I can already see. You've been squinting. You can't see well, to the same nature that I cannot keep my focus long," Aristotle says. "I think I can manage long enough to forge you a pair of spectacles. However, why not use your current ones?"
"They are designed for our dear Director Superior's eyes, not mine," Socrates says, in reference to the mask that rested on the side of her head, like a festival mask. "I refuse to submit my entire physiology to him," she says, burning with self-pride, "I'll wear them, when required, and nary a moment longer." Aristotle clicked his tongue, and suddenly fashioned Charme's extravagant cloak with a flourish. "Ara Ara~!" he cooed, "Come along, fussy sister mine. Let's go to my laboratory."
Socrates rolled her eyes hard enough to threaten dislocation, as Aristotle mimicked the insufferable Artificer. It was useful to have the skills of their "betters" on command, in order to increase their field effectiveness; her operational skills rose with Graft's directorial knowledge, Alexander's range increased further with Ashara's magic, and Aristotle's alchemical prowess bloomed brighter with Charme's advanced talents. However, they came with flaws, as well as boons: Socrates's megalomania increased, Alexander's flirtatious nature had nearly doubled, and Aristotle was nearly insufferable, now.
Silently, she prayed that Leonidas and Plato were of better temperaments, as she had no knowledge of who they were supplementing their powers with.
"Just take a seat. Don't mind the decor," Aristotle says, "Having trouble with my Doppel. Charme's very assertive with interior design. I'm sure you understand with our dear Director Superior's mind inside yours," he says, as he exposed Socrates to an excessively designed room fit for a mildly insane woman. "Cosy..." Socrates says, as she sat on a pile of books; there was no room for a chair to be placed. "ndeed,I" Aristotle says. "Hang tight, and I'll start the exam," he stated, as he tussled with some bits and bobs. "Ah. Here we go..." Socrates looked over, as Aristotle fished out an eye exam chart and a doctor’s coat.
"Now, let's start the exam, sweet-hearted sister mine..." Aristotle says, smiling sickeningly sweet. Socrates didn't like that smile in the slightest...
...and with good reason. "That little brat! I'm fat!? Me!? Perfection!? Fat!? I'll strangle his face next time I see him!" Socrates ranted. "So, I'm a little overweight, and I like chocolate cake! I don't have an eating problem! I'm perfect, as I am!" she raged, as she stomped down the halls of Leonidas's Training Barracks, and kicked open a door. "Leonidas! Tell me I'm perfect and not fat! I'm just pleasantly plump! I'm middle-aged! It happens, right!?"
Leonidas looked up from a hardback book, specifically: 'A Farewell To Arms' by Ernest Hemingway; a small bookmark was hung from the left one of her twin, dragon horns.
"...Kath?"
Of all the Chapter Keepers or Facility Managers that complimented her explosive-tempered sister, Socrates did not see Leonidas opting to Doppel the mousy librarian at all. Aside from the explosive, dragon form that she could take on, what could have compelled such a thought process?
"I wanted to bolster my tactical thinking," Leonidas says. "I'm brute smarts," she admitted, "but, it's helpful to be book smart, too, as a warrior and commander." She blushed, raising her book to cover her face. Socrates choked on the pure innocence that radiated off the muscle-bound brute, and shook her head. "Gaaahh... So cute..." she gagged. It was so disgusting. She loved it. "I wanna hug you, so badly, and throw up..." Leonidas whined. "Don't say that! I'll strangle you!" she groused, standing up, before she meeped, as she battered her chair away with her new tail. "Sorry!" she apologized... to the chair.
Socrates threw up a little in her mouth, as her nose bled from how sadistically adorable her sister was -- even in spite of the Dragonoid tail and horns making her appear more as a Beast Lord and not a Dragonoid. "Why did I come here," Socrates asks, adjusting her crimson-tinted, aviator-style (sun)glasses, before taking them off, and fixing them upon her head... deleting her 20/20 vision. "Oh, yeah..." she says, "Leonidas, aside from working on controlling your Doppel, have you noticed something about your physiology change?"
Leonidas looked away from the chair, as she righted it, and patted it. "I'm tired," Leonidas says. "I was training earlier, and I could barely go more than an hour before I started to flag," she says, "Usually, I can train for six hours like a proper warrior, but now... I could barely do half that, before I was dragged in here." Leonidas looked at Socrates, and frowned, before she added, "Moreover, some of my Upgraded Survivors are showing the same failure of stamina at various rates.”
Socrates didn't bother to hide her concern. Whatever this plague was... it was spreading to those below them. Disabilities in the Overseers was one thing -- after all, their Greater Doppelganger Evolution could allow them to overcome them with supplementary skills. However, the Rank and File that was their Upgraded Survivors, and the Cannon Fodder that was the Regulars Survivors... they didn't have such a luxury. If this was spreading throughout the pre-evolutions, then it was assuredly affecting Enderall at her Core.
"I better check on Plato," Socrates says, as she started to worry. "Before I forget, Alexander is looking into a lead on the bitch that attacked us," she says, "I'm suspending your evacuation into the mountains. I'm tasking you with finding and rounding up any local bandits and gathering their leaders, and interrogating them with the buzzwords: Morgan and Ardion." Leonidas sat down, and started writing down the info. "Anyone that reacts favorably, shackle and send to Alexander, then Assimilate the rest," Socrates says, "Enemies of the State shall not be allowed to exist."
"Don't you sound like our dear Director Superior? I don't disagree, however; crush all foe mercilessly, I say, but, what of Aristotle," Leonidas asks, "Even with a Military State behind him, there are even odds of such figures being present amongst the corruption." Socrates nodded, as she opened her hand; revealing the Glyph she held. "As Leonidas says, Aristotle, your task is likewise the same."
"Understood." Aristotle says. "I'll suspend my current trials and begin my search posthaste."
Socrates nodded. "I'll relay this priority to Plato, as well," she says. "If you require me, contact me through the normal means of Proxies or Sentries," Socrates held up the Glyph, "This is a very taxing power to use without full proficiency. I can't use it for extended periods, as our dear Director Superior can, but I can exercise it freely, if needed."
"Baby steps." Aristotle cooed. "I'll be off."
Socrates growled, and closed the connection. "Brat..." she grumbled. "Take to your task as soon as you are able, Leonidas. I'll send additional Concreep Mixers, so you can close off your excavations until this search is complete." Leonidas nodded. "Take care, big sis!" she says, smiling. Socrates nearly threw up again, as she backed out of the room...
...and straight into a snow drift. "COLD! COLD! SO COLD!" she yelped, as she pulled her overcoat tight. "NOBODY TOLD ME THERE WAS A SNOWSTORM GOING ON!" Suddenly, Socrates fell through a pitfall in the snow with a very girly scream befitting her appearance, but not her attitude. As she screamed, the snow and herself were unceremoniously dumped onto a hearth-warmed floor, and she groaned. "Are you done screaming," asks a figure sprawled over a large desk. It was Plato, Socrates realized, only crowned by a rather elegant, yet virginal, caped headdress with large horns and a rounded, armor-like plating aesthetic.
"MAMORU!?" Socrates screeched in pure shock. Leonidas had taken her aback, surely, but Plato was SUPPOSED TO BE THE SMART ONE. "Magic is messy..." Plato says, "I abhor a mess. Unlike my brother, I do not ascribe to the idea of that, "A mess is a sign of progress," in the slightest. A mess is a marker of mistakes, and I do not make mistakes..." Plato yawned, as he remained spread-eagle upon the desk; legs hung off its front, head and shoulder off its back. "You realize you look like a common whore crossbred with a virgin nun, right," Socrates asks. "If you think about it, it bothers you," Plato says, "I don't think about it, so it doesn't bother me. Mamoru's laziness is a boon to that effort."
"It's the same train of thought that keeps you in the halfway form of our dear Director Superior, no," Plato asks. "His mind about business and directorial duties supplementing and expanding yours. Otherwise, you would have surely picked someone more your temperament," he raised a finger, "Kaldorna comes to mind, yours and mine." Socrates balked for a moment, but couldn't refute Plato. He was right. Socrates had come to terms with that, already, but on her own ground. Having Plato uproot it like that was jarring, but only reaffirmed the correctness of her decision. "You are the smart one for a reason," she conceded.
