Tatterdemalion

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman, Jackdaw!

The word is flotsam.

The waters are so still that if you squint, you can almost trick yourself into thinking that there’s nothing but a glass plain between you and the Tyrian Spire. Flies the size of pocket-watches hover here and there, and the shores of the Flood here are choked with rusted, mildewed junk, caught in nets of thin wire and thick linen ropes. Not that any of those are yours for the taking: the nets and everything dredged up from the Flood belongs to the salvage-caravan of Beasts here. All around you, their wagons and tents squat, decorated with iron charms and net-charms and icons of the Flood made from glass and her waters; if you want supplies, you’ll either have to deal with them or go well out of your way to dredge something up from the Flood yourself — and she’s less likely to let you get away with all your fingers.

This is a problem, because Sasha needs Floodproofing. It’s either figure out a way to get the egg across without being lost underneath her placid waters, or pull up stakes and take your chances with the Houses of Parliament, which is a much more perilous route.

***

Ailee, Lucien!

As soon as you step into the cramped wagon, the door low enough to make Lucien duck underneath, all eyes turn to you. The locals are somewhat piscine in appearance; their eyes are large and pale, their whiskers droop in a manner reminiscent of catfish, and their fur is slick and dark, sticking close to their bodies. The smell suggests the drinks here are stale and watery, but only a fool turns down a chance to refill their canteens in the Heart.

Then a small, slavering thing the size of a terrier bursts out from behind a stack of crates and propels itself at high speed, all four paws tucked into its body as it leaps, shooting like a cannonball right at Ailee’s torso. This thing is a missile of pure bloody-minded intent, emphasis on bloody.

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea!

FINALE: The Wedding!

Princesses!

The Pear isn't as cutting-edge as Eska's airship, but it's luxurious and equipped with everything you might need to save Hyperborea. Outside of the golden portholes, snow swirls.

It hasn't stopped snowing in the past day. Not since you woke up after the best sleepover in the history of sleepovers, and saw heavy, dark clouds blotting out the sky, and snowdrifts being cleared away by giddy denizens of the Bazaar, who saw it as money falling out of the sky. Maybe they'd change their mind if it never stopped. But it's going to stop. That's what you're here to do.

Even from this distance, you can see the dark veins of exposed crystal heartwood in Argossa. Oberon has done something to the very heart of the world, and Ourania... hasn't stopped him. That means you have to assume the worst. And you have to hit him hard and fast before he can... you have to assume the wards are down. Probably. It's going to be a very short flight if they're still up.

The CREW ROSTER of the Pear includes:

• CAPTAIN Adila II
• FIRST MATE Kazelia Swiftlance
• CHIEF ENGINEER Hornet
• COOK Dandelion
• CHIEF RATTER Rita von Catabas
• QUARTERMASTER Kyouko
• CHIEF OF O-PEAR-ATIONS Alina Cascade, Who Did Not Pick The Name
• SHIP'S SORCERESS Azora Howl
• CHIEF OF SECURITY Jessamine Cascade

What preparations are you all making during the last estimated hour of approach?

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Adila!

When you come back to the House of Hospitality, the world is vivid all around you. The soft sigh of the wind, the rustling of the leaves in the courtyard, the washed-out colors under the moonlight... some moments you know you're going to remember for the rest of your life. There are thin places where your timestream touches your heart, where past and future meet and there is only an eternal moment you can come back to, over and over again.

Some of them are terrible, like the moment you choked on Oberon's hands as his cold fingers clenched around your heart. But more are like this moment, in which all things are impressing themselves upon you, important in their existence. So much is just waves on the shore, broken and washed away, but moments like these are stable. Maybe one day you will be in the midst of something completely different, something you could never imagine right now, but in that moment you will blink and then suddenly be here again, hearing the sound of delighted laughter.

You wander closer to it, returning to your gangly teens: an age for laughter and showing off and being included. Alina's high, clear laugh, like the peal of a bell, sneaks out underneath the door. Then you hear Kyouko's snooty laugh, likely with a hand held close to her mouth, and a low, sultry chuckle you don't recognize. The desire to be included burns brightly in your young heart, and you knock on the door.

It's only a moment before it's swung open wide by Kazelia's magic. There, on the floor, on scattered cushions, sit a bunch of princesses in varying levels of distress, with a pack of Askaian Tarot sitting dead in the center. They're playing Peril Poker, the game of dares and bluffs and scarves, which you have never ever ever been good at. But there's something about tonight...

