"Fuck that baby." Everyon with guns apparently.
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STATUS: Luckily history suggests an infinite ability for people to be shit heads ;) 4 mos ago
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4 mos ago
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Luckily history suggests an infinite ability for people to be shit heads ;)
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1 yr ago
Achmed the Snake
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2 yrs ago
It's kind of insane to me that people ever met without dating apps. It is just so inefficient.
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2 yrs ago
One, polyamory is notoriously difficult to administer
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2 yrs ago
I'm guessing it immediately failed because everyone's computer broke/work got busy/grand parents died
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Bio
Early 30's. I know just enough about everything to be dangerous.
Most Recent Posts
The air crisped carbs crunched pleasantly in Molly’s mouth as she dexterously maneuvered the suey sticks to collect more from the colorful paper cartoon. The design was a golden dragon laid on in cheap holo-print that seemed to swim around the square cardboard like a particularly demented eel. It was a stock design used by almost every fast food vendor in the sector. She turned away from the battered hover truck, with its neon sign blazing ‘Authentic Oriental Cuisine’ in eye searing glory.
“See,” she said to Quintus, her voice smug even if a trifle distorted around a mouthful of the tangy, spicy, carbs. “Told you we had plenty of time to…” The comm beeped the alert and a moment later the sound of blaster fire whined across it with spiteful attenuation. Quintus arched his ‘I told you so’ eyebrow, Molly’s least favorite of his eyebrows. She dropped the carton but her Ur Bot, jokingly christened RU-0K, who was perched on her shoulder, snatched it and the sticks from the air and continued to feed Molly as she looked around in panic. She made a half hearted swipe but the bot continued to shovel noodles into her mouth. The quest for munchies had carried them six blocks from where they were notionally on watch, and now it looked like it had all dropped into the pot.
“ Ee nee wheals,” Molly sputtered, then spun back to the holofood truck, finally managing to get the offending Ur Bot to pause it’s force feeding if not drop it’s prize. Molly pulled open the cab and climbed in, cast her eyes back to the startled proprietor in his grease stained apron.
“Citizen… we need your truck,” she announced as Quintus piled into the cab and added his much more intimidating glare.
“See,” she said to Quintus, her voice smug even if a trifle distorted around a mouthful of the tangy, spicy, carbs. “Told you we had plenty of time to…” The comm beeped the alert and a moment later the sound of blaster fire whined across it with spiteful attenuation. Quintus arched his ‘I told you so’ eyebrow, Molly’s least favorite of his eyebrows. She dropped the carton but her Ur Bot, jokingly christened RU-0K, who was perched on her shoulder, snatched it and the sticks from the air and continued to feed Molly as she looked around in panic. She made a half hearted swipe but the bot continued to shovel noodles into her mouth. The quest for munchies had carried them six blocks from where they were notionally on watch, and now it looked like it had all dropped into the pot.
“ Ee nee wheals,” Molly sputtered, then spun back to the holofood truck, finally managing to get the offending Ur Bot to pause it’s force feeding if not drop it’s prize. Molly pulled open the cab and climbed in, cast her eyes back to the startled proprietor in his grease stained apron.
“Citizen… we need your truck,” she announced as Quintus piled into the cab and added his much more intimidating glare.
Can somoeone explain how to build a dice pool? I understand the effects and such but how do you determine what dice you roll?
[hider=Molly Neptune]
Molly Neptune, The Pilot
Name: Molly Neptune
Alias: Spoons
Look: Leather jacket over a flight suit and combat boots.
A heart stopping young woman who has clearly benifited from aristo-gene therapy. Of medium height and with shocking purple hair she seems to bounce on the balls of her feet, perpetually in motion.
Heritage: Imperial
Background: Military
Vice: Pleasure
Class XP Trigger: Address challenges with speed or flair.
Starting Ability: Ace Pilot - You have potency on all speed-related rolls. When you roll to resist the consequences of piloting, gain +1d.
