Penny

WoT: The Dark One's Own Luck.

The Wheel of Time turns, and ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legends fade to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long passed, a wind rose in the rocky hills of the World’s End. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings in the Wheel of Time. But it was A beginning.



The wind gusted down from the hills, redolent with the salt of the Dead Sea. It swept down over the great plains, passing prosperous towns and the isolated pockets of tithe forests. It swirled across the faubourg, past taverns, mills and the shops of small craftsmen. It soared over the ancient walls of Barsine, fluting through the golden spires that reflected the afternoon sun like aurite mirrors.



The wind fluttered the leaves from the cherry trees in the courtyard of the Library of Kelcis, ruffling the pages of a book being read by a woman on a stone bench. Lysabel Paeron, Aes Sedai of the White Ajah for less than a year, regarded the tome on celestial navigation carefully. It was strange to be outside of Tar Valon for the first time in most of a decade, almost as strange as the Oaths that still clung to her skin like a dress that should have been put aside a season ago. The older Sisters told her that the feeling passed with time and experience. Lysabel had been in Barsine for nearly three months as a guest of Lord Protector Malwin. Malwin’s son was in the early stages of outfitting an expedition to sail west beyond the seas explored by the Athan’mire. Lysabel had written to the prince when she had heard of the venture, describing what she thought the land masses south and west might be, based on analysis of maps from before the Breaking and the comparison with modern charts, such as they were. As a result she had been invited to come to Barsine to aid in the preparation, mostly by translating and updating what little literature survived that discussed navigation. Prince Kefin had been on the verge of asking her to join him in his endeavor, but she had forestalled him. The First Light probably wouldn’t approve of her sailing off the edge of the world, and she wanted to be able to claim she hadn’t been invited. That wasn’t the same as saying you weren't going after all. The ships were being built in the port cities along the coast. Kefin had taken her to see them. The craftsmen of Jaramide had out done themselves, they were great rakers in the Sea Folk tradition, but larger and three masted, built heavy for the deep sea. Lysabel herself had aided in fusing in place the copper plating on their hulls and talked with the ship masters over sail configuration and lading. Initially the craftsmen had been skeptical of a woman, and an Aes Sedai at that giving advice, but she had been born on the shores of the Arryth, down south on the Shadow Coast and was no stranger to the sea or seafaring. The fact she was excited to learn had taken her along way, that and the fact she was a pretty young woman always willing to buy a nice meal while discussing keel design and windage requirements.



The idea of the upcoming adventure tantalized her. There was so much yet to be discovered, or yet to be rediscovered. What relics of the Age of Legend might she recover? She had even given some thought to how she might use Saidar to see what lay beneath the ocean, though her drawings and sketches on the matter were a long way from being fleshed out. There would be time yet, as they couldn’t sail before the middle of spring with any hope of success. That meant perhaps another six months of study and preparation, a time that seemed at once too short and too long.



“Aes Sedai,” a man said in a tone that suggested this was not the first time he had said it. Lysabel looked up to see one of the Library Custodians standing before her with a frown. He was dressed in the emerald green coat of his office and had the heavy gold chased baton at his waist. These days the batons were ceremonial but in more turbulent times the Custodians had been expected to use them to defend the precious knowledge within their walls from mobs and looters.



“Yes…. Ynald is it?” she asked pulling his name for a brief introduction months in the past. A memory for faces and facts was a trait her White Ajah mentors had approved off. The Custodian seemed a little taken aback that she knew his name. Some of the officiousness went out of his eyes.

“Ah… Ynild Aes Sedai,” he replied, correcting her pronunciation slightly. Lysabel looked down at her book, noticed a leaf had blown in between the pages and brushed it away. She dearly wanted to return to her reading but the quickest way to deal with this interruption was to see what the man wanted. No Custodian would trouble an Aes Sedai without cause, no matter how many irritated looks they shot each other when they thought she wasn’t looking.



