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Bugman Member
What happens when old wounds heal?
STATUS: thinking of a medieval VtM/WoD RP. fuck. 6 days ago
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thinking of a medieval VtM/WoD RP. fuck.
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7 days ago
Don't send every thought that comes to mind dawg
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FUCK Hermaeus Mora all my homies HATE Daedra
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no i do
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As a Canadian, please don't come here, fix ur own stuff Ameribros, thank you so much! (if you do don't even try Quebec they literally won't let you in)
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Most Recent Posts
Writing upon the great mountain-face that was his canvas, Amunal was sated. The humans struggled to understand what he was doing, in part because he was writing words that they had no means to express. But even with this difficulty they found a fountain of knowledge in what he was doing. Medicines, mechanisms, means of organization, optimizations of their law, the united realms under the reverent stewardship of the Sunborn all found themselves flourishing. Peace came, tribes and Kingdoms one by one joining the flock. Not a hand was forced, for most the conclusion was natural.
Amunal was happy to let this slow advancement go on. If he forcefully introduced all that he believed best, he also knew it would not go over well unless he micro-managed it all, a matter he didn’t wish to go through with. He was far too busy, considering concepts that were novel to any mind in the Milky Way.
Oftentimes, he would use his spare hand to write orders for people, while separately speaking to them. At a few points, so engaged was he that even his feet were used to write as he conveyed messages and orders to four parties at once, all the while one hand kept writing upon the wall of the mountain. Many moments would come when he would simply tell people to figure it out themselves. Sometimes this was simply because he wanted them to learn independence, sometimes it was because it would be a waste of his time, other times it was an outright experiment to better study the lesser humans. He knew them well, but not perfectly, and situations with the possibility of high variance but low impact outcomes were perfect little laboratories.
But, eventually, there came a problem he could not delegate.
The Starlanders as far as he was concerned, were a myth. He had seen a few artifacts of materials far too complex to have been made on this world, and he knew well that somebody existed there. But of those that came to Brahms for wanton slaughter and did not establish any kind of meaningful presence? It was preposterous.
Amunal believed in a world that was tidy, orderly. A society that killed for joy would not be one that could reach and then maintain a presence in the stars in his opinion. He would regret being so flippant to the concerns of the mortals, when finally the thousand and seventh complaint came to him of the starlanders within the same day. He counted, and he heard the voices of men he believed sane. He should have listened to his past instincts.
Arriving at the scene of the bloodshed, Amunal stared at the corpses. Yet… there was an issue. The carnage was unaccounted for. There had been more people in the burning village than there were corpses, or at least so a quick review told him.
“Where the rest?” He asked of the man standing by his side.
“I don’t know. Some stories speak of them taking people away.”
Slaves. He supposed that was some sort of justification for all this destruction. But why the deaths? Why not a more delicate means to get labour? What for even? He supposed that the innate value of a soul meant that a soul could always produce some sort of value to a slaver. But what? What would make such deaths?
Then he saw it, the glint in the sky. He stared at it, and ignored all the pleas from the mortals as night and day passed and he stared at the tiniest of shinings.
At some point, he told all the humans bumbling about him to leave for kilometres around him. Less than an hour after this order, the Starlanders came. Most of the humans fled even further, though a few brave fools went to protect their beloved fools. They lasted few seconds as shard weapons killed them or complex tools incapacitated them.
But at last, he was face to face with one of them. That smug face, those pointy ears, it wasn’t what he expected of an evil alien but it was not shocking either. The alien laughed at him, and spoke in one of the dialects of Brahms. “Tell me, will you come quietly? Or need we spoil our prize like those?”
Amunal put his hands behind himself and tilted his head to the side. “Why do you do this?” he demanded. “What do human captives do that your civilization cannot accomplish on its own merit?”
The alien laughed again, and raised its weapon. Before the trigger was pulled a thrown stone impaled it to what seemed to be a scantily clad female of the species. How similar to humans they were. Fascinating! He would have to study them.
But first, he would kill every single one of them.
It did not take particularly long, and as planned he picked up the impaled speaker of the aliens. He laughed at it, Amunal’s voice a perfect imitation of that of the Eldar. The alien’s eyes widened as Amunal addressed it in its own tongue. It was a taunt to add insult to injury. “Why do you do this?” He asked again, giving another mocking laugh as the alien stabbed uselessly at the Primarch’s skin, the blade sliding off of flesh that turned fluid upon impacts.
“And, why do you struggle in vain?” he asked. This was a question he had asked of humans a thousand times, and yet none gave a good answer for why they went with efforts that would inevitably be undone by others. Perhaps these aliens had somehow avoided these human quandaries.
Now it was again the alien’s turn to laugh as it spat in Amunal’s eye. The Primarch didn’t even blink as the mixture of saliva and blood ran from his pupil down his cheek.
“Because we enjoy it!” The alien taunted. “Because we enjoy killing, we-”
“Thank you.” the Primarch said, ending the life of the creature with a single twist of his wrist. In the last moment of the aeldari’s life, it was confused, almost scared as its elfin features were mimicked by the Primarch.
In a flash he ran towards some of the humans still watching and gave simple orders once more. The aliens were to be taken apart, dissected. Their materials were to be dealt with similarly, though he suspected none of the steel tools on Brahms would have the strength, precision, and sharpness to take apart the weapons, armour, equipment and vehicles of the invaders.
His orders were interrupted though, as he looked up and saw the presence of a small entourage that had arrived. That by itself meant nothing, but he had not seen or heard them walking here.
He tilted his head, and realized he recognized the faces of two of them. The elderly shamans that had summoned him to this world, or at least so they had according to them. They had not aged a single day. The details down to the very stubble on their faces shaved with obsidian daggers was exactly the same. Their tans, even the arrangement of individual hair follicles.
The Primarch approached them, returning to a more base form. The dark skinned and pale haired man with a beard turned to the more androgynous silvery form that he had when he first met these men. Crossing its hand behind itself, the almost-perfect creature looked at them through eyes without irises. “You again. You told me to seek you out, I have not. Why have you returned?”
The men smiled almost as one. “When you looked to the stars, you sought us.”
Amunal’s gleaming metallic lips turned into a wider smile, though there was no mirth behind it. “No, when I looked to the stars, I looked to the stars.”
“You are mistaken, you-” Belsokh began, though he was halted by the hand of Ptraf.