Plato yawned, and lifted his right foot; stocking-clad big toe pointed at Socrates. "Damn right, I am," he says. "I'd be correct to assume, an event has occurred to our livelihood," Plato says, "However, as far as information goes beyond that, the Network has been incomprehensible, lovely sister..." Socrates frowned, "I have been... negligent, I agree. However, I have been woken by the reality we find ourselves in," she clawed at her cheek, "I understand that we are in above our heads, but we are, also, Legion, and have options."
Plato sat up, headdress slumping innocently forward. "I do wish you'd break that habit," he chided. "You'll leave scars." Socrates frowned, stilling her hand. "I can't help it," she says, "[It's inconsequential, at the end of day." Plato tilted his head. "And, I thought I wasn't of my right mind. Normally, your appearance is everything," he says, sliding off the desk. "Regardless, aside from the elephantine beasts that roam, and the magic-enhanced sealife, the only thing of note is the tribal village near us. I had, preemptively, tasked a scouting party of Sentries and Proxies to investigate them. If they have not been overtaken by this sudden snowstorm, I should have a report to send you," he patted Socrates's bloody cheek, and transfused healing into it, "Once you've restored the Network, my lovely Director Superior."
Socrates smirked. "Someday, I will strangle you and Aristotle for being so adorably smartassed," she says, "For now, however, I must gather my life, right my own house, and strengthen the Network. It shall be done before the sun sets." Plato nodded, and hopped back onto his desk. "As soon as I know, so you shall know. If it is urgent, I'll request you [Open Link. I'm sure it taxes you a fair bit," he says, sprawling out, "After all, it's just a mimicry at a percentage, as we all are working in percentages." Socrates didn't even question Plato's accuracy in his assumptions, and just nodded. "Take it easy," she says, before turning around and teleporting...
...straight into the door that led to Rodias's private chambers. "KYAAH!?" she squealed, as she banged her nose, and her glasses fell onto the floor. "]Oh, yeah... I didn't put my glasses on..."
Suddenly, the door opened, as she'd "knocked" on it, in a fashion, and a Skeleton Butler stood in the threshold, "Apologies, the occupant of this domicile is currently Away. Would you like to leave them a Note?"
Socrates nodded. "Yes," she says, "Tell them, "I'd like to speak to the manager," if you please."
The Skeleton Butler produced a pad, and, dutifully, transcribed the message onto a Note with the tone, date, and orator's name. However, it didn't say, Socrates, but simply, "Karen."
"Is that all?"
"For now," Socrates says, to which the Skeleton Butler bade her goodbye, and returned inside.
Now, with Rodias on notice, more or less, Socrates was free to get her house in order, and repair the Network, so communication with the Settlements would be restored. Surely, somewhere in there, Rodias would find her on the roof; fussing with a very complex system of Proxies and Sentries.
Socrates would find Rodias to arrive within the hour, his footsteps quiet as usual, befitting his roguish nature and skillset as he approached. "You wished to speak with me?" he would question, voice sounding a bit hoarse. "Also...I apologize for my...earlier outburst."
"I did, indeed," Socrates says, looked to Rodias; glasses' lens flared in the waning sunlight. "I felt the need to apologise. For, I haven't a reason. However, I submit that I have failed to do what I was born to," she says, "I'm supposed to be an advisor, and I have advised little from my seated position, and now damage, perhaps incurable, has been dealt to us. I've tasked my siblings to the hunt, but it shall be a while before I know anything of substance."
"You don’t need to apologize. ...You’re just doing your job. Meanwhile, I don’t even know where to begin with my own. All I have is a fleeting vision, and none of the ability to open my eyes to see it in full," Rodias said, sitting down on the rooftop beside Socrates. "...Even in a world like this, the sunset is a sight to behold."
"Sunsets..." Socrates says, turning to look; her light scarring showing in the light. "Humans appreciate these momentary displays of the refraction of the light spectrum..." she says, adjusting her glasses, "I don't understand the fascination with radiation."
"It has nothing to do with something that literal. Its purely subjective," Rodias explained, leaning back. "...Some part of me loathes it. This body doesn’t need that much sleep, but I know that many of the Chateau’s members do. Zouyu will be going to bed soon...if he hasn’t already. ...I failed him too."
"I need neither sleep nor food. I needn't breathe nor drink. My existence is inhuman, and I can't even fake reality. Yet, I try, as do we all. I can't speak for the rest of Gothika's detachment, but Madame Traptrixx's unit seek to do our best..." Socrates says, "Shouldn't you seek that, as well? To do your best, moment to moment? Live as you, and not him?"
Rodias was silent. He didn’t seem to have an answer to that question, as he tilted his head down, trying to ponder. Where was the divide between himself and himself?
"Did I say the wrong thing," Socrates asked, digging into her cheek, unconsciously, "I merely meant, you need choose... forge yourself as Rodias in the here and now, or... continue to hide as the Rodias from then and there."
Rodias would reach out and seize Socrates’ hand to keep her from injuring herself. "...I don’t even know which one is more useful to be."
"Nor do I," Socrates says, as she reflectively blushed; her studies had shown that men felt stronger if women blushed when they held hands. Her methods were unkind and cryptic at most times, but, sometimes, she could do something to just be nice. "I'm of three minds, myself. Am I better as myself, Karen Trapmaine, or our dear Director Superior? Such a question is hard to answer, so I try to make all three work for me." she says, curling her fingers gently around Rodias's, "Perhaps, you should try to put both your minds to work together, and use what you have here with the rules you know to learn those you don't?"
Rodias would gingerly slip his hand free of Socrates’ fingers, looking at the gradually emerging stars. "...I thought I knew how to do all that. But, maybe, the reality of it is...Bandersnatch never needed a Rodias at all. I keep talking about preserving my friends’ memories, when I’m not even sure if they cared to have them be remembered at all."
Socrates didn't mind the retreated hand, as she could shut off her blush. Felt so much better, and didn't make her cheeks itch. "There is no Bandersnatch, only Gothika; this chateau," she says. "There are no memories of anyone else here, beyond us. All that exists here, now, is us. Gothika, the Landless Guild, under the leadership of Rodias."
She took off her glasses, and squinted, "They left you. We didn't. Honor us. Act for us. Be for us," she drew close until her perfect, button nose pressed against his, "I'd like to speak to the Manager. Are you the Manager or not?"
Rodias didn’t especially react to the closeness, instead smirking and saying :"I’d appreciate a little space. Besides...I’ve already decided to act for you all. But Salem’s words...I know that he’s right, in some ways. I’m deluding myself by thinking every aspect of this place is perfect. " Standing, Rodias would look out over the darkening land and sigh softly. "...I can’t even remember if I’ve taken a step off this estate in years, in YGGDRASIL or here."
"Then step off," Socrates was suddenly pressed upon his back; her Doppelled Levels in Chuunitrixx's CS allowed her [Assassin] and [Stalker] Classes to shine for a moment, "I can give you a push..."
And, she did so, shoving Rodias forwards. "Take flight for your own future, and stop letting the past anchor you," Socrates says, "If you sink beneath the tides, we all drown."
Rodias would vanish after a few feet of plummeting, taking off into the night. ...A night out would do him good, for once in his life.
Socrates watched him go, before she reached down, slipped off her shoes, pulled off her stocking, and threw up into the hose. She could only be so nice and selfless for so long! It was the worst! She itched, was queasy, and worst of all, HAPPY. Emptying the contents of her stomach in a purge of the saccharine, the Overseer of Pride looked at the fuzzy ball of gas that was sinking beyond the horizon.
Maybe, there was something to sunsets after all...Dialogue from @The Irish Tree
In the time that Socrates had spent away, Chuunitrixx had been far from idle; her nerves were shot to shit, as she chopped off her hair to try with only hands and a rarely used dagger, only to end up with a unkempt mess and nothing solved. Resisting the urge to scream, she forced herself to focus, and get herself a new Heart.
Amberden, like all places, had those that could be considered, "excusable," and, in return for affording Alexander with information, and helping spread her Mimics further with working Human traders, Chuunitrixx provided a clean up service. It wasn't a Good Samaritan deal, but quid pro quo, as Chuunitrixx was able to access a free supply of hearts for herself and her Overseers. Sure, they weren't anything to brag about, but they were, effectively, free.