“What is it Ynild,” she prompted, feeling the flash of irritation at having been made to ask. The White Ajah valued logic and control above all things but that didn’t mean its Sisters lacked emotion. Lysabel was proof of the opposite, she valued the discipline because it helped her not to switch at a man simply because he interrupted her reading and then made her prompt him.



“There is a man who wants to see you,” he informed her. Lysabel repressed the urge to strike the man. Was it too much to ask for a prompt and succinct report. Who was this man? What did he want? From whom had he come? Why are you wasting my time by reporting it to me in the smallest increments possible?



“Is this all the information you have on this person? His gender and his desire to see me?” Lysabel asked. By the flinch she got from Ynild she hadn’t been quite as successful at keeping the chill from her voice as she had hoped.



“Uhhh… he says he needs to see an Aes Sedai. Should I send him away?” the Custodian’s words tumbled over each other in what was becoming a panic.



“Bring him too me, it seems easier than dragging every detail of the matter out of you,” she said, closing her book in irritation.



“But Aes Sedai, he dosen’t have an introduction I cant just bring him within the walls and…”

“Bring. Him. To. Me.” Lysabel enunciated with the exaggerated precision one uses when addressing a child, and the coolness one uses when a dinner guest has thrown up on ones shoes. The Custodian reeled back as though struck.

“At once Aes Sedai!”

@POOHEAD189

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

"Lieutenant is it?" I asked, giving him a searching look which obviously categorized both his undress and his 'attention' posture. "I should have worn something with epaulets." Without responding to his question I took a seat at the table in the center of the room and poured two glasses of amasec from the sideboard. There was a regicide game set up on the table and I picked up a piece and turned it over in my hand while he dressed. A social visit sounded a little formal to my mind but I reminded myself that I had just roused him from bed for no good reason. Maybe the first decent sleep he had had given how much was on his plate right at the moment.

"I don't know if I'd call it a social visit exactly..." I began, setting the piece down with a musical clack sound.

"This is really the only thing that I own that ... well that doesn't feel like a costume." That didn't make a tremendous amount of sense given that this dress literally was a costume but I felt some that because we had shared a real moment while I was wearing it, that it had become something more than a prop for deceptions. Clearly I was getting fuzzy being mixed up with the high and mighty.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

I had found myself with little to do in the days after our escape from the manor. Hadrian was absorbed in the the more administrative aspects of his role which frankly was a little intimidating. It was one thing to know in the abstract that an Inquisitior had unlimited authority, it was another to watch one snap his fingers and have a trio of warships and a small army put at his disposal. Unfortunately the fact that I was officially a Throne Agent (Emperor Preserve Me) did not have the effect of causing the locals to leave me alone. Quite the oppisite in fact. Every lord, lady and officer seemed to feel I was a viable back channel to the Ordos, and that I would be in someway interested in exerting such imagined influence on their behalf. I resisted the temptation to tell them to frak off, figuring that the information might be useful to Hadrian. Mostly I figured it was the kind of minor malfeasance that was present in many Imperial houses, simple cases of guilty concionces looking for assurances before the proverbial wrath of Maccharius decended on them. They were probably right to be worried. Hadrian was focused on the Danubis angle but when I brought him my reports at dinner each night he took them gladly. I got the impression that several junior members of the Ordos, Interogators he called them, were being dispatched to supervise a planet wide audit.

The remainder of the time I spent in study. Lazarus reluctantly agreed to go over what information he had on these so called Necrons. It wasn't much to go on, mostly rumors and conjecture. It was a little disconcerting that information was so sparse. It was even more disconcerting that Lazarus believed this was because most people who encountered them didn't survive to file a report with the Administratum.