Special Abilities:
[list][*][b] Hedonist - When you indulge your vice, you may adjust the dice outcome by +/-2. An ally who joins you may do the same.[/*][/list]
Insight [2]
Doctor
Hack>
Rig >
Study
Hack>
Rig >
Study
Prowess [3]
Helm>>
Scramble >
Scrap
Skulk>
Scramble >
Scrap
Skulk>
Resolve [2]
Attune
Command >
Consort
Sway >
Command >
Consort
Sway >
Trauma: 0/4
- N/A
Contacts:
Sorley Oxenbec - [Friend] - Deep Space Salvager - He has what you need, but best not ask too many questions.
Commodore Babbington Carlisle IX - [Rival] - Hagemony Commander - left at the altar.
Carlos - Gangster - Former Hagemony Marine turned crimelord
Delia Murdock - The Hanging Judge- Law woman without a heart
Persephone Pulsar - Fading Starlet- Washed up holoactress
Brother Bashar - Doomsayer- REPENT THE END IS NIGH
Bio: A daughter of the core world aristocracy Molly (or Marguerite as she was formally named) was meant to lead a life of staid privilege. Naturally rebellious and adventurous, not to mention spoiled and conceited, she fled an arranged marriage and went on a bender of truly legendary proportions. When the smoke cleared Molly found herself on an enlistment barge, apparently having signed up for the Hegemony Navy in a drunken, drug fueled, haze. Far from the first person to EWI (enlist while intoxicated) Molly was saved from grunt work in some god forsaken warzone by her IAT (initial aptitude tests). With her genetics and reflexes she was accepted for APT (advanced pilot training) at which she excelled.
Molly spent three years flying interceptors for the Hegemony, running down enemy fighters and shooting down incoming missiles. Seat of the pants flying that was hell on the nerves and burned out pilots by the droves. Hard drinking and drugs were just one of the coping mechanisms used by the men and women who plied the deadly craft. Bad attitudes were another and the combination of things meant Molly spent almost as many nights in the brig as tearing up the pubs and clubs of whatever planet or space station was handy.
It also meant that when a billionaire’s yacht was stolen and deliberately set on a high speed collision with another yacht, suspicion naturally fell to Molly. With the popularity of yacht billiards far from proven, Molly decided it might be a good time to take leg bail from the Hegemony and strike out on her own.
[/hider]
There was no skill more essential to an Imperial Guardsman than the ability to stare fixedly at a point six inches above the head of whomever was dressing her down and betray absolutely no expression. Sel was a past master of this most essential of field crafts and demonstrated her skills as she stood in Major Sour's office, her fine dress uniform burned and torn, a great white splash of confectioners sugar across the front of her blue tunic and her feet lacquered to the polished stone floor but what both smell and texture suggested might be toffee. Kayden in marked contrast had come off rather better, with only a parted seam and a slight disheveling of his hair. The office had once belonged to some minor priest or functionary but devotional tapestries had been replaced with acetate maps marked up to show the city and its environs. Fuzzy pict plates showed aerial reconnaissance views of unfamiliar terrain and there were even a few stills from the gunpicters sentinels used. A faint smell of incense and old body powder over lay the more recent scent of lho sticks and recaf, a pot of which burbled on a hexamite stove in the corner. Sour pointedly did not offer his guests a cup.
"Why is it, that when there is trouble I may depend on finding you two caught up in it," Major Sour asked acidly. Sour was a beefy man, not fat exactly but too fond of food and drink to stay lean in a rear echelon posting like regiment XO. He had been a famous duelist in his youth and still bore a dueling scar on the left side of his face but that fame and that youth had been long ago. Sour was also a man who bore a grudge, his service record and seniority might have seen him elevated to colonel but his lack of political saavy had seen him passed over in favor of a politically connected officer. It was a bitter blow, a colonel might hope to one day elevate himself to the general staff but an aging major could look forward only to thankless work, the faults in which would fall to him and the success laid at the feet of his chief. It was too his credit that Sour did not avenge that disappointment on his juniors. Usually he didn't. Sel couldn't imagine that having to deal with an even younger, even better connected officer was doing the jowly old troll's ulcers any good.
"Sir," Kayden said in a reasonable and respectful tone, "I do not believe Corporal Seldon and I can be blamed for defeating an insurgent attack." The word defeated hung in the air and Sour glowered, unable to deny that it had been a win, albeit one so narrow that it made her palms itch. She didn’t know why being jumped in a supposedly friendly city made her so much more edgy than being bushwhacked out the back of beyond but there it was.