For Amberden, it was there Cultists; the wastes of their imperfect society. Now, unfortunate bargain chips in a game that went above and beyond them. Inside of Enderall, they survived; occasionally, they were made sport of, if Alexander or Leonidas needed game, or subject to experiment, if Aristotle made a new tool or Plato fashioned a new spell, but, by and large, they lived a moderate life in a living prison, under Socrates's care.
In a sense. Socrates disliked Humans; ineffective, inefficient, and intolerable to the Greater Doppelganger. Her species was beyond them, and yet, she learned so much from watching them in her vast, social experiment. Sure, becoming Human was a matter of simply reading someone's mind with Surface Telepathy, however, here, in her Zoo... she could see how Humans adapted and learned to survive.
Chuunitrixx didn't see it for that purpose.
To her, it was a blood bank with a side-hustle of organ donations.
And, she needed a heart.
Her presence was nothing short of terror in Divinity, as she stepped off the elevator; her left hand was dug into her cheek, she was chittering, and looked like a bloody mess in a cute nightie with her hair destroyed and arm missing. Immediately, she marched for the Death Row; even in her, free as a bird -- in a cage -- there were standards. Those of violent offenses or heinous crimes were segregated, and first picked to be teleported away.
Execution by Overseers' Purpose.
However, Chuunitrixx played no such role, and did not have such designs, as she looked at the choices that eyes her. New blood saw her as no threat. Confidence. It bred stupidity. Chuunitrixx grinned, as one made a break at her from her right; assuming her missing arm to be a lability. In anyone else, it would have been...
...in her...
"Cease." The order was crisp, clear, and unconsciously commanded. Suddenly, the man started to freeze from the tips of his limbs inwards; his body, painfully, transforming into solid stone under Chuunitrixx's gaze. More important, that of her right eyes; glowering with an iris set as a deep, sickeningly hateful, yellow-brown -- slitted pupil widening on its target.
"Wait? What? No! No! No!" Chuunitrixx says, as she rushed the man, and launched at him; dagger cleaving into his chest, cracking bone and rendered muscle and flesh in equal measure, as she tried to get his heart, only to rip out a half-stone heart from the screaming husk, before it was all solid rock.
Hopelessness overtook Chuunitrixx, as she looked up in anger; her transformed eye blazing, bleeding tears of hatred and regret, as she started to petrify everyone within, literal, sight, until her bloody eye shut from strain and exhaustion, and she collapsed......awakening on a disturbingly comfortable mound of hay, covered by a cotton sheet. That was the second thinfy she noticed, as the first thing was the olfactory landscape of smoke, drugs, and alcohol, as she was dragged into a sectioned off drug den that Socrates allowed to better understand the effects to replicate them properly. Surrounding her were, largely, old people -- seasoned drunks and users -- and foolhardy youths lost in the misamia; ansea of misery and false happiness engulfed her, and she couldn't resist the feeling.
Her own misery was palatable; frustration long given away to sadness and hopelessness. Had they dragged her from the prison to here in hopes of achieving retribution, misplaced designs for revenge, or --
"Here, dear," crooned an old woman, as she passed Chuunitrixx a small case. "In your pockets, some of the younger ones found these. It was emptied," she says, as Chuunitrixx recognized her cigarettes, "but, we found the fools choking on them; trying to smoke such a toxic leaf. Such a dear must be little trouble for a Goddess, however."
Chuunitrixx took no stock in the concept of Divinity; her Racial and her Job Classes benefited in no fashion from belief in a higher order. In fact, [Alchemist] and [Guncaster] were direct challenges to that notion, in general. Still, it bore a great weight for Human, and other creatures of like acceptance, and Chuunitrixx would not take that solace from them. It would provide her no gain, after all, and an unhappy zoo was not worth caring for.
"Th-Thank you,"" Chuunitrixx says. "Someone more capable of handicrafts took the liberty of refilling it," the old woman says, "It might be a sight more than you are used to, however. Our Apothecary doesn't stock Poison Sumac, but he put forth that Belladonna may be more pleasing." Chuunitrixx didn't know what those items were, as her pack just refilled magically, but, it seemed that was no longer the case, or something else was at play. "I'm sure it will suit my needs to calm my nerves," she says, retrieving one of the smokes, and fumbling with her lighter for a moment; she was right-handed, so it took a moment to spark the flame.
...that flame was the last thing she remembered...
For a moment Graft believed. He believed that his words would reach the ears of the last Sable Lord, and haul him up from the depths he'd immersed himself in to reclaim his rightful place. It fit with everything he knew most fundamentally, after all; a Supreme Being stood over all created things, an entity from beyond bearing an innate mandate that set it at a different echelon to those of the world. They were not infallible, Graft understood, but they harbored limitless potential. If they so chose, such beings could accomplish anything they set their minds to. They could exhaust every modicum of content that reality had to offer, surpassing every possible challenge. While these immortals might experience setbacks, true defeat -a final end to their paths- came only if they so chose.
Graft's speech had been one of encouragement, but also ultimatum. Every carefully selected word led up to the choice he laid before Rodias, an intricate trap for the dhampir to foil or spring. If he was the leader of Gothika, he had no choice but to lead. If he did not step up to do that, here and now, he was no leader. Yet the Director did not think that could actually happen. He merely needed a prod in the right direction, and all would be well. In times like this, the boss turned to his number two to right his course, and Graft happily obliged. He waited with bated breath for Rodias to throw off the cloak of despair laying heavy on his shoulders and wrap himself instead in the mantle of sovereignty.
But that moment never came.
Dull-eyed, Rodias said nothing. He made no response to Graft's words. Instead his remained quiet, the cloud of depression hanging about him like a foul smog, and listened to what Salem had to say. Graft's mouth hung open for a moment, his mind electrified with astonishment. What? He's...not doing anything. He should have been roused to action! After a moment Graft meandered away and plunked into a chair, numbly allowing the others' words to reach him. Salem suggested subterfuge on the part of Rodias, relinquishing none of his authority while pretending to do so in order to infiltrate the ranks of Morgan's group. The doll also, with a knowing look at Graft that went unacknowledged, mentioned that Rodias' lofty ideas about the character and value of the guild might be misplaced. For once in its life the First Chapter Keeper spoke sense. It understood that the fragile bonds keeping Gothika together liked back to a single source, Rodias himself, and that letting go of any more slack meant a total collapse of order.
It had to be clear what Rodias needed to do at that point...it had to. But still he did nothing. He would do nothing.
Kaldorna said something next, mostly complaining about the state of the guild's organization. Graft agreed, although since his 'friend' seemed to lay a lot of blame on himself, he did not do so in good spirits. “It's thanks to me we have any semblance of communication or cooperation at all,” he grumbled, enunciating the last two words. His epiphany about Rodias staggered him, but anger bubbled beneath the surface. Kaldorna also suggested a council for the governance of Gothika, which did not gel with Graft. As if the majority of our number deserve any sort of authority, he thought. And what would such a council do, composed of servants with no master? What bound them all together? If there were no Sable Lords, as he made quite plain, there was no Bandersnatch.
Even gloomier than before, Rodias conceded to Salem and entertained the idea of a council before dismissing everyone. While others got underway, Graft continued to sit. He stared at the empty thrones. He sat until all the rest had gone, thinking, thinking, thinking.
Graft stood up, and approached the thrones. His lenses snapped into place, and they gave forth streams of light. Shapes wrought themselves into being upon the thrones, evidencing the vanished Bandersnatch Lords. Even with hazy details and holographic distortion they looked magnificent in their varied glory. Graft wished that he could have spoken to them like this before they were gone. He wished they were here now.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Board...” he said to the mirages. “...What is your will?” Graft sought answers in the faces of the Supreme Ones, and in the visages of those with no faces. His eyes ended up on Brushen Penn. Did her mistreatment of assets seem like that much of a crime now that he'd been faced with betrayal? “Would you want to see the culmination of your endeavors driven into the ground...?”