“The Starlanders will come once more, Sunborn.” Ptraf paused, and continued as he was not interrupted by the Primarch. “They will come, and your people will suffer. But this can be prevented. We need only adjust our arrangement. We have the knowledge to defend from their assailments, and indeed put an end to them, we-”
Now the Primarch interrupted. “You speak of ancient weapons, from before the war?”
“You know of the war?” Ptraf asked, now suddenly the one seeming far less wise than Belsokh.
“Of course he does, he would have learned of the records!” The other Priest replied.
But Amunal only smiled thinly, for Belsokh was wrong too. Truth be told, Amunal had never visited the archives, and barely listened to the mythologies. They seemed irrelevant to him, even when he was able to loosely corroborate the stories to what he was able to surmise himself. The scarring on the planet, the artifacts of strange metals he was able to find the composition of, the inconsistencies in the sciences that had developed. Nobody had to tell him that these people were forced to their primitiveness. It could be concluded from first principles.
“I shall find these weapons myself. I shall not bind myself to your sacrifices. Leave, before I kill you too.” he had only not destroyed these tribes because now they seemed to only sacrifice their own kin, who he could only presume were ecstatic rather than slaves forced to die. It was nonsense, but a willing sacrifice wasn’t one he very much cared to preserve.
“But how will you come to the Starlanders?” Belsokh countered, his questioning expression slowly turning to a grin as for many seconds, even the fast moving mind of the Sunborn could not come with a response.
“I will seize their crafts.”
“How?”
“I will.”
“You have not answer the question.”
In the same instant that Belsokh’s tongue touched his teeth to finish the last syllable of his sentence, a hand the size of a torso wrapped around his throat. “Your heathenry won’t bring me to the stars, cultist. You are being a nuisance.”
Belsokh couldn’t speak, and Ptraf was forced to intervene. “Your Wisdom,” he pleaded, speaking to the Primarch with a new Honorific. “All we ask is for you to give us an opportunity to present ourselves. If it is nonsense we speak, we will be force into ignominy, our tribes will join you. If not, we merely plead that you let us speak freely to you, at will.”
The skin and eyes of Belsokh turned red, it seemed his head would pop off like a cork from a bottle of gaseous wine as the meaty hand on his throat only got tighter. But then he was released.
“Go. Assemble what you need.”
Ptraf smiled as Belsokh tried to get air he had never needed so much before. “We need more of these Starlanders first, for I know you shan’t want your people slain. Alive, your Wisdom. Take them alive.”
Amunal was happy to let this slow advancement go on. If he forcefully introduced all that he believed best, he also knew it would not go over well unless he micro-managed it all, a matter he didn’t wish to go through with. He was far too busy, considering concepts that were novel to any mind in the Milky Way.
Oftentimes, he would use his spare hand to write orders for people, while separately speaking to them. At a few points, so engaged was he that even his feet were used to write as he conveyed messages and orders to four parties at once, all the while one hand kept writing upon the wall of the mountain. Many moments would come when he would simply tell people to figure it out themselves. Sometimes this was simply because he wanted them to learn independence, sometimes it was because it would be a waste of his time, other times it was an outright experiment to better study the lesser humans. He knew them well, but not perfectly, and situations with the possibility of high variance but low impact outcomes were perfect little laboratories.
But, eventually, there came a problem he could not delegate.
The Starlanders as far as he was concerned, were a myth. He had seen a few artifacts of materials far too complex to have been made on this world, and he knew well that somebody existed there. But of those that came to Brahms for wanton slaughter and did not establish any kind of meaningful presence? It was preposterous.
Amunal believed in a world that was tidy, orderly. A society that killed for joy would not be one that could reach and then maintain a presence in the stars in his opinion. He would regret being so flippant to the concerns of the mortals, when finally the thousand and seventh complaint came to him of the starlanders within the same day. He counted, and he heard the voices of men he believed sane. He should have listened to his past instincts.
Arriving at the scene of the bloodshed, Amunal stared at the corpses. Yet… there was an issue. The carnage was unaccounted for. There had been more people in the burning village than there were corpses, or at least so a quick review told him.
“Where the rest?” He asked of the man standing by his side.
“I don’t know. Some stories speak of them taking people away.”
Slaves. He supposed that was some sort of justification for all this destruction. But why the deaths? Why not a more delicate means to get labour? What for even? He supposed that the innate value of a soul meant that a soul could always produce some sort of value to a slaver. But what? What would make such deaths?
Then he saw it, the glint in the sky. He stared at it, and ignored all the pleas from the mortals as night and day passed and he stared at the tiniest of shinings.
At some point, he told all the humans bumbling about him to leave for kilometres around him. Less than an hour after this order, the Starlanders came. Most of the humans fled even further, though a few brave fools went to protect their beloved fools. They lasted few seconds as shard weapons killed them or complex tools incapacitated them.
But at last, he was face to face with one of them. That smug face, those pointy ears, it wasn’t what he expected of an evil alien but it was not shocking either. The alien laughed at him, and spoke in one of the dialects of Brahms. “Tell me, will you come quietly? Or need we spoil our prize like those?”
Amunal put his hands behind himself and tilted his head to the side. “Why do you do this?” he demanded. “What do human captives do that your civilization cannot accomplish on its own merit?”
The alien laughed again, and raised its weapon. Before the trigger was pulled a thrown stone impaled it to what seemed to be a scantily clad female of the species. How similar to humans they were. Fascinating! He would have to study them.
But first, he would kill every single one of them.
It did not take particularly long, and as planned he picked up the impaled speaker of the aliens. He laughed at it, Amunal’s voice a perfect imitation of that of the Eldar. The alien’s eyes widened as Amunal addressed it in its own tongue. It was a taunt to add insult to injury. “Why do you do this?” He asked again, giving another mocking laugh as the alien stabbed uselessly at the Primarch’s skin, the blade sliding off of flesh that turned fluid upon impacts.
“And, why do you struggle in vain?” he asked. This was a question he had asked of humans a thousand times, and yet none gave a good answer for why they went with efforts that would inevitably be undone by others. Perhaps these aliens had somehow avoided these human quandaries.
Now it was again the alien’s turn to laugh as it spat in Amunal’s eye. The Primarch didn’t even blink as the mixture of saliva and blood ran from his pupil down his cheek.