________________________________________________________________

First day of the trip

It wasn't until the first day aboard ship that I finally had a moment to myself. It seemed that the fever pitch of prepation was, if not over, at least suspended until we made Danubis orbit. I woke from pleasant dreams and lay in bed for long minutes thinking over everything that had happened to me. I rose and bathed, taking my brush and brushing my hair out until it gleamed. I wondered if I should cut it. It hardly fitted the mental image I had of an Inquisitorial agent, but maybe that was a good thing. There was still so much I didn't know about what I was supposed to do, what was expected of me. I let out a sigh having given myself a rationale for what I wanted to do anyway. Talk to Hadrian. I dressed carefully, relieved to find that the back dress I had worn to the ball. I put on the boots too but drew the line at actually wearing jewelerly. Well I almost drew the line, I did add a saphire choker that had been given to me as.... well a bribe wouldn't be too strong a word, but it looked nice and it wasn't as though I had actually done any favors.

It felt extremely strange to be traversing the utilitarian corridors of the ship in a ball grown. A few of the crew saw me but other than wide eyed lookd no one commented on it. They seemed to be somewhat in awe of me. The dance on the table had helped of course, but it seemed that some version of what had happened at the Ignatius estate had filtered through the crew. I imagine that it had probably formed the basis of a fantastic boast over the drinking horns. I wonder if I was a heroine or a damsel in distress in the story, but it hardly mattered. I reached Hadrian's door and knocked hearing his voice bidding me to enter I pressed the touchplate and the panel swung open I stepped inside to find him climbing out of bed. He froze when he saw me, eyes suddenly very wide.

"What?" I asked in confusion.

The Sunday Group

WHy dont you go ahead and include a major clue then :)

The Sunday Group

@Fetzen Have you given a major clue yet?

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

It took a surprisingly short time for the hub hub to die down. I hid in the back of one of the speeders, hoping that they might think that I was dead. It would, I hoped, be hard to verify who the driver of the flier had been, so badly had the wreck burned. For a long while I didn’t know what to do. It had just been graphically demonstrated to me that attempting to fly out was not a viable option. I knew that I couldn’t just abandon Hadrian, but that knowledge didn’t furnish me with any actionable plan. I lay back against the upholstery and tried to think but nothing concrete came to me. I was still thinking when four of the guards left the hangar. By their excited chatter I could tell it wasn’t just a change of shift. I followed them, staying in ear shot of their excited chatter. I heard something about sport but nothing I could make out. We moved back to the main house and into another wing, me skulking along behind hoping they lead me somewhere useful.

I heard it before we got there. Take it from me that the sound of a blood thristy mob cheering for death has a unique timbre to it. The guards went into the auditorium and closed the door behind them. I wasn’t sure I could safely follow. Simply walking through the door seemed like a recipe for disaster. I edged up to it anyway and peered through the narrow gap between the door and the jam. I swore at the narrow slit of vision I was granted. Fortunately all eyes were on the spectacle below so I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, slipping inside and taking a seat beside a couple of servants. They didn’t even glance at her. Hadrian was in the pit below, circling with a… well it looked like a man, but it was too thin and too tall. It seemed like its features should be handsome, beyond beautiful, but somehow it managed to be repellant. Like a sculpture made of pieces by a half dozen master artists whose pieces didn’t quite add up. It was unnaturally fast, a fluid blurr that lunged across at Hadrian. He managed to dodge aside and took a swipe at the thing but it was already out of reach. It was clearly playing with the Inquisitor, much to the crowds delight. Emmaline noticed that it wore manacles at its wrists and ankles. Was this creature a prisoner here too? That hardly made it an ally, but it was clear that if she didn’t do something soon Hadrian would be dead. She did the only thing she could. She reached out with her psy and snared the minds of four of the servants. It was easy. There was so much hate and bloodlust in the air. They all screamed in rage and leaped into the pit, landing awkwardly on the arena floor. The creature turned and casually shattered the throat of the nearest servant, dropping the man to the floor as blood sprayed from his face. I saw heads turn to regard me from the seats of honor. Someone up there had noticed what I had done.

“Frak,” I said and grabbed the pistol from the holster of a guard who was cheering hoarsely. I pointed it at him and pulled the trigger. The gun roared and he staggered backwards, clutching his chest. I turned and fired more or less randomly in the direction of the booth. I reached out again and whipped the nearby crowd into a frenzy. One woman leaped on another and sank her teeth into her neck. A guard casually stove in the head of another man with the but of his rifle. Chaos erupted.