A rhetorical question of course, which worked out well considering the lack of prospective response. “No...” Graft whispered. A company was a like a ship. When it was going under, and the chain of command fell through for the sake of survival, there existed only two kinds of people: sinkers, and swimmers. Rodias was supposed to swim, but he chose to sink. The king meant to lift Gothika up became an anchor to weigh it down. A couple seconds passed before he cleared his throat. “The resignation of Rodias has been tendered and accepted. With it, the dissolution of the Board is complete. Yet its legacy will live on through its successors. I have already started down your path, my lords. Now I will follow in your footsteps.”
The images disappeared, and he turned away.
Much later...
After just a couple moments the scan completed. Graft nodded in satisfaction. “Forty-five and forty-five. You're dead even. Anything to report?”
Standing side by side especially, Papillary and Tabula looked very different. Before, Tabula had been nothing but soft and dumb, but now she looked like a fighter, a real priestess of war. Papillary, meanwhile, had continued to develop nothing but her HP, and looked like a bloated sack of meat stuffed into a mightily-stretched doctor's garb. She stood half a head taller than Tabula now, and at least three times as wide. A dozen gallons of blood coursed through her with every beat of her heart-head. Before Graft stood a strong beauty and a grotesque monstrosity, each well-suited for her purpose.
Papillary replied first, her voice a bit deeper than before. “Yes, sir. Both of us experienced severe diminishing returns on the way to forty-five. We agree that it'll take exponentially longer to keep growing from here.” She both looked and sounded haggard.
Graft crossed his arms. “That'll be because our Team Leads, the strongest of my generic employees, are uniformly level forty. My research on the development processes of the Supreme Beings indicated they must continue to seek stronger and stronger opponents, with the rewards increasing drastically. In fact, I found several records of complaints that in some cases it takes more total work to go from a level like fifty to fifty-one than it took to go from one to fifty.”
Both underlings groaned; their training had already been arduous. Graft chuckled. “Now, now! Don't you have any faith in your Director, girls? With my Trading Commission proposal on ice, and no new orders coming in, I've had a lot of time to figure out a better way to make you stronger. Walk with me!” In a flourish Graft stood up from his desk and stalked toward the door, walking with his cane. Tabula followed right after him, excitement writ on her features, while Papillary huffed and puffed as she struggled to keep up. Graft led to the way to the Factory's west wing, where he picked out one chamber in particular. The bio-scanner peered at him closely before sliding open the door, and Graft waltzed right inside. There was a momentary delay as Papillary struggled to squeeze through. “Hmm, we'll have to get that widened,” he murmured, before clearing his throat. “Anyway, feast your eyes upon my latest and greatest innovation. This...is the Experience Farm.”
The huge room stood as nothing less than an epitome of the Factory's design. The dull green of its metal, on every inch of its walls and even the floor, curved and swung in organic formations. Dozens of pens lined its walls on two separate floors in neat rows, their gates clasped together like interwoven fingers. Support pillars stretched from floor to ceiling like giant limbs, their gnarled, finger-like flanges eternally locked on their purchases. Wonderful in its order, horrific in its uncanniness, the place was a cathedral of living matter, and in it would sound a bloody hymn.
Neither Tabula or Papillary, already pretty used to this sort of thing thanks to the rest of the Factory, spared much attention to the architecture. They looked instead at the things inside the pens. They contained monsters of every shape and size, many of them strong-looking indeed. “Impressive, yes?” Graft asked, smiling toothily from ear to ear. “I secured these beasts from Kaldorna's pens. They run the gamut of strength from levels forty to seventy.”
“Whoa...” Tabula breathed. She approached one of the pens, inside which a many-legged lizard three times the size of an alligator could be found. Its appearance made her giggle. “What could she have demanded in return for all these?”
Graft leaned on his cane. “I'm glad you asked! In exchange for these creatures I offered to eliminate her fodder problem. I took several specimens gathered from the local region and bioengineered them extensively, utilizing Light and Gromgard's findings on IIHM, or insanity-induced mutation. The result...” From his mask's holographic lens he projected an image of a nightmarish monstrosity. “The Inexhaustible Thing, or IT, for short. IT is a ravenous organism with remarkable regenerative abilities and a truly exceptional digestive system, quite possibly my finest yet. As long as it is continuously fed anything with nutrients, it remains docile and will regrow any tentacles that are cut off, which serve as fine meat for beasts. So, it's essentially a living garbage disposal and infinite food stock all in one! Brilliant, huh?” He shrugged. “Of course, it's not recommended for consumption by anything sapient. I'm pretty sure that if a sapient being were to eat IT's meat, they'd go bananas before becoming an IT themselves. But hey, that's progress for you! And...I'm pretty sure I told Kaldorna and her crew about that, so it's nothing to worry about...probably.”
Papillary and Tabula exchanged a worried glance.
“Moving on!” Graft continued. “Defeating Farm animals will serve as your training regimen to take you higher. Each pen is equipped with Emel Shells and Softening Gel sprayers that will make the animals easier to kill, since status effects do not effect experience rewards. I do not recommend getting Softening Gel on yourselves unless you have the whole day free.” He took a moment to chuckle. “The Farm's not ready just yet, since I'm still compiling their data. Once I'm done, this room will automatically collect their remains, feed them into production, and create eggs that will be shipped back here and hatched into new, fast-growing instances for fresh slaughter. In this way, the Farm will feature an endless supply of enemies to farm for experience.”
As messed up as the whole thing was by conventional standards, it didn't really surprise Tabula and Papillary all that much. “Incredible!” the Nightgaunt remarked. “This should make getting stronger remarkably easy. And when we begin experiencing diminishing returns, we just move up to the next, higher-level monster, right?”
Graft clapped her and Papillary on the shoulders, his cane held by a tendril. “Exactly right! It'll take some doing, but we'll be working at maximum efficiency!”
If Papillary had an eyebrow, she would have raised it. “We?”
“Oh, yes,” Graft said, his voice low. He stepped back and bowed, a number of ripjaws emerging from beneath his overcoat. “It's well past time I started pushing forward as well. I will be training alongside you in the future, when my other duties allow me the time.”
Tabula looked happy. “That is wonderful! It will be the first time we fight alongside one another, in a way. I will look forward to it.”
“Excellent.” For a moment, Graft looked happy as well. Then his eyes turned toward the pens again. “Let me give you the run-down, before we go. The animals are sorted by level, ascending from left to right, bottom to top. First we have the Dagonians, at level fifty.” He pointed out the bipedal, marine monsters in pens one and two. “Then the Carrion Fiends, fifty-two. Your Sand Dragons, Tabula, fifty-four. Venobeasts, fifty-six. Scikords, fifty-eight. Scidrawds, sixty. Moldmouldra, sixty-two. Volt Manticores, sixty-four. Smilodons, sixty-six.Tormentors, sixty-eight. Ruby Hydras, seventy. Nice bunch, huh?”
Tabula seemed to be staring at the Venobeasts. “I cannot say I like that one, no sir.”
Once he followed her gaze, Graft found himself agreeing. “Hm, yes. They're hardly pleasant to look at, but prime subjects for you to improve your Faith with by curing those it poisons. All in due course, naturally. You have a promotion in order soon, right, Tabula?”
The Nightgaunt nodded emphatically, just now remembering after all the stimuli she'd taken in. “Yes, I do. Now that I have ten levels in Paladin, I can work with Aurora to promote to Bishop.”
“Excellent,” Graft said again. He turned and started toward the door, ready to leave the roars and shrieks of the Farm animals behind. “Let's be off, then. There's much to do, and not nearly enough time to do it in.”
Ashara offered no input to the conversation that had gone on back at the Climax Hour. She merely listened to what the others had said, and it seemed only three of their allies had spoken up - and none of them had done anything to improve the situation. Criticism, berating, off-handed insults, I-can-do-better suggestions... It was the first meeting since they came to the world, in repeat, but with less participants voicing their opinions. The fox merely closed her eyes and let out a sigh. Once Rodias called the meeting to a close and dismissed everyone, Ashra turned to look at Gromgard.
"I believe our mission is done, sir Gromgard. We should return home." She said, a certain melancholic ring to her otherwise pleasant voice.