“Because we enjoy it!” The alien taunted. “Because we enjoy killing, we-”
“Thank you.” the Primarch said, ending the life of the creature with a single twist of his wrist. In the last moment of the aeldari’s life, it was confused, almost scared as its elfin features were mimicked by the Primarch.
In a flash he ran towards some of the humans still watching and gave simple orders once more. The aliens were to be taken apart, dissected. Their materials were to be dealt with similarly, though he suspected none of the steel tools on Brahms would have the strength, precision, and sharpness to take apart the weapons, armour, equipment and vehicles of the invaders.
His orders were interrupted though, as he looked up and saw the presence of a small entourage that had arrived. That by itself meant nothing, but he had not seen or heard them walking here.
He tilted his head, and realized he recognized the faces of two of them. The elderly shamans that had summoned him to this world, or at least so they had according to them. They had not aged a single day. The details down to the very stubble on their faces shaved with obsidian daggers was exactly the same. Their tans, even the arrangement of individual hair follicles.
The Primarch approached them, returning to a more base form. The dark skinned and pale haired man with a beard turned to the more androgynous silvery form that he had when he first met these men. Crossing its hand behind itself, the almost-perfect creature looked at them through eyes without irises. “You again. You told me to seek you out, I have not. Why have you returned?”
The men smiled almost as one. “When you looked to the stars, you sought us.”
Amunal’s gleaming metallic lips turned into a wider smile, though there was no mirth behind it. “No, when I looked to the stars, I looked to the stars.”
“You are mistaken, you-” Belsokh began, though he was halted by the hand of Ptraf.
“The Starlanders will come once more, Sunborn.” Ptraf paused, and continued as he was not interrupted by the Primarch. “They will come, and your people will suffer. But this can be prevented. We need only adjust our arrangement. We have the knowledge to defend from their assailments, and indeed put an end to them, we-”
Now the Primarch interrupted. “You speak of ancient weapons, from before the war?”
“You know of the war?” Ptraf asked, now suddenly the one seeming far less wise than Belsokh.
“Of course he does, he would have learned of the records!” The other Priest replied.
But Amunal only smiled thinly, for Belsokh was wrong too. Truth be told, Amunal had never visited the archives, and barely listened to the mythologies. They seemed irrelevant to him, even when he was able to loosely corroborate the stories to what he was able to surmise himself. The scarring on the planet, the artifacts of strange metals he was able to find the composition of, the inconsistencies in the sciences that had developed. Nobody had to tell him that these people were forced to their primitiveness. It could be concluded from first principles.
“I shall find these weapons myself. I shall not bind myself to your sacrifices. Leave, before I kill you too.” he had only not destroyed these tribes because now they seemed to only sacrifice their own kin, who he could only presume were ecstatic rather than slaves forced to die. It was nonsense, but a willing sacrifice wasn’t one he very much cared to preserve.
“But how will you come to the Starlanders?” Belsokh countered, his questioning expression slowly turning to a grin as for many seconds, even the fast moving mind of the Sunborn could not come with a response.
“I will seize their crafts.”
“How?”
“I will.”
“You have not answer the question.”
In the same instant that Belsokh’s tongue touched his teeth to finish the last syllable of his sentence, a hand the size of a torso wrapped around his throat. “Your heathenry won’t bring me to the stars, cultist. You are being a nuisance.”
Belsokh couldn’t speak, and Ptraf was forced to intervene. “Your Wisdom,” he pleaded, speaking to the Primarch with a new Honorific. “All we ask is for you to give us an opportunity to present ourselves. If it is nonsense we speak, we will be force into ignominy, our tribes will join you. If not, we merely plead that you let us speak freely to you, at will.”
The skin and eyes of Belsokh turned red, it seemed his head would pop off like a cork from a bottle of gaseous wine as the meaty hand on his throat only got tighter. But then he was released.
“Go. Assemble what you need.”
Ptraf smiled as Belsokh tried to get air he had never needed so much before. “We need more of these Starlanders first, for I know you shan’t want your people slain. Alive, your Wisdom. Take them alive.”
"That they do say!" Ichiro remarked, glad to have put a smile on his sister's face. Of course, neither of them would know yet that the man had long since passed away. Of his successor, Ichiro knew much, much less. His own smile formed as Natsumi almost seemed to be convincing herself, though his own lips were pressed much tighter, a smile that was very ready to take in stride the possibility they wouldn't be taken in, and that yea they would be told to leave at once, or worse delivered to their foes as a gift. "We don't even need both honour and kindness, just one will suffice!" he said, trying to be a little jovial in an effort to keep up the progress in lifting his sister's spirits.
"Indeed, let us go!" he announced, moving on. Until his sister made a very timely point. He didn't actually know where the Kitabatake lived, not as such. His foot stopped hovering in the air before it fell into sand again, and it stayed there for quite some time as Ichiro waited, thinking.
Finally the foot came down and he sighed. "I suppose we ought ask people. The issue is, most probably won't even know!" For a moment, he stared at Natsumi. He wondered how much she knew about the workings of the people they were no surrounded by. He wasn't intimately acquainted with either, but in his studies he had a broad understanding at least. Most of these people probably didn't travel (at least, on land) an area wider than a few kilometres for the entirety of their lives. They knew their lords only by the tithes that were taken of them, a constant of life that merely existed like the sun and stars. That brought him to the thought he didn't actually know what his sister did most of her days. Did she also learn things? If she was anything like many other noblewomen he met, he didn't exactly expect her to have an understanding of the world very different to them. She might expect these peasants to cower at a mere bark from her, even if worn down by their journey the siblings seemed more like well dressed tramps rather than children of their father.
"We ought ask somebody. They won't know, but they will probably know somebody who will. Traders or the like. But, Natsumi, this is very, very important. Do not tell anybody who we are. Things may be just as bad if people think we are liars, as they could be if they believe us. I'm a Ronin looking for a master. You're...." he paused, struggling to think of a backstory to their made up personas. "Ah... you're my cousin." he finished lamely.
"Indeed, let us go!" he announced, moving on. Until his sister made a very timely point. He didn't actually know where the Kitabatake lived, not as such. His foot stopped hovering in the air before it fell into sand again, and it stayed there for quite some time as Ichiro waited, thinking.