"Hey," Rita chirps. She's lying on the bed, head dangling off the foot, next to Alina, who's wearing the cutest little Askaian outfit (with floral embroidery, and pompoms on her skirt, and cat-ear stockings!). Then she actually gets a look at you. Everyone sits up a little straighter as you enter the room, large but fitting perfectly, and take a seat next to Kazelia.

+Deal me in.+

***

Prince Cassian!

This really should have been Azora's job. The rank unfairness of it all is worrying at you like a small and very disagreeable puppy. The Amulet of Sarcosis lying on your chest is a dull, aching weight, and you just know you're going to have a monstrous headache at the end of all this. But it's necessary for Father to have his army. His last army. It's just you, him, and a bunch of rancid magical sea crabs, here at the end of everything.

This wasn't the plan. This wasn't the plan at all. Azora was supposed to come back with the magical doohickey, deliver it to Father, and then he would march into Argossa through a magical portal and an army of Riders at his back, to deliver his proposal to the High Queen more forcefully. But everything kept getting pared away from that plan, the army and the portal and the flower decorations, and now you're stuck on the Folding Ship of Frossa with a whimpering witch tied to the mast and your Father's entire arsenal hidden below decks, and an entire armada of hideous black crab shells swimming after you.

Father sniffs the air, and then twitches a finger. The ship comes to a dead stop. +Stop, you idiots,+ you growl out to the Garthim, and as one they fall still, bobbing in the waves like awful jetsam. You examine your nails, leaning against the railing, while Father begins dragging magic out of the screaming witch. Ugh. She's loud. Why didn't he use one of those gags that are so dreadfully common here? Probably because it's more fun this way, but he's not the one with a leaden weight on his chest and a direct line to a bunch of braindead constructs, now is he?

Ahead of the ship, wards begin bursting apart like fireworks, and the ship lurches forward. +Follow!+ No sooner do you give the order than an arrow made entirely of light hisses past your face, lodging in a bulkhead as you squeal and drop to the deck. +PROTECT ME!+

Garthim surge forwards onto the jetty-- is it a jetty? A dock? The place where the boat stops. But that just gives you feedback bursting through your skull as they begin to be blasted apart by the half-dozens. Father can you please do something about that? On cue, he raises a knife to the witch's throat. "Ourania, my dearest," he says, over your dignified groans. "Drop your silly weapons. That's no way to greet your future husband." His voice becomes harsher, and you flinch on instinct. "Do it before I lose patience."

You don't even register the clatter of metal on the dock until Father nudges you with his boot. You get one nudge, and so you gather your rattled wits. +Seize her!+ Garthim claws close around her, and it's almost like holding her yourself. You get a sense of... not exhaustion. Someone recovering from a cold, maybe, and still tired and dizzy. But it's enough to hold her.

Father smiles, and that's your cue to poke your head up and provide a backup smile at the haughty, arrogant woman. Her jaw's set so defiantly, even surrounded by those stupid stinking crabs, and if anyone else but your Father was standing against her... well, maybe you'd be a little scared. But who cares? You've won! "Now. Let's discuss the wedding arrangements, love."

Masks: Resurrection Roundabout

POTENTIAL 2

"Locker," Sara says, intense. "I need to hear your Comstar. I have never needed anything more in my whole life." This is a lie, obviously, but what's a little hyperbole between friends? "Let me hear the Commy or I'm calling Angel again with directions for exactly how to come pick you up. I need this."

She's grinning, much like a tiger that's learned that it can get fish by padding up to fishermen and asking politely while flexing its claws casually, and commenting on how isn't it such a nice day with nobody getting mauled?

Fellowship: The Heart

I’ve got a first post prepped for once we have a first draft of Bonds ready.

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Kazelia!

“Now, of course I don’t want to cause a diplomatic incident with the mighty and august Protectorate,” Rita says, so smug that you’re smothered in the purr she’s only barely suppressing. “So I’d be happy to let you and your ‘consort’ go with only a minor concession.” You feel the flustered shiver run through Kyouko from her tail to her head, and intuit the twitch twitch of her fuzzy ears. “So go ahead and admit that cats rule and foxes, in fact, drool.”

“Hrrrrmph,” Kyouko snoots through a mouthful of Rita’s crocheted socks. “Nffff!”

“Don’t they teach you e-heh-low-kyu-shun in the archipelago?” Rita says in her snootiest fox impression. “Speak clearly, your grace! Use your words, not your vixenish wiles!”