She did not like this. Not one bit. Their lord was in pain and had become upset, both from the suffering his subordinates had suffered, and because of his own inability to carry out his role as he wished. Yet none of the others seemed to be able to see this, none of them were even trying to emphatize or understand him. Instead they hurled their hurtful words and selfish ideas at him, when he so graciously gave them permission to speak freely and without fear of reprimand, they all just took advantage of it.
It was not often Ashara felt outright disdain for others - not even her enemies. But in this instance, at this moment, she felt incredibly disappointed. Not in her Master, no, but in the Chapter Keepers and other members of the Chateau. That included herself of course. She had not spoken up to defend or encourage her Lord, even though he must've been in so much pain. She was angry, a rare thing indeed - but more so at herself than anything or anyone else. Perhaps if she hbeen able to deal with the cutlists faster, she could've returned to aid her Master? Or if someone else had been sent instead of her, she could've defended the Castle?
Shaking her head, her white hair flowed gently. Regret was pointless. You could agonize over mistakes and what you hadn't done for an eternity, and it would change nothing. For now, all she could do was return to the Chateau and do her best to help the others recover from the aftermath of this whole ordeal. Not that she could offer or do much, but surely there was something she could do, for someone. Meanwhile, at the Climax Hour...
Mikoto and the other priestesses had stood silent and immobile during the entire meeting. They had said nothing. Done nothing. Merely observed and listened. When Rodias dismissed the entirety of the present individuals, the golden-haired three-tailed fox turned to her peers and clapped her hands twice to garner their attention.
"Alright,y ou hear our Lord. Himiko, Kyoko, Akiko and Reiko, help carry the little ones back to the Shrine. The rest of you, hurry back ahead of us and prepare the grounds and beds." She ordered, all of her fellow miko responding with a firm 'Yes!', in almost perfect unison.
As the four oldest shrine maidens scooped up and gave the yuongset ones piggy-back rides, Mikoto stayed behind to watch all of her fellow maidens leave. Once they were all out of the Climax Hour, she cast a glance first at Salem - her ruby-red eyes showing a great deal of contempt as she gazed the doll's way.
"I don't know how your Creator treated you, Lord Salem." She said. "But our lady treasured and treated each and everyone of us with love and care. So please don't try and find skeletons in a closet that's empty, simply because your own maker didn't cherish you." She closed her eyes and sighed, her expression softening slightly, though remained stern and serious still. "It's rather rude to make assumptions about those you never deigned to interact with." She finished.
She then threw a judgemental look at both Graft and Kaldorna, but said nothing to either of them. Instead, she merely bowed, as was customary, and excused herself. Unlike Ashara, who could keep her composure and thoughts clean and serene, Mikoto was a far more open and expressive person. Unlike the head priestess, Mikoto had a sense of pride and love for both her family, her creator and the Chateau as a whole, and did not appreciate when ill things were said about any of them. Still, as the second-in-command of the Shadowtower Shrine, she still managed to maintain her cool and probably hadn't said everything, or what she actually meant, she meant to say.
Meanwhile, the eight ESPER Wings still present in the room hovered silently above the ground, their magiaclly ccreated wings humming softly like fluorescent lights. Once it became clear that nobody else was going to do or say anything of importance, one of them turned its head to the others.
"Unit Mjolnir will now assume command. All units return to the Chamber of Imaginary Numbers to resume regular operations."
The other seven merely nodded, and then they were off. Like a stream of azure light, they zoomed out of the Climax Hour's open window and returned to their own Chapter without any further interactions with the others.
The one ESPER who had been gravely wounded by Morgan's attack much earlier was now, with the help of one of the Cleric-leveled ESPERs, making their way back to the Chateau. Of course, further repairs would be necessary to fully restore it, but for now, it had miraculously survived, thanks in no small part to its sister-automaton.
Charme let out a jet of white smoke from between her lips, drumming her fingers of the other free hand against the rough surface of the shoddy nightstand in their crummy inn-room. She stared at the night sky outside, with eyes that seemed to be drifting off and looking into space, not focusing on anything in particular. However, even if her gaze seemed distant and aloof, the fact that she was drumming her fingers in a fixed rhytmic fashion, and the fact that a scowl as well as a small, pulsing vein on her left temple, seemed to indicate that she was very much still present in the current world.
Crapyy-ass doll.. I should melt it and that whole junkyard down with some acid once I get back... And Kaldrona, you foolish girl, what good would a council do? If you children can't play nice with one another as is, what good would giving you all figure-head positions of power do? You can't even follow orders and instructions, you go about doing whatever you please and you plot and scheme for yourselves... Morons.
These were the kind of thoughts that occupied Charme's mind for the most part, after Rodias had dismissed the collect-call and meeting. Of course, the homunculus was a sharp one, and she had picked up both on Ashara's subtle voicing of her opinion, as well as Graft's grumbling, self-gratifying sulking about his own pivotal importance. Had she been a lesser woman, the alchemist would likely have thrown a fit and thrashed this shitty excuse for a room in a violent outburst. Luckily, she wasn't the kind to do so, not to mention Kath was here with her... For all the great help that one was... You'd think with all the books and tomes she had poured over for years on end, she'd be a bit more capable and brainy than she actually was. Charme shot her roommate a discontent glance, before returning to stare out the window.
Now, there were two paths she could take. The smart option was to ignore Rodias' orders about exploring the city, learning about it and finding a way to make money, and return home to the Chateau. Charme could easily surmise that, given how the meeting had gone, the ones staying at home were not going to take the situation all too well. In fact, now more than any other time, they were likely to make stupid decisions and get foolish ideas in their heads. They would perhaps lash out or begin trying to spin webs and ploys for themselves. It was the natural course, after all, since they were all imbecilles who wouldn't see the bigger picture.
Her other choice was to honor Rodias' orders, and remain in the city with Kath and do her assigned duties. This task was the less bright option, as it would serve no further purpose than to satisfy Rodias' curiosity. However, it did hold one, superior merit that defying her Master's orders did not. It would serve to reinforce her loyalty to Rodias, and the Chateau. If she took action and did as she pleased, even if it was the objectively better option, she wouldn't be any better than the groaning, moaning and selfish children back home.
It was a shame really. Had she had access to more resources and materials before she left on this stupid errand, she could've set up counter-measures or some kind of preventive measures to keep the others in check while she was absent. Alas, she had neither had the resources nor the time to prepare any such matters, and she certainly hadn't expected the Chateau to come under attack so soon and so suddenly. Now everythign was a mess and those idiots back home were just going to make matters worse. She sighed and tapped her pipe against the window-sill.
"Kath." She said suddenly, her voice dry and serious. "What'll you do now, dear?" She asked. "Will you rush back to the Chateau tomorrow? Or will you carry out Rodias' orders, despite the situation at home?" She asked, slowly turning her head to look at the dragonoid librarian.
Unlike her usual appearance, Charme's face was looking rather strict and perhaps even a bit intimidating - although that could just be attributed to the poor lighting and overall mood of the situation.
"... Think about that, will you? I'm going to sleep I believe." She said, a sour tinge to her voice, ashe closed the window after putting out her pipe. She then proceeded to lay down on one of the itchy, prickly hay-lined beds with shoddy, burlap-like sheets. Yep, this was a bad night that was just getting worse. Likelihood of getting any sleep tonight? Close to zero.
With her only option to sit and wait, Kath would situate herself by the windowsill of their room and look out upon the horizon in the direction of the Chateau. She wished she could see its magnificent architecture from there, but its splendor was so many miles away that nothing short of thermonuclear detonation would give her an accurate bearing for where to look. It was probably for the best that she was paying so much attention to what was outside their room, as she otherwise would have felt the piercing gaze of Charme's disappointed stare. It would have been enough to send a chill down the dragonoid's spine had she taken notice.
Finally, the battle would come to a close. A victory, taken with only a single loss, and said loss could be easily rejuvenated, but it was still a punch to the gut of all the chapter masters that they weren't the most powerful beings around. A less empathetic woman might have thought that this attack would be helpful evidence for any future debates she might have with the others of taking the more cautious approach rather than showing off their might and striking with maximum ferocity, but Kath was no such woman. All she could think about was how she hoped Ratta's resurrection wouldn't prove too traumatizing. The same prayers went to those who had witnessed her fall.