Finally the foot came down and he sighed. "I suppose we ought ask people. The issue is, most probably won't even know!" For a moment, he stared at Natsumi. He wondered how much she knew about the workings of the people they were no surrounded by. He wasn't intimately acquainted with either, but in his studies he had a broad understanding at least. Most of these people probably didn't travel (at least, on land) an area wider than a few kilometres for the entirety of their lives. They knew their lords only by the tithes that were taken of them, a constant of life that merely existed like the sun and stars. That brought him to the thought he didn't actually know what his sister did most of her days. Did she also learn things? If she was anything like many other noblewomen he met, he didn't exactly expect her to have an understanding of the world very different to them. She might expect these peasants to cower at a mere bark from her, even if worn down by their journey the siblings seemed more like well dressed tramps rather than children of their father.
"We ought ask somebody. They won't know, but they will probably know somebody who will. Traders or the like. But, Natsumi, this is very, very important. Do not tell anybody who we are. Things may be just as bad if people think we are liars, as they could be if they believe us. I'm a Ronin looking for a master. You're...." he paused, struggling to think of a backstory to their made up personas. "Ah... you're my cousin." he finished lamely.
:C
As they went towards their destination, Ichiro tried briefly to raise their spirits at a few points. He'd try to honour the memory of their father, recounting the stories the man had told him, his little lessons in life to their beloved children. Humourous moments they shared, common triumphs, things that would help Natsumi see the memory of the fallen parent with joy, not grief. Yet it almost felt that the universe - or rather the delusions of the world - were out to spite them. He tried to tell the story of how father tried to teach Ichiro patience by showing that tea tasted better when it had the time for the water to properly absorb the flavours, only for the boy to push his luck and wait several days to try get a more flavourful tea. The punchline of Ichiro falling over sick and throwing up in front of fellow noblemen from the time-fouled beverage could not be delivered, as the hooves of kibatai thundered behind them. He tried to tell the story of the first time that Ichiro had heard father speak of the trials of life making a man stronger if they were surpassed, yet he was unable to finish the story with recounting how Masato saved his son from being bitten by a snake when the adolescent had decided to harden himself this way. Once more the Kiba arrived. Yet again they interrupted the brother's words. The third time the Ki shut him up was when he recounted the time the young Ichiro tried to show he didn't need lessons in martial skill when he used the bulk and strength the youth had already developed in his teenage years to push his over down to the ground with a strike of his shoulder. The moral of the story couldn't be delivered. He was unable to recount how as he was gloating, the young yet ever so large boy had his feet swept out from under him to land on the ground.
Finally, Ichiro turned a little dour from this. He was left looking like a fool, an arrogant and insolent child because he couldn't deliver the latter segment of every tale he tried to recount. It was as if he was being taunted by fate or destiny, even though such things didn't seem particularly weighty to him. As if the Oda troops knew to shut him up before he could commemorate the man that Ichiro and Natsumi both mourned. There was something to learn there, though he struggled to tell what. He would have to tihnk on it later.
As they came to Ise, Ichiro disagreed with his sister that they ought avoid the men of their would-be ally. But he didn't argue with her much on the topic. It was better to be too cautious rather than foolhardy. You could always choose to be more bold after caution. Yet, after the effects of an excess of bravery and confidence it was usually far too late to excercise vigilance. Usually by then your head was already on the floor some distance from your body.
Going through the wild, Ichiro would shift topics going on to ramble about bits of nature. He'd identify all the plants he saw from flowers to trees to bushes, even picking a few mushrooms that he knew could be eaten without issue. After all, it would be a while before they got proper food.
But get proper food they did, along with a dose of hospitality far greater than Ichiro would have ever anticipated of a stranger of birth so lowly compared to theirs, especially since the prestige of the brother and sister would be more than visible on their trappings. Ultimately, Ichiro was very grateful that he didn't have to use the coins he had gathered at the fort they fled.
Eventually they were brought to their destination. "Hmmm?" a noise came from Ichiro as he turned to his sister, thinking how to answer her. This place was peaceful, he could forget their quest here. He chuckled then, almost but not quite in a tone that could be considered dismissive. "It is Harumoto that is currently head of their clan, yes? I am confident he would take us in. He has studied the works of Siddartha, he knows the dangers the Oda pose. If we present our blades, our finery, our tongues and ourselves, I am sure that at worst we will be turned away. If that is to happen, then our journey merely continues. But I am certain that if we present ourselves at the gates of his castle and speak honestly the truths we know, we will at the very least get a night of safety and respite, along with more hot meals. I am sure your feet are in need of rest as much as mine. Hospitality of a lord that is honourable and at worst neutral to gain the time we need to plot another move is something I think we would both appreciate." He took a stop to sit on a rock, accidentally illustrating the point about wanting rest. He looked to the sky, again trying to get his bearings, trying to calculate in his head how far they were from the castle of the Kitabatake. Some ways to go, but much of the journey was done.
Finally, Ichiro turned a little dour from this. He was left looking like a fool, an arrogant and insolent child because he couldn't deliver the latter segment of every tale he tried to recount. It was as if he was being taunted by fate or destiny, even though such things didn't seem particularly weighty to him. As if the Oda troops knew to shut him up before he could commemorate the man that Ichiro and Natsumi both mourned. There was something to learn there, though he struggled to tell what. He would have to tihnk on it later.
As they came to Ise, Ichiro disagreed with his sister that they ought avoid the men of their would-be ally. But he didn't argue with her much on the topic. It was better to be too cautious rather than foolhardy. You could always choose to be more bold after caution. Yet, after the effects of an excess of bravery and confidence it was usually far too late to excercise vigilance. Usually by then your head was already on the floor some distance from your body.
Going through the wild, Ichiro would shift topics going on to ramble about bits of nature. He'd identify all the plants he saw from flowers to trees to bushes, even picking a few mushrooms that he knew could be eaten without issue. After all, it would be a while before they got proper food.
But get proper food they did, along with a dose of hospitality far greater than Ichiro would have ever anticipated of a stranger of birth so lowly compared to theirs, especially since the prestige of the brother and sister would be more than visible on their trappings. Ultimately, Ichiro was very grateful that he didn't have to use the coins he had gathered at the fort they fled.