“Yes… Corporal Seldon,” Sour acknowledge in a tone so dry that Sel could almost feel the pages of her personnel file being judged and found to be considerably short of the mark. Sour tried to catch her eye but Sel expertly kept her own gaze fixed on her imaginary aiming point, her face so blank an neutral that she might have been a tailors dummy for all the emotion it conveyed. Sour, having played this game with soldiers his entire life, gave it up as a bad bargain and returned his attention to Kayden.
“Yes, well,” Sour continued dismissively, “you weren’t the only one that got shot at you know.” That was true, a handful of snipers had opened fire on the barracks at precisely the moment the ambush in the street was sprung. Snipers might be stretching the point though because not a single trooper had so much as been wounded. That was an odd contrast with the cold professionalism of the hit squad that Sel and Kayden had dispatched, more by luck than skill, and it made Sel even more nervous. Perhaps the enemy only had so many trained people and had used them all to try to eliminate Kayden. Sel supposed that after the spectacle at the palace it would be a public relations victory if nothing else.
“Yes Sir!” Kayden replied with a crisp enthusiasm that, while no doubt genuine, made Sour give him an irritated look. There was no way he could come down on a junior for such an appropriate response. He made a show of leafing through some papers on his desk, though it was a fair bet the sheets of flimsy held no new information.
“Ever consider a career in the holos Caradwalden?” Sour asked, which nonsequitor was so sudden that even Kayden was momentarily at a loss for words.
“Sir?” he asked in genuine perplexity. Sour produced a pict slate and turned it to face the pair. On it Sel could see footage of Kayden catching the prometheum bomb in one hand, then lobbing it back into the window. The view, which appeared to be from the other side of the street, showed a much better view of the resulting fireball, even highlighting three bodies behind the inferno in the moment their bodies were engulfed. If there was audio it was turned off, but a banner along the bottom of the screen read: “Lord Lieutenant Caradwalden single handedly defeats assassins.”
Nobody spoke for a long moment. A Lord Lieutenant was a rank at sector level, something someone in line to become governor might hold. A screw up like this, if it caught on, might well lead Kayden personally and the regiment generally into extremely dangerous waters. Clearly the vid had come from local newscasters, probably paparazzi who had followed Kayden from his dinner party.
“Hey!” Sel interjected without thinking about it, “he wasn’t single handed!”
“Seldon,” Sour said in the tone of a man wearier than words could describe. “Kindly keep your mouth shut for the remainder of this interview.” Sel opened her mouth to say Sir, then hastily closed it and nodded.
“This is already all over the city and by nightfall you will be a Throne damned local celebrity, which I’m sure to a glory hunter like you, does not seem like a problem,” Sour continued.
“Sir..” Kayden protested, but the Major was in no mood and he continued talking over the top of his subordinate.
“Which means, every damn insurgent in the city is going to want to blow whatever you have out of your head, and worse people standing beside you are likely to get it in the neck as well,” Sour grumbled. He softened slightly, as though embarrassed by his own vehemence.
“What we need is to get you out of here for a few days while things get settled down… fortunately a local noblewoman, one Baroness..." he paused to actually consult his papers before continuing. "Baroness Arsenault has asked for an Imperial Guard assessment of her estate and her household troops…”
"Why is it, that when there is trouble I may depend on finding you two caught up in it," Major Sour asked acidly. Sour was a beefy man, not fat exactly but too fond of food and drink to stay lean in a rear echelon posting like regiment XO. He had been a famous duelist in his youth and still bore a dueling scar on the left side of his face but that fame and that youth had been long ago. Sour was also a man who bore a grudge, his service record and seniority might have seen him elevated to colonel but his lack of political saavy had seen him passed over in favor of a politically connected officer. It was a bitter blow, a colonel might hope to one day elevate himself to the general staff but an aging major could look forward only to thankless work, the faults in which would fall to him and the success laid at the feet of his chief. It was too his credit that Sour did not avenge that disappointment on his juniors. Usually he didn't. Sel couldn't imagine that having to deal with an even younger, even better connected officer was doing the jowly old troll's ulcers any good.