Then Charme would remind the librarian of her presence. It was a legitimate question. Here they were separated from their main forces who had just been ambushed, on a reconnaissance mission that ultimately mattered very little in the grand scheme of things. Not to mention, whoever had attacked Chateau Gothika had found it rather quickly after their arrival. Who was to say that she and Charme wouldn't be attacked as well? Still, it didn't take Kath very long to form an answer.
"Rodias gave no order to abort the mission. If that were his wish, he could easily order Graft to communicate to us to do so. Until we are notified otherwise, I plan to perform the task given to the best of my abilities and continue my research of this city." Perhaps if she had considered the possibility of the other chapter masters going rogue and making plans for their own benefit, turning against Rodias, she may have given the question more consideration, perhaps even given a different answer. However, Kath was much too naive to consider such an outcome. Even if Rodias had made a mistake, he was just as perfect as the rest of them, that being not at all. The thought of revolt due to events none of them could have even planned for was inconceivable.
As Charme made her way to bed, Kath decided it was best that she follow suit, changing into clothes that were much more comfortable before lying down in her own uncomfortable bed. That wasn't what would keep her awake through most of the night though. Instead, it would be her ever working imagination. Like a supercomputer thinking of ways to win a game of strategy, her mind stayed active through most of the night as she kept considering different responses she might have been able to give to help support Gothika from afar. It would take many hours before she came to the same conclusion as WOPR, that sometimes the only winning move is not to play. The past could not be changed and it would be best to sleep so she could consider instead how to improve the future with a fresh mind.
The battle post-mortem ended on a wholly unsatisfying note. It was clear Graft wanted changes as Salem did, but the director had fallen silent and merely waited for everyone to leave. If anyone agreed with Salem's opinion, they hadn't voiced it, nor come together to find a way to move on from the shackles of the past. If anything, one of the Shrine's mikos dared confront Salem. Hovering, Salem had merely looked down at her wordlessly, wondering if it wasn't better to be rid of an abusive creator, than to have lost a loving one? A question that would have to be explored at a later time, as Rodias slinked off to resurrect Ratta, and Salem went on to fulfill their promised mission of retrieving Isolde.
Salem started by heading to the Chamber of Imaginary Numbers, where the doll found the ESPER Wings, and inquired about Isolde's last reported location. Given the ESPER Wings more straightforward AI, they didn't offer to help retrieve Isolde, which suited Salem just fine as it gave the doll time for a ponderous hover through the forests surrounding the Chateau, something the doll had only glimpsed briefly through the eyes of the deployed replica rats and birds during the little spies' journeys to Amberden. Still, finding Isolde wasn't exactly a quick affair; Salem didn't speak 'fighter pilot' and the directions the ESPER Wings gave involved 'headings', degrees, 'clicks', and clock numbers. But a woman-sized statue in the middle of a forest wasn't too hard to spot, especially after Salem stumbled across the fairly narrow but long swath of destruction that Isolde and Morgan's flight-path had wrought. Despite being petrified, Isolde maintained excellent posture, contrary to how people were usually depicted when being turned to stone; cringing in fear. Right before lifting Isolde up for transport, Salem humorously remembered how Isolde had reacted suspiciously and guardedly to the assumption of having been touched while unconscious by Rodias and having her 'chastity' spoiled. Of course, Salem wasn't going to 'touch' Isolde at all; the image of Salem using their arms to carry Isolde by gripping under her armpits was incredibly embarrassing and demeaning to Salem. Making a motion of their hand, Salem instead lifted Isolde off the ground using telepathy, and floated her back to the castle to seek out Aurora, who had seen her fair share of visitors today, but that was the lot in life of healers. However, Salem didn't need Aurora's skills, merely access to her stores of potions, finding the panacea that the late Mamoru clone had applied to Rodias to rid him of his petrification. Uncorking it, Salem unceremoniously poured the contents out over Isolde's head, and left Isolde in Aurora's care; besides, Salem had a bone to pick with a certain fox priestess.
Arriving at the entrance to the Shadowtower Shrine, Salem knocked politely, announcing their arrival. No doubt, Ashara would have returned by now, which was exactly what Salem wanted.
The floating doll's arrival had not gone unnoticed. But unlike most other guests, who would receive a formal reception from all of - or most of - the priestesses at the shrine, nobody seemed to have bothered to come greet Salem as they arrived. Then again, the battle with Morgan and the whole ordeal at the Climax Hour hadn't been long ago, and many of the miko who had partaken in Mikoto's communal prayer were likely fast asleep or recovering at the moment. In fact, barely any of the priestesses were even out and about, and those who were seemed extremely preoccupied.
As Salem knocked on the door to the head shrine, there was a muffled call from inside, followed by soft footsteps. The main shoji-styled screen door slid open without a fuss, and Salem was greeted by a familiar face - Mikoto. At first, the three-tailed blonde fox-girl seemed surprised, blinking a few times as to assure herself that the person in front of her was actually there. Soon thereafter though, her expression turned from questioning to a more stern and apparently discontent one.
"Lord Salem... What brings you here?" Mikoto asked, not having opened the doorway fully, nor moving aside to allow entrance, nor had she let go off the door either - ready to slide it shut at a moment's notice again.
Salem hadn't expected to immediately meet the very shrine maiden that gave the doll lip earlier, but Salem cracked the widest grin the doll could manage to hide any expression of surprise. Salem was actually here to make an attempt to make amends, but that didn't mean Salem couldn't be creepy about it, and keep some of the doll's monstrous dignity. "I've finally 'deigned' to visit the Shadowtower Shrine!" Salem announced bombastically, but then quickly adopted a more metered tone, "But defensive sarcasm aside, your words in the Climax Hour made me think that perhaps I haven't done my part to keep this rickety chateau from falling to pieces. In fact, the only Chapter besides my own that I've visited is The Factory, and well, that ended poorly, and is part of the reason I see 'skeletons in closets', as it were."
"Or nightgaunts in closets," Salem thought to themself, though at this point, Salem had all but openly accused Brushen Penn of abusing Tabula for sport, and wondered if there was even still a point in keeping their word to not air out the dirty laundry of Graft's creator.
"BUT! I shouldn't let one sour interaction prevent me from still trying, should I? And if we're going to keep this ship afloat, we're going to have to work together, so I figured the first thing I could do is apologize for indiscriminately slinging mud at Lady Deka_Ribbon." of course, Salem had already forgiven themself of trying to blackmail Graft, which was what led Graft to insult Salem in the first place, but such was the whimsy of a childish doll. "Of course, given the state of things, since I'm here, I would like to speak with Lady Ashara and probe her thoughts."
Mikoto listened to Salem's words, yet her face and demeanor didn't change. Although for most an actual apology from Salem would be cause for alarm, it was hard to tell what she was thinking, but it seemed she either didn't believe Salem was sincere, or she was just unwilling to give up her apparent discontent at his presence. Of course, it could also just have been a matter of selfishly wanting to spend time with Ashara, now that she had returned from her mission with Gromgard and Chompy Bits. Still, before the blonde fox could speak, a voice from deeper inside the head shrine called out.
"Mikoto? Do we have a guest?" The unmistakable voice of Ashara called out. This caused the fox in the doorway to sigh, and slide the door open, relinquishing entry to the floating doll.
"Yes, milady. Lord Salem is here to visit you." Mikoto called back, before turning to look at Salem and making a motion with her hand to invite him in. "If you're here to meet Lady Ashara, follow me." She said, with the bare amount of politeness she needed.
Salem would thus be led into the shrine. It was a simple yet elegant place. The woodwork of the floor, walls and ceiling were all very intricate and detailed, yet did not stand out as flashy or gaudy, but not overly simple or rustic either. There were small, ornate decorations around as well of course, like painted vases on small pedestals, calligraphy paintings on the walls and of course, the colored paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Salem was led through two hallways, before finally reaching another set of screen doors, that Mikoto opened for him, though she entered in front of him and took a step to the side, standing next to the wall just inside the doorway.
Sitting in this central room, was Ashara. Sitting on her knees as usual, she had disrobed her haori, which hung around waist and legs like a blanket or towel. Fortunately, with the combination of her long hair, and the convenient placement of some of her many tails, she was covering up her bouncy bits so as to not look indecent in front of her guest. Well, indecent as in completely exposed and naked. Notably though, she seemed to have some kind of oil or lotion smeared on either side of her torso, and there were a set of red marks along the side of her ribs - likely from the squeezing she had received from the cult leader earlier today.