Eventually they were brought to their destination. "Hmmm?" a noise came from Ichiro as he turned to his sister, thinking how to answer her. This place was peaceful, he could forget their quest here. He chuckled then, almost but not quite in a tone that could be considered dismissive. "It is Harumoto that is currently head of their clan, yes? I am confident he would take us in. He has studied the works of Siddartha, he knows the dangers the Oda pose. If we present our blades, our finery, our tongues and ourselves, I am sure that at worst we will be turned away. If that is to happen, then our journey merely continues. But I am certain that if we present ourselves at the gates of his castle and speak honestly the truths we know, we will at the very least get a night of safety and respite, along with more hot meals. I am sure your feet are in need of rest as much as mine. Hospitality of a lord that is honourable and at worst neutral to gain the time we need to plot another move is something I think we would both appreciate." He took a stop to sit on a rock, accidentally illustrating the point about wanting rest. He looked to the sky, again trying to get his bearings, trying to calculate in his head how far they were from the castle of the Kitabatake. Some ways to go, but much of the journey was done.
|˶˙ᵕ˙ )ﾉﾞ
added new plot, GoT to the fandoms since I got back into that after people DEMANDED I watch HotD
added new plot, GoT to the fandoms since I got back into that after people DEMANDED I watch HotD
Going through the woods, Ichiro briefly wondered if they were lost. His vision was hardly the best, and he was hardly well coordinated in such things. It was ironic to some degree, the fact that he felt so close to nature while in practice going through it so clumsily. Branches snapped loudly underfoot, at some point he almost twisted his ankle in a rabbit’s burrow.
Finally, his sister spoke. The lad took a deep breath, drumming his fingers on his thigh. Indeed, what were they going to do? “We will do as father commanded.” he said, not even realizing in the moment that he had just told his sister these same words mere moments ago. As he stared into the meaningless distance, he realized more was expected of him. He had not really done his duty.
“We will do as father commanded.” he repeated a third time, but now there would be at least some elaboration. “We will find allies for this cause. Those that stand against these villains of the Oda. We will obtain coin to bring Ashigaru and Ronin unnumbered to our side. We will convince people across the land that our cause is just, that for every farmer and craftsman his interest is to stand with their Daimyos to in turn stand with us. Every man with a blade that we see, we will convince or coerce into serving this cause. Failing that, he’d be an enemy we’ll be rid of.” All that Ichiro was holding in the moment, he dropped. The young man’s hands went to those of his sister, holding them tightly as if he was terrified that the wind were to take her away if he didn’t. “Natsumi. Father will be avenged. Every man that did him and our Lord harm will be destroyed. I cannot yet create a complete vision, I do not see every step. But we will move. We will spend every one of our breaths to live by his last words.” even as the wind struck his face, he didn’t blink or even produce a single tear. His eyes reddened as cold streaks of air stung the orbs at high speed, but his eyelids didn’t move an inch. This seemed emotionless and distant at the same time that it seemed passionate, defiant and spiritual. Human expressions that seemed contradictory if they couldn’t be observed at the same time in the young man’s visage.
“It will be difficult. Perhaps we will both die in the process, and painfully so. Perhaps we will fail. But you are strong, my sister. Very strong. Strong enough we haven’t had the chance to quantify it yet.” He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Even as his eyes were obscured by eyelids, a smile came across Ichiro as if he was under the euphoric effect of some sort of substance. “For every man that stands against us, a suffering unique to him will be brought forth. One day the Oda will fall. Maybe not in our lifetimes, but we will have credit for the demon’s destruction nonetheless. In our dying breaths, we will be proud.”
Finally he opened his eyes, the grin not escaping him. He laughed, as if the most recent event they shared was some performance art rather than the death of their beloved father. “I won’t pretend to know the future, Natsumi. But I know you and me. Imperfectly, but enough to be certain our foe will suffer for every crime against us.” Another deep breath came across the young man. “Not all in this land are duplicitious. We have friends yet to call upon. Come!” Ichiro marched with a cheery pep in his stride. “We will walk until we can no longer, then we will rest until we can move once more.” Suddenly however, he stopped and turned to Natsumi. He looked at once embarrassed and proud. In both hands he extended their father’s katana, his cheeks reddening slightly. “But first, take this. If we are attacked by pursuers, you will need it. And you were always more wisened with this blade than I. The wakizashi and tanto, those are my arms. But this… I am confident if we are attacked, you will bring down a foe with every swipe. I demand you not fail me, and I know you won’t fail this demand.” Another heavy breath came across Ichiro as if he was trying to cram hours of meditation into mere heartbeats. “There are things you can do much better than I can. If I am to carry out father’s will, I will need you at your full capacity. I trust you will be ready.” She needn’t even respond, his mention that he trusted her was more than mere rhetoric.
“Let us go. Our work carries on.” He looked at the sky, his lips moving as he consulted memory to navigate. “Ise is that way.” And that was that, as he began the slow march to where the siblings could hopefully find respite and friends.
Finally, his sister spoke. The lad took a deep breath, drumming his fingers on his thigh. Indeed, what were they going to do? “We will do as father commanded.” he said, not even realizing in the moment that he had just told his sister these same words mere moments ago. As he stared into the meaningless distance, he realized more was expected of him. He had not really done his duty.
“We will do as father commanded.” he repeated a third time, but now there would be at least some elaboration. “We will find allies for this cause. Those that stand against these villains of the Oda. We will obtain coin to bring Ashigaru and Ronin unnumbered to our side. We will convince people across the land that our cause is just, that for every farmer and craftsman his interest is to stand with their Daimyos to in turn stand with us. Every man with a blade that we see, we will convince or coerce into serving this cause. Failing that, he’d be an enemy we’ll be rid of.” All that Ichiro was holding in the moment, he dropped. The young man’s hands went to those of his sister, holding them tightly as if he was terrified that the wind were to take her away if he didn’t. “Natsumi. Father will be avenged. Every man that did him and our Lord harm will be destroyed. I cannot yet create a complete vision, I do not see every step. But we will move. We will spend every one of our breaths to live by his last words.” even as the wind struck his face, he didn’t blink or even produce a single tear. His eyes reddened as cold streaks of air stung the orbs at high speed, but his eyelids didn’t move an inch. This seemed emotionless and distant at the same time that it seemed passionate, defiant and spiritual. Human expressions that seemed contradictory if they couldn’t be observed at the same time in the young man’s visage.