"Sir," Kayden said in a reasonable and respectful tone, "I do not believe Corporal Seldon and I can be blamed for defeating an insurgent attack." The word defeated hung in the air and Sour glowered, unable to deny that it had been a win, albeit one so narrow that it made her palms itch. She didn’t know why being jumped in a supposedly friendly city made her so much more edgy than being bushwhacked out the back of beyond but there it was.
“Yes… Corporal Seldon,” Sour acknowledge in a tone so dry that Sel could almost feel the pages of her personnel file being judged and found to be considerably short of the mark. Sour tried to catch her eye but Sel expertly kept her own gaze fixed on her imaginary aiming point, her face so blank an neutral that she might have been a tailors dummy for all the emotion it conveyed. Sour, having played this game with soldiers his entire life, gave it up as a bad bargain and returned his attention to Kayden.
“Yes, well,” Sour continued dismissively, “you weren’t the only one that got shot at you know.” That was true, a handful of snipers had opened fire on the barracks at precisely the moment the ambush in the street was sprung. Snipers might be stretching the point though because not a single trooper had so much as been wounded. That was an odd contrast with the cold professionalism of the hit squad that Sel and Kayden had dispatched, more by luck than skill, and it made Sel even more nervous. Perhaps the enemy only had so many trained people and had used them all to try to eliminate Kayden. Sel supposed that after the spectacle at the palace it would be a public relations victory if nothing else.
“Yes Sir!” Kayden replied with a crisp enthusiasm that, while no doubt genuine, made Sour give him an irritated look. There was no way he could come down on a junior for such an appropriate response. He made a show of leafing through some papers on his desk, though it was a fair bet the sheets of flimsy held no new information.
“Ever consider a career in the holos Caradwalden?” Sour asked, which nonsequitor was so sudden that even Kayden was momentarily at a loss for words.
“Sir?” he asked in genuine perplexity. Sour produced a pict slate and turned it to face the pair. On it Sel could see footage of Kayden catching the prometheum bomb in one hand, then lobbing it back into the window. The view, which appeared to be from the other side of the street, showed a much better view of the resulting fireball, even highlighting three bodies behind the inferno in the moment their bodies were engulfed. If there was audio it was turned off, but a banner along the bottom of the screen read: “Lord Lieutenant Caradwalden single handedly defeats assassins.”
Nobody spoke for a long moment. A Lord Lieutenant was a rank at sector level, something someone in line to become governor might hold. A screw up like this, if it caught on, might well lead Kayden personally and the regiment generally into extremely dangerous waters. Clearly the vid had come from local newscasters, probably paparazzi who had followed Kayden from his dinner party.
“Hey!” Sel interjected without thinking about it, “he wasn’t single handed!”
“Seldon,” Sour said in the tone of a man wearier than words could describe. “Kindly keep your mouth shut for the remainder of this interview.” Sel opened her mouth to say Sir, then hastily closed it and nodded.
“This is already all over the city and by nightfall you will be a Throne damned local celebrity, which I’m sure to a glory hunter like you, does not seem like a problem,” Sour continued.
“Sir..” Kayden protested, but the Major was in no mood and he continued talking over the top of his subordinate.
“Which means, every damn insurgent in the city is going to want to blow whatever you have out of your head, and worse people standing beside you are likely to get it in the neck as well,” Sour grumbled. He softened slightly, as though embarrassed by his own vehemence.
“What we need is to get you out of here for a few days while things get settled down… fortunately a local noblewoman, one Baroness..." he paused to actually consult his papers before continuing. "Baroness Arsenault has asked for an Imperial Guard assessment of her estate and her household troops…”
and for me also.
Do i improve my pool if I use deadly to get a new skill?
Do i improve my pool if I use deadly to get a new skill?
Snatch and grab
Deadly
On the trail
Stacey Weathers
Lix
Arlox
Deadly
On the trail
Stacey Weathers
Lix
Arlox
"Well... dosen't take a genius to figure this one out," Calliope said, and picked up an ancient spear that lay discarded in some ancient adventurers haste to get to the chests. She thrust the point of the spear underneath a chest and heaved. The ancient stave flexed but with a heave she overturned the chest. Gold and jewels poured out in a clinking landslide that was immediately lost by the detonation of some unseen force. One of the skeletons exploded into powder and the others were blown in all directions in a shower of disarticulated bones.