Kyouko’s fingers are intertwined with yours, her left hand holding your right, and she gives you an excited squeeze. You squeeze back. You can’t see Rita, being faced away from her, tied back to back with Kyouko, but the energy in the room is electric and exciting and... warm. Because everyone in the room knows that the silly rivalries are silly, that if feelings get hurt there’ll be honest apologies, and that you are safer here than you could possibly have imagined...

And that’s when the door opens.

***

Alina!

Your escape was daring and perilous, the two of you ducking into shadows and crawling past sentries, not to mention doing your best not to attract any attention between Shazari’s mansion (she has a mansion, and a Jedadi tent complex inside its courtyard) and the House of Hospitality.

Rhyza stole a hooded cloak for you, and kept one possessive hand on your shoulder as she guided you through the streets, softly rubbing you through the linen. Only that cloak stood between you and an undignified reveal! Luckily, it seemed like nobody was out on the streets tonight, but you were sure you’d just die of embarrassment if the wind blew the cloak back in the middle of the street.

But no. You clambered into the House of Hospitality using a side window, and crept over to Rita’s room. You’re not going to let your great-grandma see you like this, and borrowing some of your girlfriend’s clothes is much better. Besides, if Rita’s in, you could introduce her to Rhyza, maybe the three of you could hang out and play games tonight, like spin the bottle, or eating Konkon pocky, or “captives’ charades,” the game of muffled explanations...

The lights are on, and you hear Rita inside. Thank goodness! You open the door, dramatically throw back the cloak, and sigh with relief. Then you notice that Kazelia, Kyouko and Rita are all staring at you. Your girlfriend’s eyes are stuck on your top, and she is going as red as an apple, her tail bushing up and her eyes going as big as if she had just seen a mouse.

And that’s when Rhyza prods you forward. “Brought you another prisoner, your highness,” she says. “She’s an excellent dancer, and wonderful at... singing.”

R-Rhyza!!!

***

Adila!

“Once you break something, you can’t go back and unbreak it?” That, from a young goblin bravo, his hair styled upwards and his mustache expertly curled, wearing a suit best described as “pocketwatch chic.”

“Perhaps not,” the Clockmaster of the Golden Hour says, mildly. They’re one of the milder, more mainstream Igniters, the kind of Igniter who tries to help others find enlightenment too. “But you can use the moment of its wholeness inside you to turn the wheel and make it whole once more. You cannot erase the moment in which it shattered, but it may not be broken forever.”

The goblin rebuked, the Clockmaster turns back to you. Their hair is silver and glowing faintly in the moonlight, and the pale, luminous light of the clocks. “I am listening,” they say, softly. “Please share what you have seen.”

And with that invitation, you don’t just have their ear. Every Igniter in the plaza is paying attention to you, waiting to see if you make an insightful observation that they can meditate over for a fashionable period of time or an inane “baby’s first timepiece” commentary on impermanence. But the Clockmaster’s smile is gentle and inviting as they wait and listen.

Masks: Resurrection Roundabout

POTENTIAL 2

Sara bows back. She might be a badass, but the most badass thing of all is choosing to share in her friends’ weird little rituals. And... tbh, Locker’s one of the best dance partners she’s got.

“Step one is establishing an alibi. You’re going to need a bot that can cover for you in chat, and also some sort of weird depression hobby. That way, you’ve got someone who can cover for you by spamming typos, and you’ve got an excuse for hiding in your apartment. Second, we start laying hints that you’re Vault, but sloppily, like someone’s trying to shunt suspicion off onto you. Then, just to make sure the lowest common denominator gets it, you’ll get saved by Dominus as Vault. And while that’s happening, I’ll start spamming the butts match, using photoshop and arrows and curves to PROVE YES PROVE that you and Vault are the same.”

She catches the look he gives her and nods solemnly. She was, in fact, controversial and ultimately canceled fic writer S4R4STORM17. Victor can never, ever find out.

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Alina!

One strong and gentle hand runs down the back of your head. She’s so careful with you. That’s why you trust your Queen.

“I might just happen to have a beggar’s key here,” Rhyza says, and a small copper pin tumbles out of her sleeve: a lockpick, a scoundrel’s friend. “So what you will do, little princess,” she purrs, like a tiger sitting neatly before you, idly flexing her claws, “is make anyone passing by believe that I am doing my job of getting you ready for interrogation. Forget the guards at the flap: I need the cooks on the other end of camp to hear you holler as I punish you with feather and whip.”