“It will be difficult. Perhaps we will both die in the process, and painfully so. Perhaps we will fail. But you are strong, my sister. Very strong. Strong enough we haven’t had the chance to quantify it yet.” He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Even as his eyes were obscured by eyelids, a smile came across Ichiro as if he was under the euphoric effect of some sort of substance. “For every man that stands against us, a suffering unique to him will be brought forth. One day the Oda will fall. Maybe not in our lifetimes, but we will have credit for the demon’s destruction nonetheless. In our dying breaths, we will be proud.”
Finally he opened his eyes, the grin not escaping him. He laughed, as if the most recent event they shared was some performance art rather than the death of their beloved father. “I won’t pretend to know the future, Natsumi. But I know you and me. Imperfectly, but enough to be certain our foe will suffer for every crime against us.” Another deep breath came across the young man. “Not all in this land are duplicitious. We have friends yet to call upon. Come!” Ichiro marched with a cheery pep in his stride. “We will walk until we can no longer, then we will rest until we can move once more.” Suddenly however, he stopped and turned to Natsumi. He looked at once embarrassed and proud. In both hands he extended their father’s katana, his cheeks reddening slightly. “But first, take this. If we are attacked by pursuers, you will need it. And you were always more wisened with this blade than I. The wakizashi and tanto, those are my arms. But this… I am confident if we are attacked, you will bring down a foe with every swipe. I demand you not fail me, and I know you won’t fail this demand.” Another heavy breath came across Ichiro as if he was trying to cram hours of meditation into mere heartbeats. “There are things you can do much better than I can. If I am to carry out father’s will, I will need you at your full capacity. I trust you will be ready.” She needn’t even respond, his mention that he trusted her was more than mere rhetoric.
“Let us go. Our work carries on.” He looked at the sky, his lips moving as he consulted memory to navigate. “Ise is that way.” And that was that, as he began the slow march to where the siblings could hopefully find respite and friends.
No King rules the roads of death.
Chaos. That encapsulated what was happening better than any other term. Chaos. Screams raged. First of orderly commands, then of men in combat, and finally of the suffering that followed intermingled by ever more voices of women and children.
If these sounds were thought of as music as some of the warriors present might do, then it would be full of harmony. Those same sounds of men were accompanied by the twang of bowstrings and the whistling of arrows. Sword clashed against polearm, fire crackled almost as if a drum keeping a beat. Even a few tanegashimas cracked, the sound like the distant peal of thunder as balls of steel and brass flew together with arrows.
But Ichiro did not see it as such. He saw only the implosion of all that had framed his world. So many years his readings, his studies had been his guide. He clutched his heart, staring at the fires spreading. "Amitābha." he muttered. "Amitābha." he repeated, as if this would bring him some sort of peace. It didn't. It only served to enflame the passions, the poison of hatred spreading through his flesh. That which demanded he raise his blade, that he rush into the fray and die as so many others had this day. All the efforts he had put forth to detach himself from this world, to achieve permanent enlightenment, it was melting. "Ku." he murmured, gently putting his hand on the shoulder of an Ashigaru that together with several comrades was fleeing scene. "Where are you going? The battle rages on." He had intended this to come out authoritatively, but it sounded like a gasp of a defeated man struggling to accept truth. He fell over as amidst his musings he didn't let go of the shoulder of the man that had told Ichiro to release, and then got a punch upon the nose as the man took measures to not let his flight from the battle be interrupted.
Getting upright, he only realized his nose was broken and bleeding as the tinny taste of blood came upon his tongue. This was over. The battle was over. The only question was if honourable death was to be pursued, or if they would live another day. Defeat wasn't the matter to ponder, merely the nature it would take on.
He had to find his father. That would bring some clarity. It had to. There were no monks, no texts he could run to for guidance. Finding his parent, Ichiro could get no solace. Getting the man out from the fray, it was only some moments into dragging him that he realized that his sister was with him. Despite everything, he found himself giving her a hollow smile. Partially it was insincere, an effort to comfort her. Part of it was wholly sincere, eager to see a kind face amidst the horror they were going through.
He looked down at his father, chuckling through tears that were hardly held up. "You will have to punish me with a few strikes for it later, father." he just about managed. A single tear rolled down his face, mixing with the blood of his nose, the salt stinging as it entered the open wound. "I hope nobody learns of my disobedience." As grief struck, the struggle to accept the reality of father's inbound death seemed an apt metaphor for him being drawn into the world of sensory illusion, and the struggle to accept the greater truths.
Faster than an eye could track, Masato's hands flew to his children. Pulling on the collars of son and daughter he brought them to himself, his grip on the flesh that connected their necks to shoulders tight like iron despite having lost so much blood already. "The Clan does not end here. Not yet. You will flee, at once." His speech was gruff, his injury, the smoke he inhaled, and the grief of knowing this is the last time he will see his children all giving it an almost ethereal rasp. "You cannot die, not here, not today."
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath while leaning into the ground he lay upon. As if martialling the last of his strength to think on what to say. "Defeat through... through this. Ignominy. If we are to perish, it will be amidst triumph. Our bodies will rest on top of those of our foes, not beneath." He looked at his children, expecting the youths to argue. For his part at least, Ichiro grasped the forearm of his father as tightly as he could and nodded. Satisfied with this display of obeisance, he released his son and awaited a similar sign of understanding from his daughter. "You will not fail me. Pride fills me. Pride that I, living through you, will bring an end to this villain. Now go. Leave me to my final thoughts."
Released, Ichiro's last sight of his father would be to take from him his helmet, his blades. These would be needed, and they could not be left to be desecrated as loot by some marauder. With that he arose and began the shameful flight from the fortifications. He didn't turn his head back at his father was in practical terms slain. It would hurt, and it would only drag him further into this damnable world. The son knew his sister was strong, and he hoped she would come as ordered. But if needed he would pry her off of the father they both grieved for to the task of vengeance they were entrusted with.
A very brief stop would be made by him, collecting what koku he could for their inevitably difficult journey to come. Then he would lead his sister to one side of the fortifications where the slope was just the right incline and the sweet spot between smooth and rough that it could be slid down. It was no glamorous exit through a secret passage, and the friction hurt before he had even slid to the bottom. But they were out, and relatively unscathed. "We will do as father commanded." Ichiro spoke, unsure if he was trying to reassure Natsumi or himself.