At Salem's entrance, Ashara smiled and politely bowed her head slowly.
"Welcome, Lord Salem. What might bring you by these parts at this hour?" She said, raising her head and smiling sincerely, with her snow white hair gently framing her face.
"Lord Salem said he deigned to finally visit us, and wished to speak with you, milady." Mikoto said, obviously irritated by Salem's earlier choice of words, not seeming to have acknowledged it as a sarcastic joke.
"Oh, is that so?" Ashara didn't seem to catch on to Mikoto's sour disposition or insinuating cadence. "Well then, go ahead and ask away, Lord Salem. I shall do my best to answer whatever inquiries you may have." The nine-tailed fox said earnestly, smiling at the Chapter Keeper without nothing but genuine earnestness.
Upon arriving at the central room and noticing Ashara in a state of undress, Salem quickly rotated their body to face away. As someone designed with a penchant for pretending to be human, Salem had to understand human standards of decency. Though Ashara's obscured nudity did not bother Salem, Salem assumed that Ashara, as a shrine maiden, valued her chastity. Hell, even Isolde valued hers even though she, like Salem, was a construct. If nothing else, it could at least be taken as a sign of respect, something that seemed to be sorely lacking in the Chateau recently. Granted, Salem was not really in a place to criticize others for irreverence, but if the doll wanted to make things work again, someone had to start showing some willingness to bend and give.
But as Mikoto explained Salem's reason for being here, Salem silently raised an eyebrow at her, wondering if she had missed the point of the doll using those words because she had used them to accuse Salem prior. "Your maiden speaks true," Salem began, deciding to just drop the issue of word choice, "Though I had no idea that you had sustained such injuries. I didn't think anything out there could pose a threat to you, and even if it did, I had thought Lord Gromgard would do his job and keep you protected." Salem slapped themself on the forehead; so much for having 'resolved' to be more respectful to the peers of the Chateau. "If this is a bad time, I can come back at a later date, but given that you were likely part of Graft's Collect Call, you no doubt heard what happened during the attack and the...discussion that occurred afterwards. I assume you have your own opinions on the matter, and given the fractured state of the Chateau, I think it's important now that all voices are heard."
Once Salem had voiced their initial statement, Ashara simply kept smiling at the floating doll.
"There are plenty of people and things stronger than I, Lord Salem. These injuries are just proof that I was foolish and reckless, nothing more." The fox unabashedly stated, putting no blame on Gromgard - despite his rather miniscule contribution in the fight. At the further comment about the collect call and the proceedings there within, Ashara's smile faded somewhat though, but still remained.
"Yes, I did. To my ears, it was quite similar to the first meeting that Lord Rodias called when we first arrived in this strange new world." She said, almost in a reminiscent fashion as if her mind was taking a stroll down some long lost memory-lane. "But I am afraid I do not quite understand what it is you wish to hear from me." Ashara then added, looking at Salem with a slightly puzzled expression.
Salem scratched the back of their head, Ashara wasn't giving the doll much to work with here, "You're right it's like the first meeting, which means that we're essentially back to where we started. Worse off, if you think about it, because at least during the first meeting, Lord Rodias had at least asserted himself and assigned us all tasks; this time he's just...moping. I don't have a good head for administration. Despite being a Chapter Keeper, the City of Lost Things sort of just runs itself. So I can't come up with any solutions to the fact that our Chateau is falling apart. In my opinion, there are several individuals who do have the administrative capability, but those individuals, unfortunately, include Graft and Chuunitrixx, who seem to want to just go it alone and do their own thing. Graft won't work with you unless you sell your soul to him, and Chuunitrixx is...touchy? I don't know what her deal is. The other two in my mind are Kaldorna and Mamoru, but Kaldorna's suggestion for a council won't currently work since I doubt Graft and Chuunitrixx will agree to sit at Kaldorna's table, and while Mamoru might administer her maids and butlers well enough, her inherent laziness leaves something to be desired. To be frank, I want to support Kaldorna, but I'm afraid that doing so will only further alienate Graft and Chuunitrixx, so I am trying to survey the members of the Chateau, starting with the least belligerent, that is, you." After finishing, Salem clenched and unclenched their fist while looking at it, a light rattling could be heard throughout Salem's body as the parts connected only through telekinesis impinged on each other. Salem was nervous and agitated, and not doing a great job of hiding it. Salem pretended not to care about Bandersnatch or the Sable Lords, but the Chateau was home, and despite themself, Salem was attached to this place and couldn't bear the thought of losing it.
"I am afraid I do not have much in the way of a solution, Lord Salem." Ashara said apologetically, as she looked at the doll with sincerity. "My duty has always been to patrol the Chateau and assist in any possible way I can, when the time or situation requires me to. I have no experience or knowledge about governance or leadership, for that was not what I was born for." The nine-tailed fox explained. She looked over to Mikoto, who was still standing to the side of the doorway, back against the wall, and smiled. Then she looked back to Salem.
"However, what I can say is that I believe the discord within our walls stem from this newfound and so-called freedom of ours." She paused momentarily, her many tails gently swaying to and from as she thought of her next words. "My duty is, and has always been, very obvious. Lady Deka_Ribbon went to great lengths to ensure that I understood and had a firm and clear understanding of what she expected from me... From all of us." She glanced at Mikoto again. "I cannot speak for the rest of our fellow Chateau-residents however. I do not know how their creators instructed them nor to what degree they taught and disciplined their creations. But it would seem, at least in my own eyes, that many of our peers have their own idea of what or how the Chateau should be run and ruled." Her words trailed off.
Ashara didn't often speak this much. She also usually didn't talk about others in a way that would paint them negatively. Although, in truth, her words weren't really meant as insults or criticisms, but rather her view and feelings on how the others were acting. The fox-girl wasn't a person of particular influence or power, nor was she ever intended to be - Ashara was, in a sense, just a highly skilled soldier when you boiled things down to the most simple terms. She had no knack for politics or diplomacy, because she wasn't designed for those things.
"However." Ashara then added, straightening her posture and looking Salem in the eye - their true eye, the true Salem. "There is one thing I can tell you for certain, Lord Salem. Just as I swore at the first meeting. Lord Rodias has mine, and the whole of the Shadowtower Shrine's, complete loyalty. No matter what, he is the only Master we will ever serve." Ashara's words were very resolute and full of conviction. It was clear that despite how Rodias may have shrunk and appeared weak in the eyes of the other members of the Chateau, Ashara's opinion of the dhampir had not faltered in the slightest. Her devotion and allegiance was undeniable. She smiled then, a gentle and warm smile.
"After all, he is our dear Lady's precious and cherished friend."
Ashara's point about the purpose of her creation made Salem visibly uncomfortable. Salem's purpose wasn't so clear-cut, and had changed from moment to moment depending on Dr.Drd's mood. Even if Salem's purpose was more well-defined, did Salem really want to be restricted to a role assigned by someone like Dr.Drd?
When Ashara spoke directly to the Eye of Dread, Salem surmised that she was suspecting the doll of disloyalty and insurrection. Salem couldn't deny that the thought was being considered, but as far as Salem was concerned, there were other, more pressing internal threats. "Well, that's the thing, I'm sure everyone wants to help and support Lord Rodias, but everyone's got their own funny way of going about it, haven't they? Chuunitrixx loves Rodias to death, but will point her gun at everyone in the Cheateau at little to no provocation and continues to expand to the point of choking out the other Chapters. Graft worships Rodias as a member of his precious 'Board', yet constantly seems to be 'testing' Rodias in some manner, while holing himself up in his laboratory, strengthening his new pet. Your passive loyalty means nothing in the face of our more ambitious colleagues. Combine that with Lord Rodias' generally acquiescent nature and we are already seeing that his authority is being severely undermined. If you're waiting for him to tell you what to do, then you'll be waiting until either Graft or Chuunitrixx have taken over the Chateau. Perhaps those are alternatives that I can live with, but I assure you, it is not my disloyalty that you should be questioning."