"Sorcery," Bahadir muttered darkly. Calliope whose own nascent abilities in that area had never really been developed chuckled and wedged the point of her spear under another chest.
"If you use magic to create a sword," she grunted as she overturned another chest, provoking a sything that left a ripple in the air at about the height of the decapitated skeletons. "It is still just a sword."
"What if the gold is cursed?" Bahadir asked as Calliope upended a third chest, this time creating a great inrushing vortex of dust that boomed like thunder. Calliope tossed the spear to the ground and knelt to begin gathering gold and gems.
"Well we are currently buried alive in the tomb of some ancient evildoer," she replied, the gold parted to reveal a large sapphire which Calliope easily seized. To her surprise it actually formed the pommel of a long slightly curved sword. She marveled at its fine quality and made a couple of experimental cuts in the air.
"How much worse is a curse likely to make things?"
"Sorcery," Bahadir muttered darkly. Calliope whose own nascent abilities in that area had never really been developed chuckled and wedged the point of her spear under another chest.
"If you use magic to create a sword," she grunted as she overturned another chest, provoking a sything that left a ripple in the air at about the height of the decapitated skeletons. "It is still just a sword."
"What if the gold is cursed?" Bahadir asked as Calliope upended a third chest, this time creating a great inrushing vortex of dust that boomed like thunder. Calliope tossed the spear to the ground and knelt to begin gathering gold and gems.
"Well we are currently buried alive in the tomb of some ancient evildoer," she replied, the gold parted to reveal a large sapphire which Calliope easily seized. To her surprise it actually formed the pommel of a long slightly curved sword. She marveled at its fine quality and made a couple of experimental cuts in the air.
"How much worse is a curse likely to make things?"
The gate swung inward to reveal about a dozen nervous looking men. They were a piratical looking bunch, armed with reaping hooks, spears, axes and a few ancient looking swords. Some wore chainmail or heavy tunics of leather and all carried shields of woven wicker. They weren’t professional soldiers, or even guardsmen, just nervous villagers armed with whatever weapons and armor had been passed down. The wall itself was mortared sandstone polishes smooth as much by blowing sand as human effort. It was rarely higher than ten feet, designed to discourage bandits rather than fend off a real army. The gates themselves were teak panels bound with ancient verdigris bronze hinges. The wood must have cost a fortune in this desert, but the town's founders had no doubt found it cheaper to buy gates than to rebuild the village after a raid, not to mention easier than sewing their heads back on.
“Who is you strangers?” an older man in a dark grey caftan with a white turban asked. In contrast to the nervous men around him, his voice was steady and worn smooth by the companionship of a hashish pipe. He had a staff of some pale timber in his hand, it was gnarled and twisted in a way so intriguing that made Jocasta wish she could see the tree which had produced it.
“Who are any of us?” Jocasta replied airly, adjusting her idiom to match the stranger.
“A strange hour for a philosopher to appear,” the man replied with a chuckle that made his companions shift nervously.
“Do you have names? Where do you come from on so ill omened a night?” he asked. There was a weird cry out in the desert, something like a hyena’s laugh but low enough that it made Jocasta’s guts twist. She glanced nervously over her shoulder at the dunes but there was nothing there.
“I’m Jocasta and this is Beren,” she said hastily, “as for where we come from it is a long story.” She held her hands palm up to forestall the objections growled by a half dozen of the militia men.
“Which I am happy to tell as soon as I am inside and not worried about some eldritch horror ripping me apart while I give an extended travelogue,” she hastily added. The man in the robe snorted and came forward. He was old, his face the color of polished walnut wood and line with wisdom, a white beard framed his face though he bore no mustache. He reached out and laid a hand on Beren’s chest and closed his eyes. If he worked a spell Jocasta couldn’t tell but when he pulled his hand away he nodded.
“This one means us no harm,” he announced, the words smoothing out in Jocasta’s mind as she sorted out the stresses and colloquialism.