The Sunday Group

Quick post to move us along. Eleanor calls Primrose and fills everyone in on the unkillable magic zombies. We can RP it out if there is info you want or if you have questions, but my intent is just to get everyone the info.

The Sunday Group

Eleanor slowed and pulled over onto the side of the road, leaning forward to lean her forehead on the steering wheel. She smelled of gasoline, cordite and the sharp burnt spice scent of thaumaturgic overload. The suit she was wearing was stained and burned through in several places, though she had managed to snuff out the flames before it had burned her skin. The kept her head down for several minutes, running through a series of meditations to recenter herself. The phone began to play Hips Don’t Lie and she snatched it up.

“Well if it isn’t Atillia von Bismark,” Eleanor answered waspishly. Emmaline let out a sigh of relief that stole some of Eleanor’s pique.

“You're alive, thank the Dark Moon,” Emmaline breathed, “I heard the spring jangling.”



“It worked out, Mal blew up a gas station,” Eleanor replied.

“That doesn't sound like something you should put after ‘it worked out’ Eleanor,” Emmaline pointed out.



“Are we disentangled yet?” Eleanor asked, pulling open Nacho on her phone. The mathematical construct looked to be wound down to something like a normal level.

“O.2 millisterns and dropping,” Emmaline confirmed. The app blinked a notification ‘EvM has ended the spell’ followed by the digits 22 minutes 5 seconds. There was a subtle relaxation in the fabric of reality as Eleanor’s luck returned to the hands of random chance.



“You need to get going,” Emmaline said at the exact moment Eleanor said “I need to get moving.” They shared a laugh which bled some of the tension away.

“Call me if you need me Liben,” Emmaline said and hung up the phone. Eleanor stared at the steering wheel for a few moments and then pulled off her torn and burned jacket, tossing it into the back.



“Hecate, call primrose,” Eleanor said as she pulled back onto the road and turned back towards the gas station. It was getting time to figure out exactly what in the nine hells was going on.

A Thousand Legends ~ Sundered Veil

It was entirely possible that there were more people in the square than Zolzaya had seen in her entire life. Her mind rebelled against the notion that even this green soft land could possibly support so many. How could straw hatted peasants grubbing in muddy fields feed this multitude? Where were their herds? So many beasts would surely blacken the sun with the dust of their passage. She sniffed at the air, tasting the bite of blackpowder, the sweet smell of frying rice, and the overwhelming sour stink of unwashed bodies and sweat. Zaya hated it. She wanted to smell the clean crisp of the coming winter on the steppe, wanted to feel the bite of the winds and the pound of hooves on the tundra. A trio of soldiers shoved their way through the crowd, weapons sheathed and faces bright with drunken merriment. They looked soft. One day, when the tribes were united, they would sweep down from the north and crush these weaklings beneath their hooves. Then her people would get fat on rice and drunk on cheap wine, their children would live to grow into pump merchants and their noses grow sharp for want of the steppe wind.


Zaya’s hand snapped down and caught the wrist of a child of perhaps ten years old in a grip like a wire snare. He let out a gasp of pain, his fingers a few inches from the leather purse that held her few coins. She stared down at him for a moment and saw tears start in his eyes. She shoved him back into the crowd and continued on, gripping the bridle of her mare in her free hand. The warhorse snuffled at the unfamiliar scents, flaring its nostrils as its hooves clattered across the flagstone. This place was as alien to Khiimori as it was to her, though admittedly the horse seemed to be handling it somewhat better than she was. The bulk of the horse made passage for her through the crowd, the clatter of hooves effective where hard looks from a small tough looking woman was not. She pressed her hand against the breast of her leather armor, feeling the wax sealed parchment concealed beneath it. She had assumed that she would simply march in and hand the summons, addressed to the ‘Chief of Chiefs’ to someone and they would take her to their Emperor. ‘Chief of Chiefs’ wasn’t the proper word, but these southerners did so love the formulas they dreamed up. Zaya supposed they were lucky that the wisewoman had the magic of reading. There was no way she was going to get near the palace tonight.