She reaches up and starts working on the fiendishly clever locks, leaning forward so that her tunic parts ever so slightly at eye level to help inspire you. She’s asking you to toss all of your dignity out the window, so that she isn’t caught and chained up next to you. How much is your dignity worth, Alina?

***

Adila!

Ten, eleven, twelve.

Thirteen.

That is the lesson of the Dragon’s Clock, its method and its means. It was made for you by devils, perhaps not you in the specific, but for the dragon who would be standing here right now. Time and dragons and old stories, clocks and time woven from the hungry void at the beginning of everything, with this moment and this place as its anchoring point.

What came next? What did you do in the moments just beyond this one, this slivering, this fire-on-the-heart?

***

Kazelia!

The smoke bomb wakes you up, but you were ready when you saw that bright, startlingly vivid light suddenly upon you. Your heart knew what was happening before your head caught up.

There’s a fight going on in the room now, only perceptible through eddies of smoke and the startled squeaks from Rita as she tries to defend her territory and her captive from your invading ninja girlfriend. Kyouko is fast, well-armed, and has the element of surprise on her side— but if Rita manages to find her footing after the initial assault, she’s got a decent chance of turning the tables—

And there’s you, too. Traditionally, you’re “out” when you’re captured, not allowed to get involved in fights until you’re rescued, but have you learned that yet? And if you have, are you willing to use your magic to help one of the fighters in the smoke-choked hotel room?

Whether this coin lands (fuzzy) heads or (kitten) tails, whether it’s nudged one way or the other by your interference and magic, it’ll be settled by the time the smoke clears, and someone’s ending up back to back with you.

Fellowship: The Heart

What is the Heart? Assorted Theories, Summarized for the Beginning Student:

• The graveyard of failed cities. Whenever a city of a certain size dies completely, it sinks into the Heart, crushing everything beneath it into even more of a confused mess as it splinters and breaks apart. Because cities are alive, they are all trying to put themselves back together, but each one foils the attempts of the others, like crabs in a bucket. Delvers are vultures and dung beetles, stripping them down to their stony bones.
• It is a prison for dark gods, or the titans who made the gods, and delvers are either foolishly opening the door to let them free, one treasure at a time, or are stripping them of the tools they would use to break free, each stolen treasure sapping more of their power until they become weak and pitiful shadows. If it is not a prison, then it is all the dream of one of these gods, the true god, and woe betide those who awaken them and cause the Heart to fade away like a dream at dawn.
• The Heart is a marvelous world-creating engine from which all creation emanates. If anyone understood how to manipulate it, they would hold in their hands the controls of the world. Because delvers work at cross purposes and act without understanding, the world is a baffling, capricious series of ridiculous nonsense. But if you figured out the pattern, or sat in the Last Throne, or dethroned the Pattern Guardians foolish people think are deep gods, you could make it better. You could make it all better.
• The Heart is a nightmare labyrinth that, in hindsight, we never should have entered. But now that it’s open... good people have to go down there and stop the Angels and the gods and the blood-rats and the parasite words and the goddamn trains from escaping. And the clowns. God. The clowns.

Facts Concerning the Metaphysic of the Heart:

• The Heart has “up” and “down.” Up is closer to the world, more stable, and down is... stranger. The further down you go, the more risk and reward. Nobody knows if there’s a bottom. Nobody who made it back, anyhow.
• The Heart shifts and changes while you’re not looking. Navigation is a matter of intuition and communion, not cartography. You can’t cross the same hungry river twice, as they say; if you find your way back to a place once seen before, it is invariably changed somehow.
• Motifs like the Library and the Forest are not so much places as they are conditions or tilts. The Heart is a jumbled mess of ruin. Machinery and infrastructural motifs are common, but usually corrupted by some other influence.

Gazeteer

ANGELS: actually a taxonomic class; a non-animal denizen of the Heart which is not (barring the theological debates) of mortal origin. Many are faceless; many are winged; many are dangerous. Many work at cross purposes. Some are flickering electric fractals and some are horned moss-drowned hunters and some are skittering vicious librarians.

BEES: up to something. They’re a pale blue, glow faintly in the dark, and are constructing... something. They repurpose the environment around their hives and stick various pieces of junk together with their spittle. Angels fear them. As long as you don’t break anything, you’ll be safe around them. For varying degrees of safe. They’ll start whispering to you if you sleep too close, offering you the chance to be part of the Great Work.