“Whether they will bring us harm is too soon to say, but I share the young ladies desire to remain in a single piece.” He twitched his head to the side and the militia lowered their weapons, springing to close the gate almost before Jocasta and Beren had cleared it. The weird chuckling echoed from the dunes again as the timbers boomed shut.
Dikmar was a small but prosperous settlement. It’s wealth was derived from the oasis that sat at its center. It would normally have been picturesque but tonight the still water reflected the face of the moon unpleasantly. A fringed of date palms ringed it in green and sandstone lined channels carried water outwards like spines, bringing water to extensive gardens that opened off the back of low sandstone houses with flat roofs. A large caravansery suggested that it was a stopping point for caravans, from which it doubtlessly drew most of its modest wealth. Water was worth more than gold in a place like this, and the meanest caravan master would pay well for a chance to water thirsty camels. The villagers would take that largess, but also gather up the dung of the camels to fertilize their gardens and produce fresh fruits and vegetables that they would sell to the caravans at another premium. There was nothing of monumental architecture, though a few larger stone buildings bore obvious signs of trades, a blacksmith, a glass blower, a brewery and a few others besides. The grandest building was a small inn marked with a crescent moon. It was doing a brisk business tonight, thronged with nervous villagers. Women in loose shifts carried handsome amphorae of wine with which they filled glasses and mugs in exchange for a few coins.
“I am Fazel,” the old man announced as he led them to a table, “I’m an old fool, but these young fools insist on asking my opinion.” He waved his hands at a few of the militia men who had followed them in a shooing motion.
“Now how about you tell me that story?”
“Alright but I’m going to need wine,” Jocasta replied.
“By the White God that is a tale,” Fazel admitted when Jocasta wound down her account, glossing somewhat over the fact that she had read the incantation that seemed to have set all this in motion.
“I fear that your presence in the pyramid, no matter how unintentional might have released the Black Pharaoh from his slumber,” Fazel said, taking a sip from a brass cup of wine a girl had set before him without asking for payment.
“Narturn?” Jocasta asked and the dozens of torches that lit the night gutted down to nothing. Fazel winced as though physically struck.
“Don’t..” Fazel began. “Say his name. Got it.” Jocasta finished. A nervous sigh went through the crowd as the torches flared back up to their original intensity.
“The legend says that in the ancient days this desert was ruled by great sorcerer Pharaohs, priests of the nameless gods which dwell beyond the edge of shadow. They forged kingdoms with fear and dark magic, harnessing even the djinn to build their vast cities. Of these fearsome kings the Black Pharaoh was the most terrible. The stories say that he turned the very sun and stars dark, and that his kingdom was perpetually in burning twilight,” Fazel said. Beren glanced up at the starless sky above them.
“Black stars,” he observed, and Fazel nodded solemnly.
“It is said that he cast the very demons of the blasted hells into thrall, and that his rule was enforced by things more terrible than men,” Fazel continued. Jocasta remembered the weird hyena-like cry.
“But he was defeated?” Beren suggested, ever willing to look for a way to confront evil.
“The Black Pharaoh did something… the stories don't agree on what, something so monstrous that the other Pharaohs, who were his vassals, plotted against him, and rose up to overthrow him, sealing him in his own pyramid and calling the sand to bury it for all time,” Fazel said with a sigh.
“Not quite for all time,” Jocasta replied, sharing a glance with Beren.
“Who is you strangers?” an older man in a dark grey caftan with a white turban asked. In contrast to the nervous men around him, his voice was steady and worn smooth by the companionship of a hashish pipe. He had a staff of some pale timber in his hand, it was gnarled and twisted in a way so intriguing that made Jocasta wish she could see the tree which had produced it.
“Who are any of us?” Jocasta replied airly, adjusting her idiom to match the stranger.
“A strange hour for a philosopher to appear,” the man replied with a chuckle that made his companions shift nervously.
“Do you have names? Where do you come from on so ill omened a night?” he asked. There was a weird cry out in the desert, something like a hyena’s laugh but low enough that it made Jocasta’s guts twist. She glanced nervously over her shoulder at the dunes but there was nothing there.