The Fabricator General - a title he now more and more insisted on being called by to cement his authority - stared at the many vid-feeds before him. The spycraft flying over Earth showed information that was more disconcerting with every passing moment. This new realm uniting the cradle of humanity was not just another barbarian statelet as the Martians had grown accustomed to seeing from the Terrans. However, this was… an Imperium. Places devastated by war brought by their genetically engineered armies were elevated to megapolises in just a few years after being flattened.
It seemed nobody was really able to stop the growth of this realm. Quality and quantity alike favoured this golden warlord, and even the most cynical projection showed that soon this Emperor would be able to call the entirety of Terra his own. The army that he had - if it also kept growing - would be grand and mighty enough to seriously threaten a conventional defeat of the Martian army. They could call upon the rest of the Galactic Machine cult, but with the paths of travel being as unstable as they are it could be decades before some sort of true response could be assembled, assuming it even was. Many Forge worlds greedily eyed the position of Mars as the head of the Mechanicum and it was not clear just how severe this lust for power was among some of the more powerful and independent Forgeworlds.
There was however, one thing the Terrans had no clear way to surmount. They had not the quantity of spacecraft to mount a credible invasion. The orbital defences of Mars even damaged as they were would be enough to blow whatever they could throw at the moment out of the sky. The spacecraft of Mars would cut a heavy toll on the disbelievers even before that.
But who knew what would change. Though there was nominal peace on Mars with the Fulgurites and Corpuscarii unable to maintain their war, Salkor knew that rebuilding their damage would take years. That meant that restoring lost forces, erecting further defences, and other measures to defend from a Terran invasion. Moreover, the probability of sending a punitive expedition of sorts to strangle any hypothetical spaceport being built on Terra was also at best a fantasy.
It was a race, he supposed. A question of who would recover first and faster from their respective bloodsheds and reunifications. Between this upstart warlords and perhaps the single most advanced realm of humanity, Salkor knew the simulations would all speak in favour of Mars. But, all those simulations also insisted that Terra would have just been the same wasteland of bloodshed and slaughter. They all predicted the opposite of what was happening now, and he could hardly just ignore this.
Worse yet, all the babbling of the astropaths and navigators was coming true. He had until now assumed it was just the work of tortured minds, those who had all sorts of comorbidities from constant exposure to the ill defined energies of the immaterium. But, now these ramblings seemed to hold more and more weight as sincere forces of forecast and analysis. More and more he found himself asking for what madness they spoke of, and taking it seriously. He knew that the rest of Mars would ridicule him if he tried to use this as some sort of evidence or meaningful source of prediction. He would have to justify his alarmism through other means, but he knew that he could no longer afford to ignore the psykers. They had spoken truth one time too many for it to be a coincidence. Or at least, a coincidence that wasn’t more unlikely than the fact they spoke the truth.
He wasn’t happy about this of course. Usually knowledge was something that had to be worked for, developed from first principles. This? This was organized insanity at best. To submit himself to it was inviting a path to the destruction of himself, as well as the planet and religion he shepherded.
Worse yet, was that even if the issue of the Terrans was resolved, the problem of the Electro Priests was not truly resolved. The conflict only stopped because the enablers of it had been forced to cease their efforts. The underlying hatreds were still very well present. Perhaps the would cease with time, as everyone moved on to other matters.
This was a vain hope, he knew it well enough. It was a product of the weakness of his own mind, the humanity still within weighing him down. This horrible imperfection was affecting his judgment. Maybe it was what made him give credence to the psykers too, maybe he should ignore them as yet more frail-minded humans.
No, no. The Machine was also telling him to listen to the warp-touched. Something there affected even circuits and switches.
If he still had the impulse to sigh, he would have. Salkor once more reviewed the numbers. It was a waiting game, now. There wasn’t much more he could do. Many complained about his refusal to demobilize the armies of Mars, but he couldn’t. They had to be ready at a moment’s notice to meet the Terrans on the many fortifications being erected at this very moment.
For the first time in years, he had the impulse to see things himself. The weakling human again, needing to be sated. Hovering out of the depths of his forge, he went to the surface of the Red Planet and then stared into the darkness of the sky. Through the atmosphere, he could see it:
Terra.
There was a feeling he hadn’t in a while, that of witnessing beauty. The plasglas lenses of his ocular implants couldn’t convey it all, but it was beautiful. All the lights, all the flames, the planet looked almost… golden. Gold. There was something prophetic there, he would have to speak to the psykers of this, ask them if they had sensed it. But first, he still had many Archmagoses sending complaints to attend to.
It seemed nobody was really able to stop the growth of this realm. Quality and quantity alike favoured this golden warlord, and even the most cynical projection showed that soon this Emperor would be able to call the entirety of Terra his own. The army that he had - if it also kept growing - would be grand and mighty enough to seriously threaten a conventional defeat of the Martian army. They could call upon the rest of the Galactic Machine cult, but with the paths of travel being as unstable as they are it could be decades before some sort of true response could be assembled, assuming it even was. Many Forge worlds greedily eyed the position of Mars as the head of the Mechanicum and it was not clear just how severe this lust for power was among some of the more powerful and independent Forgeworlds.
There was however, one thing the Terrans had no clear way to surmount. They had not the quantity of spacecraft to mount a credible invasion. The orbital defences of Mars even damaged as they were would be enough to blow whatever they could throw at the moment out of the sky. The spacecraft of Mars would cut a heavy toll on the disbelievers even before that.
But who knew what would change. Though there was nominal peace on Mars with the Fulgurites and Corpuscarii unable to maintain their war, Salkor knew that rebuilding their damage would take years. That meant that restoring lost forces, erecting further defences, and other measures to defend from a Terran invasion. Moreover, the probability of sending a punitive expedition of sorts to strangle any hypothetical spaceport being built on Terra was also at best a fantasy.
It was a race, he supposed. A question of who would recover first and faster from their respective bloodsheds and reunifications. Between this upstart warlords and perhaps the single most advanced realm of humanity, Salkor knew the simulations would all speak in favour of Mars. But, all those simulations also insisted that Terra would have just been the same wasteland of bloodshed and slaughter. They all predicted the opposite of what was happening now, and he could hardly just ignore this.