More fire blossomed in the sky above her and Khiimori flicked her ears in irritation. They pushed through the crowd and onto a long street lined on both sides with stalls covered with awnings of colorfully painted canvas. Smoke and the smell of hot oil and frying noodles filled the air as the cooks cried their wares, handing out food in little bowls of woven green leaves that did something to arrest the dripping grease. Meat seemed scarce save for a few vendors who were grilling what might or might not have been beef on long skewers, pausing occasionally to baste it in a thick sauce that smelled like peanuts and burnt sugar. Her stomach rumbled and she paused to exchange a few coppers for a bowl of rice and fried vegetables. Zaya ate with her fingers, disdaining the bamboo sticks that the southerns seemed to favor as useless frippery. Maybe she should find a…. What was the word? An inn? And wait till morning. Perhaps that would be best.

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

Jocasta felt the explosive go off in the elevator through her stomach, the vibration seeming to purge the last of the liquor from her system. Dirk burst out of the stairwell blaster bolts cutting across the gymnasium with surgical precision. Two of her drones were sharing their feed with Dirk’s helmet, a gesture of trust somewhat minimized by the must unbelievably baroque encryption he was using. The drones were able to throw up holographic overlays of hostiles among the crowd, a feature Jocasta was also using. She waited until all of the thugs scattered for cover, firing at Dirk. Then she pulled open the roof hatch of the elevator and dropped down into the open smokey doors. A thug who had just ducked into cover stared in amazement as a voluptuous woman in a bikini dropped from the ceiling and landed beside him.

“Hello,” Jocasta said brightly, then jammed the slender barrel of her pistol into the joint between his breastplate and his greaves and pulled the trigger. The mercenary arched backwards, throwing his weapon skyward as every nerve in his body fired simultaneously, the contraction pitching him into the back wall with a crack. Jocasta was a little embarrassed. She was on vacation sure, but this was the second time she was going into combat dressed as lazer stripper, she needed to pack a little more practically. She stepped out of the elevator and fired twice more. The bluish sizzling rays from her pistol struck another two of the hijackers who found themselves suddenly out flanked. Two gunmen who had been herding the hostaged turned towards Jocasta, one of them lifting a heavy riot gun that looked like it could fell a Takovian waterbeast. A blade of arcing energy erupted through his chest and then vanished leaving a cloud of smoking blood. His partner tried to spin around only to find his head was suddenly separated from his body and bouncing across the floor. An old man stood behind them with a glowing force sword that had apparently been concealed in a walking stick. He reached up and adjusted an old timey pair of spectacles.

“That was pretty bad ass,” Jocasta admitted to no one in particular.

“Like wise my dear,” the old man said, raising the sword in salute and then depressing a stud. The blade winked out and it was a simple walking stick again. The gymnasium was in chaos, but all the enemy were marked as down. The icons for those killed by Dirk had a little D above them but upside down so it looked like a frowning face. Jocasta’s kills were marked with little anthropomorphised dragonflies with their fists raised triumphantly in the air. Irritatingly he had more, although the computer was querying her as to how to allocate the two that the old man had killed. Jocasta assigned them to herself, it was her system and she should get the credit!

“Clear,” Dirk remarked as he strode through the carnage, calmly replacing the powerpack in his weapon.

“Clear,” Jocasta said somewhat belatedly, too used to trusting her drones to have thought of announcing the fact.

“Clear,” said the old man, apparently just happy to be included. Fine, Jocasta thought, and changed the icons above his kills to a pair of spectacles winking.

“If everyone will remain calm the situation is under control, if you are injured remain where you are, otherwise please return to your rooms,” Amber’s voice sounded over a concealed PA system. No one moved for a minute. Jocasta turned and picked up a half burned ‘out of order' sign and hung it helpfully on the smoking blasted doors of the elevator.