“I’m Jocasta and this is Beren,” she said hastily, “as for where we come from it is a long story.” She held her hands palm up to forestall the objections growled by a half dozen of the militia men.
“Which I am happy to tell as soon as I am inside and not worried about some eldritch horror ripping me apart while I give an extended travelogue,” she hastily added. The man in the robe snorted and came forward. He was old, his face the color of polished walnut wood and line with wisdom, a white beard framed his face though he bore no mustache. He reached out and laid a hand on Beren’s chest and closed his eyes. If he worked a spell Jocasta couldn’t tell but when he pulled his hand away he nodded.
“This one means us no harm,” he announced, the words smoothing out in Jocasta’s mind as she sorted out the stresses and colloquialism.
“Whether they will bring us harm is too soon to say, but I share the young ladies desire to remain in a single piece.” He twitched his head to the side and the militia lowered their weapons, springing to close the gate almost before Jocasta and Beren had cleared it. The weird chuckling echoed from the dunes again as the timbers boomed shut.
Dikmar was a small but prosperous settlement. It’s wealth was derived from the oasis that sat at its center. It would normally have been picturesque but tonight the still water reflected the face of the moon unpleasantly. A fringed of date palms ringed it in green and sandstone lined channels carried water outwards like spines, bringing water to extensive gardens that opened off the back of low sandstone houses with flat roofs. A large caravansery suggested that it was a stopping point for caravans, from which it doubtlessly drew most of its modest wealth. Water was worth more than gold in a place like this, and the meanest caravan master would pay well for a chance to water thirsty camels. The villagers would take that largess, but also gather up the dung of the camels to fertilize their gardens and produce fresh fruits and vegetables that they would sell to the caravans at another premium. There was nothing of monumental architecture, though a few larger stone buildings bore obvious signs of trades, a blacksmith, a glass blower, a brewery and a few others besides. The grandest building was a small inn marked with a crescent moon. It was doing a brisk business tonight, thronged with nervous villagers. Women in loose shifts carried handsome amphorae of wine with which they filled glasses and mugs in exchange for a few coins.
“I am Fazel,” the old man announced as he led them to a table, “I’m an old fool, but these young fools insist on asking my opinion.” He waved his hands at a few of the militia men who had followed them in a shooing motion.
“Now how about you tell me that story?”
“Alright but I’m going to need wine,” Jocasta replied.
“By the White God that is a tale,” Fazel admitted when Jocasta wound down her account, glossing somewhat over the fact that she had read the incantation that seemed to have set all this in motion.
“I fear that your presence in the pyramid, no matter how unintentional might have released the Black Pharaoh from his slumber,” Fazel said, taking a sip from a brass cup of wine a girl had set before him without asking for payment.
“Narturn?” Jocasta asked and the dozens of torches that lit the night gutted down to nothing. Fazel winced as though physically struck.
“Don’t..” Fazel began. “Say his name. Got it.” Jocasta finished. A nervous sigh went through the crowd as the torches flared back up to their original intensity.
“The legend says that in the ancient days this desert was ruled by great sorcerer Pharaohs, priests of the nameless gods which dwell beyond the edge of shadow. They forged kingdoms with fear and dark magic, harnessing even the djinn to build their vast cities. Of these fearsome kings the Black Pharaoh was the most terrible. The stories say that he turned the very sun and stars dark, and that his kingdom was perpetually in burning twilight,” Fazel said. Beren glanced up at the starless sky above them.
“Black stars,” he observed, and Fazel nodded solemnly.
“It is said that he cast the very demons of the blasted hells into thrall, and that his rule was enforced by things more terrible than men,” Fazel continued. Jocasta remembered the weird hyena-like cry.
“But he was defeated?” Beren suggested, ever willing to look for a way to confront evil.
“The Black Pharaoh did something… the stories don't agree on what, something so monstrous that the other Pharaohs, who were his vassals, plotted against him, and rose up to overthrow him, sealing him in his own pyramid and calling the sand to bury it for all time,” Fazel said with a sigh.
“Not quite for all time,” Jocasta replied, sharing a glance with Beren.
@Penny just picturing Molly making this face at the helm
This was exactly the inspo for this image!
I'm going to go for:
Engines
Comms
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