Worse yet, all the babbling of the astropaths and navigators was coming true. He had until now assumed it was just the work of tortured minds, those who had all sorts of comorbidities from constant exposure to the ill defined energies of the immaterium. But, now these ramblings seemed to hold more and more weight as sincere forces of forecast and analysis. More and more he found himself asking for what madness they spoke of, and taking it seriously. He knew that the rest of Mars would ridicule him if he tried to use this as some sort of evidence or meaningful source of prediction. He would have to justify his alarmism through other means, but he knew that he could no longer afford to ignore the psykers. They had spoken truth one time too many for it to be a coincidence. Or at least, a coincidence that wasn’t more unlikely than the fact they spoke the truth.
He wasn’t happy about this of course. Usually knowledge was something that had to be worked for, developed from first principles. This? This was organized insanity at best. To submit himself to it was inviting a path to the destruction of himself, as well as the planet and religion he shepherded.
Worse yet, was that even if the issue of the Terrans was resolved, the problem of the Electro Priests was not truly resolved. The conflict only stopped because the enablers of it had been forced to cease their efforts. The underlying hatreds were still very well present. Perhaps the would cease with time, as everyone moved on to other matters.
This was a vain hope, he knew it well enough. It was a product of the weakness of his own mind, the humanity still within weighing him down. This horrible imperfection was affecting his judgment. Maybe it was what made him give credence to the psykers too, maybe he should ignore them as yet more frail-minded humans.
No, no. The Machine was also telling him to listen to the warp-touched. Something there affected even circuits and switches.
If he still had the impulse to sigh, he would have. Salkor once more reviewed the numbers. It was a waiting game, now. There wasn’t much more he could do. Many complained about his refusal to demobilize the armies of Mars, but he couldn’t. They had to be ready at a moment’s notice to meet the Terrans on the many fortifications being erected at this very moment.
For the first time in years, he had the impulse to see things himself. The weakling human again, needing to be sated. Hovering out of the depths of his forge, he went to the surface of the Red Planet and then stared into the darkness of the sky. Through the atmosphere, he could see it:
Terra.
There was a feeling he hadn’t in a while, that of witnessing beauty. The plasglas lenses of his ocular implants couldn’t convey it all, but it was beautiful. All the lights, all the flames, the planet looked almost… golden. Gold. There was something prophetic there, he would have to speak to the psykers of this, ask them if they had sensed it. But first, he still had many Archmagoses sending complaints to attend to.
The Recap.
He had been busy. More than some might appreciate, but thankfully less than they’d notice. Despite being large as he was, Elias had a way of being quite elusive about the place. Fuzzy pink loafers helped a lot to not make a sound, but thoroughly mapping the schedules of the crew helped more. Of course, it helped a lot less than he had hoped. This wasn’t the armed forces, the crew of the China Doll had a habit of… just doing stuff. Which he didn’t like. You were meant to organize spontaneity beforehand, such as appointed lunch-breaks. Briefly he figured he wouldn’t fit in with the crew to the point that he, they, or both would simply decide it was better to part ways. He wasn’t exactly married to the China Doll, but he somehow doubted he’d have an easy time finding another place to work like this. Anyway, he found himself slowly growing to the place. He became quite expert at recognizing the voices of each of the crew’s members even through walls, their gaits, the sound of their feat as he listened from his resting spot near the engines. And, perhaps they’d learn of his presence in their own subtle ways too.
Some things would be a lot cleaner or more maintained than they had been since perhaps the first year of the China Doll’s flight; coverings of lights would have all the spiders that made them their homes suddenly evicted. Rust would disappear from everywhere that it had begun to show, and old machinery would be oiled. Smoke detectors that no longer even beeped from a need of changed batteries would once more have a happy little green light to show all was well. Some things took him longer. Getting surety of all the hermetic seals in the event of a breach of the hull was much harder, especially since all the instruments and tools from the past mechanic weren’t configured as he was used to. But eventually he was able to finally get the concern out of his head that if there was a hole in the ship everyone would get sucked out like juice from a fruit because the vessel’s doors couldn’t hold as airlocks. What a long thought.
So many little things needed maintaining, and it was a nice way to busy himself. A clock he heard in a hallway had one out of every hundred or so ticks that followed each tock be missed. This added up to that part of the ship living in an entirely different universe that was minutes behind the rest of the galaxy! Thankfully, all that was needed was to bend a little spoke back into shape to fix this crime.
The truth was that Elias didn’t actually know what to do with himself other than work. Wealthy as his family was, he had somewhat gotten accustomed to expensive tastes from his youth, those which he just assumed couldn’t be fulfilled here even if he couldn’t elaborate much more beyond that. But musics, film, and all else really weren’t to his preference. He couldn’t really eat beyond chugging the admittedly appreciated efforts to make scentful meals for him, what was left to spend his days on?
Well, there were his personal projects he supposed. Picking heavy things up in a cyclic fashion at least gave him some calm, even if he had to chug a lot of those purees to try maintain any mass on a wiry skeleton that was more meant for a lean geek than his struggle to try to be a wall of muscle. There was the text to speech device. He appreciated the members of the crew that went out of their way to learn sign language for his sake, but it was clearly easier for them to hear his hastily punched out keys, especially since he didn’t need to have them be looking at his hands or even his chalkboard to read this. With just a little scrap electronics and maybe an alarm clock or two that people kept sleeping through anyway, his contraption was created.
But then of course, there was his magnum opus, or at least for this flight. The grand piano, everything from the strings to hammers to frame crafted by his own. A ramshackle mess, one that needed tuning. But in the quiet of the night, if a person went out for a glass of water or a call of nature, they might just hear a wistful tune.
There was the matter of identity to take care of, of course. He photocopied his fingerprints, refrigerated samples of his blood and hair and everything else. He’d written out complex letters detailing his situation that he’d use to help recover his name. The man had even considered making a chart to compare his mutilated features with those of old pictures of himself, but he figured eventually that the people who cared would figure this out themselves, walking around with a picture of a young man and his own disfigured portrait probably wouldn’t go down well.
However, if everything went right (as rare as such a thing might have been), then maybe Elias Riemen would finally have a bit of paper with a barcode that finally told the whole world that he was who he said he was. Such flimsy little things, all shiny and laminated these IDs. Yet so much meaning was assigned to them, meaning that he suffered because he couldn’t assign it to himself.
Happy thoughts, he had to think happy thoughts. Well, first he had to think of some, before he could think them.
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