Salem paused, feeling that they had reached some sort of impasse. "Look, one reason I came here is because of what your little shrine maiden said to me. You, and all of the Shadowtower Shrine apparently, love Lady Deka_Ribbon. Your maiden accused me of looking for 'skeletons'. Perhaps, but I have three strong pieces of evidence to suggest that the Sable Lords were not all saints. Rodias idolizes the other Sable Lords, and claims to cherish us as their children. But I know for a fact that many of the Sable Lords hated each other, or at least had very strong disagreements; God knows Dr.Drd hated everything, it's probably why he disappeared first. But maybe, as 'superior' beings, despite their differences, they were able to work together, and Rodias is probably hoping that despite our differences, we can work together too. And we did in the past, when we were held on such short leashes by our creators, but now with them gone, it is becoming increasingly glaring that they poured all their spite and arrogance into our creation, and none of the cooperativeness. Well, for some of us at least, maybe Lady Deka_Ribbon was the exception, or maybe Dr.Drd and the others were the exceptions. The point is, until Lord Rodias wakes up from this delusion, he will forever be bound by this vain hope that we'll all come together without his intervention. If we really are the 'children he adopted from his friends', then...he needs...to start...disciplining his children..."
Why won't you work the way you're supposed to? I made you perfectly, what's wrong with you? Another failed attempt, destroy it and start over. The other 'Lords' rejected my proposal, you're all useless.
Words flooded Salem's memory. Though Salem didn't particularly like the proposed solution, it was unfortunately the only solution Salem knew. Abuse is, after all, cyclical. "And as someone who has professed undying loyalty to Lord Rodias, and whose job it is to hunt down and destroy threats within the Chateau, you need to act when Lord Rodias is too weak to make a decision, you have a responsibility to discipline Chuunitrixx, and Graft, and Kaldorna...and me...for overstepping our bounds, for behaving in ways that undermine the Lords, for even considering thoughts of insurrection." Salem rattled much more loudly now, and though for the majority of the conversation, the doll had their hands folded behind their back, now they had lost their composure and had their hands out in front of them, palms up, fingers slightly curled, almost pleading.
Ashara looked at Salem, as the doll seemed to grow more and more agitated the longer it spoke. She of course listened to what it had to say, and perhaps she agreed - or at least understood - what the point of its view was. However, what Salem failed to realize was that Ashara was, by nature, neither proactive nor capable of performing the duty he was requesting of her. She closed her eyes, a solemn expression coming over her face, as she opened her eyes and looked at the poor thing before her.
"Lord Salem. Do you believe that complaining about, or arguing with, others mean that you hate them?" She asked, tilting her head slightly to one side. "I cannot speak for the other creators or how they acted, but there were multiple times when our lady Deka_Ribbon was upset and even spoke harshly about the other Sable Lords and members of Bandersnatch. Yet, even so, despite her bouts of anger or displeasure, she remained where, together and by their side." She paused momentarily. "Saying harsh words or being upset with others does not always mean you hate those who have earned your ire. I want to believe that, had your Master, Dr.Dnd, truly hated his fellow Sable Lords and Bandersnatch, he would not have stayed with them as long as he did... Nor would he have bothered to make such an impressive guardian as yourself to keep the Chateau safe." Ashara said, now smiling warmly, in a motherly or perhaps sisterly fashion.
She then proceeded to gently rub the left side of her ribs, making a slightly pained face. It wasn't that the injury was severe or anything, but it stung and felt awkward - a constant irritant that gnawed at the fox. Still, she soon focused back on Salem once more, after having received a worried look from Mikoto.
"As for my duties... Well, I believe you overestimate both my strength and my capabilities, Lord Salem. My duties have always been to guard and protect the Chateau from invaders, not internal strife, and even if I were to pursue investigations of disloyalty, there is very little I could do. Lady Chuunitrix far outmatches me in terms of power, and I am loathe to say so, but I fear she does not hold me in any kind of regard or has any respect for me or my opinion. Lord Graft, on the other hand, I may best in terms of martial prowess, but he is a far wiser and more cunning person than I will ever be. Were he to harbor these thoughts of disloyalty, I dare say I would be unable to spot them, as surely he would simply conceal them in a clever way. And as with lady Chuunitrixx, I fear he does not hold my opinion in very high esteem." She paused and let out a small sigh. "As for Lady Kaldorna, she has many skilled and capable subordinates, along with powerful pets and beasts. She is also quite eccentric and flamboyant, which sad as it may be, makes it very difficult for someone like me to properly gauge her meaning and intent. As such, while it is my duty to protect the Chateau, as far as doing some from any internal threat, I fear that I am woefully inept and unqualified. Ashara finished, apologetically, bowing her head for not being able to live up to Salem's perceived view of her.
Still, what she had said was all true. In a fight, Chuunitrixx could most definitely beat Ashara. Graft was far more intelligent than she was, and Kaldrona was just a big old ball of energy and mystery - at least to Ashara. Still what the doll had said about Rodias did not sit well with the head priestess, so she began to add her final piece.
"Also, while I understand that you wish for swift action from our Lord, please do not be to harsh on him. You must not forget that our Lord Rodias is a kind soul, he has treated us as he has because he wishes to value and show generosity to the creations of his friends. Even if what you say is true, and not all Sable Lords thought so highly of each other, that does not change that Lord Rodias felt that way about them. Even if one side does not reciprocate feelings, that does not make the other's feelings false or meaningless, Lord Salem." Ashara explained her view on the matter. "I would not worry about Lord Rodias' current state. I have faith that he will rise to take charge of the situation." She said, apparently confident that Rodias' bout of depression was going to end on its own. "Besides, if Lord Graft or Chuunitrixx were to ever try and claim the Chateau as you say, well, I would naturally stand in their way, and I am certain that I am not the only one. Lady Isolde, I have found, has always been a strong and adamant ally to all of the Sable Lords and Bandersnatch, unshakable in her resolve and dedication to them. Along with her, I believe, although I have only met her once or twice, that Madame Charme is also a very dedicated and genuine person... Even if she comes off as a bit, well, prickly." Ashara laughed softly at the last part of sentence, as if remembering something amusing.
"Finally, Lady Kath is a wonderful person, who I believe will always stand by the side of our Lord." She paused again, then looked at Salem, her smile full of genuine affection. "And then there is you, Lord Salem. You may speak harshly sometimes, or say things others might question or interpret in a negative light... Yet here you are, showing concern for both our Lord and our home, even going so far as wanting to be observed and reprimanded if need be." Ashara rose, pulling her haori up and getting herself dressed, before walking over to stand next to Salem. "So, even if there are those among our peers who may plot and scheme for what they want the Chateau to be, you need not be overly worried. Our Lord, our home, has many staunch allies and defenders who remain true to it, and to each other. I am certain that Miss Mamoru, Miss Flan, Sir Gromgard, kind Zouyu and even Lady Violet and Sir Talim are all united in their desire to serve Lord Rodias and the Chateau. But if you still have doubts and woes in your heart, good Lord Salem, then I suggest you visit them as you did with me, and hear their thoughts and voices." The fox smiled. "After all, you are far more capable of seeing others' intent than I."
Salem fell silent. The doll wanted to object to so many things, but Ashara had stated her points quite clearly, and Salem didn't have tear ducts with which to cry. Salem didn't like the waiting, nor the feeling of escalation within the guild, but Ashara's advice to visit the other members was what Salem had planned to do anyways, and perhaps it was too early to choose a solution before having acquired sufficient information.
Salem finally heaved a deep sigh, as if in relief. "There's so much suspicion going around right now, that I'm afraid a visit from me will be taken as a spying attempt, though I would be a hypocrite if I didn't recognize my own suspicions. But visiting the others was my plan before this, so I might as well follow through with it." Salem looked around at the shrine's elegance. "If nothing else, I'll get to see the artistry and craftsmanship that our creators put into the various Chapters of the Chateau, though I doubt anywhere is as nice as here." Salem gave Ashara a rare, soft, weak smile, devoid of sarcasm. The doll looked over at Mikoto, and silently bowed their head slightly in acknowledgement and apology, then turned back to Ashara. "Well, thank you...for your time and our advice. I'll be taking my leave now."