BLOOD-RATS: gorged on the luminous blood of King Dragon, the blood-rats are his eyes and ears and tiny hands throughout the Heart. They are trappers and saboteurs and steal vital supplies, and at the same time, are willing to sell you just what you need when you need it most, at ruinous price. Nobody loves the blood-rats. Nobody except their burning, hateful god.

THE CHIMERAE: known more commonly as “Beasts,” these are non-animal denizens of the Heart, of mortal origin. They drank too deeply of still pools, or were transcribed into words and then translated back again, or offended the king of all these woods, or ate an Angel’s flesh, or in some way invited the Heart inside themselves. Some cling to what normality they have left, offering themselves as guides in Detritus or forming nomadic scavenger caravans. Some even try to leave, but few can, and even fewer don’t come back. The Heart won’t let you go.

THE DARK CARNIVAL: danger in limelight. If you’re very lucky, you might get supplies, strange entertainment, and win your heart’s desire in a claw game. If you’re very foolish, you’ll accept the immortality the Fools’ Mysteries offer. If you’re unlucky, the clowns will begin howling and honking. Run.

DELVERS: professional tomb-raiders, thieves, and swords-for-hire. They carry no maps, but learn the moods and seasons of the Heart— that is, if they survive. Delvers live by an unspoken code: don’t kill (you’ll attract the Angels), share your food and drink when asked (one day you might be the one who needs it), and take whatever you can (tough luck if you can’t hold onto it). If you break the code... better make sure there’s no survivors to spread word around.

DETRITUS: on the “surface” of the Heart, where it brushes against the world, sprawls a wild and dangerous city filled with intrepid or foolish entrepreneurs, criminals and exiles hiding from their past (who usually know better than to descend), several university annexes, cultists and theologians. The city entire is bisected by Nexus Station, a holy cathedral which offers lodgings for hopeful travelers waiting for a train’s attention. Attempts have been made to establish government, but they always fail, leaving behind yet more dilapidated offices and another layer of impotent bureaucracy.

THE FLOOD: she leaks in between tiles and surges down corridors without warning, she lies stagnant and green-choked between you and what you want, she vomits forth pearls and coral twisting like bone, she drags you underneath unless you drown offerings to her, and if she takes you, you may find yourself elsewhere, years later— or earlier— gasping and mottled with her touch.

THE FOREST: up through bookshelves and between the tracks come the brambles, and their berries are black and bitter and cause strange reveries. Ceilings become twining branches, or are they roots? Far off, but never far enough, the hunting-horn sounds. The king of all these woods— you can smell him before you meet him, and the sight of his horns is terrible.

THE LIBRARY: the walls are spines, and the lion’s share of what you see are books yet unwritten, or never written, or from other places you might hope never to see. Mined books serve as currency among many delvers; the Heart detests useless books. And as a last resort, tossing them to a charging Librarian might earn you reprieve while it reshelves them.

OWLS: oh god oh god oh god we disturbed the nest I’ll hold them off as long as I can

THE VERMISSIAN: a terrible mistake made long ago. A dead civilization thought to abuse the liminal nature of the heart, to bore rail-lines through them and facilitate travel on luxury locomotives, cutting travel times from months to days. Now the rail-lines are hissing, echoing labyrinths, twisting all through the Heart, and the trains run themselves through conductor-cults. The Vermissian Knights serve as templars and wardens of the rail-lines, clad in shining armor made from train-moltings and carrying sharpened rails the size of greatswords.

Music

• The Vermissian Line.
• Looking Down.
• The Forest.
• The Dark Carnival.
• Lament for the Lost.
• Angelsong.

Masks: Resurrection Roundabout

POTENTIAL 2

"How about the Incredible Nerd?" Suns blossom around him, sharp shards of flare forcing him to dart from foot to foot, grazing them so close he nearly singes the scarf. "Or you could call yourself Eraserhead; you've got that Lynchian vibe to you." Mandalas bloom, spitting lasers that trap him into firing corridors. "Rat Boy, with the skittering and mischief skills of a rat, not to mention the awful little hands, and the jumping ability of a boy!" He backflips over a pulsing shot and lands neatly, letting the follow-through zip perfectly between his arm and his body. "Prince Sparklepants, if you're looking for a new costume--"

And then he taps her forehead. Game over. Right in the space she left open for him. She grins, her eyes bright, and punches him in the arm.

"Or... how about Vault? It's got both the mad moves and the, you know, locker. Because you put things in both vaults and lockers? Don't laugh, you have no idea how hard it is to get a good and marketable name that hasn't already been snapped up, but I can get #Vault trending in 24 hours..."