Tatterdemalion

Chuubo's GMD: Love and Shattered Alchemy

[Storytime: 2/9
Adventure GET: 3/21
Up to Date: 1/15
Something To Deal With 1]

The floof starts right at the small of my back and shoots out in both directions so that by the time it reaches the top of my head and my ears and the floof runs through them like a wave, my tail’s already voluminous with excitement. “Oh bells and high watch,” I say, breathless, “you’re a spirit!” My smile is broad enough to swallow her blush right up! “Of course I knew you’d be important: this is Rinley and the Spirit!”

I shoot up, brandishing my lily pad like a sword, likely provoking a squeak. “She was the legendary shrine maiden, descendant of Finley, heir to the mantle of the Fish King himself! She was a spirit, the thought that the world has about itself! Can I make it any clearer?” I stop, and lower the lily pad. Not sheepishly, because I have never done anything sheepish in my life, but... in acknowledgement that I probably shouldn’t wave a lily pad at my new friend(!!). “What are you a spirit of? Wait, don’t tell me. If I can’t figure it out, I don’t deserve to know.” I’ll have to figure out a classification system and narrow it down. Maybe she’s a spirit of trees, or a specific tree, or the way the wheat moves in the wind, and did you know that back in olden times it used to be called corn? What we know as good ol’ corn is technically “maize.” That’s why, when you hear of people wearing crowncorns, you shouldn’t imagine a bunch of corncobs pointing out like a halo of swords! I could imagine Sessily (what a fun name! Ssssssessssssssily~) with a corncrown and a cornucopia without even breaking a sweat, but then again, what if she’s actually a spirit of rainy days? I’d be so embarrassed if I looked at her then and told her she was a spirit of plenty and sunlight on the wheat, and besides, wheat’s grown more often in the Walking Fields, on the other side of Horizon; in this part of town, rice is queen, and she doesn’t strike me as being a rice spirit; she’s not sticky enough at all, probably. I should try touching her to test that hypothesis.

“The Fish King’s a fun story,” I add, stepping out into the rain with my lily pad over my head and a hand outstretched in invitation: follow me. “Which means it’s storytime!”

***

Once upon a time, Fortitude went fallow. It didn’t happen all at once, but bad harvest year followed bad harvest year, and what’s worse, the fish stopped biting at all. Kaiju kept attacking, and to their surprise their arrival wasn’t met with screaming and panic but with forks and knives and napkins, but man cannot live on Kaiju alone! Some people put their affairs in order and moved to Horizon, or out to the Walking Fields, leaving their houses shuttered and dark looking out over dry and withered fields.

The drainage ditch beside the road is covered with small stone slabs. It’s usually safe to walk on them, or even ride a bicycle on them, because people don’t leave gaps. That’s dangerous, you know? But here, there’s a spot where the ditch suddenly dips, as the road slopes downward, and if the sound of rushing water didn’t warn you, you might have a nasty surprise. It roars, as if trying to drown out a story unsuited to green and grey forever, as far as the eye can see.

Rinley got so skinny that he could hide behind a lamp-post after eating dinner, and fed up with how things were going, got in his rowboat and went out into the middle of Big Lake, so far that he could only see land if he squinted. Then he tied a line to his toe and leaned back with his hat over his face and let Big Lake rock him to sleep.

When he woke up, he was in a great big four-poster bed, soft as a duck’s rear end and twice and three time as comfy. When he turned his head, he saw a bunch of fish swimming by. And he comes to grips with the fact that Big Lake just judged him. He’d always thought he was as safe as a fiddle: that while he meant trouble, he didn’t mean trouble, and he didn’t think he was wicked. Wickedness must have crept up to him sneakily, unless it was running on a conversion rate, and a thousand misdemeanors and shenanigans became one wickedness, worthy to be swallowed up by the lake and never seen again. Except, now that he thought about it, his new accommodations at the bottom of the lake seemed awfully cushy for being the wages of sin.

We see the truck down the road after it passes that one clump of trees, and we step off the road; my sandal starts to slip on the steep slope of mud between road and field full of water. Sessily grabs my hand and I nearly pull her off balance too and drag her into a wet, muddy mess in the field. Instead, I let my lily pad fall into the crook between my head and shoulder and frantically wave my arm around until my foot stops sliding, we’re precariously balanced together, and we’re not in the water. The driver, going a couple of miles now, flashes his lights and bobs his head apologetically. I wave him on with a smile. It’s Mr. Pradelemov, given the GOLDEN PERCH FISHERY label on the truck. My sandal’s a mess of mud, and we stop to wash it off before we keep going.

Then, a lady came in, wearing a shimmering silver dress and a tiara set with rosy pearls the size of your smallest fingernail. Rinley pretended to still be asleep, because people always say interesting things when they think nobody’s listening.

“I hope he wakes up soon,” the lady said. “Unless someone finds the witch of the waste and frees the king of all fish from her nightmare aquarium, Fortitude will waste away until it’s beyond saving; and he’s the only hero that’s left in Fortitude. Everyone else who’s gone looking for her has been lost.” Hearing that, Rinley yawned and rolled over, and looked her up and down. Then, with his noble heart hammering in his chest, he took her hand, as dark and gentle as midnight, and promised her that he would do whatever it took to find the witch of the waste.

From here, we can see the Archive, beginning to loom as we round the hill. The roof is a complicated thing of tarps and repurposed sails and rope, and it looks like it’s about to explode into an amazing flying ship; the walls will turn out to have been a hull all along, a panel will slide back in the great spiral staircase to reveal a glowing blue crystal humming with power, and with the wind in its sails it will take everybody inside off across Big Lake to New York, or Hyperborea, or Shangri-la. But I don’t want to get too off track, so we just look at it a moment and then I look at her and go, “it’s cool, right?” and her face lights up and she asks me what it is and I tell her: it’s the Archive of Professor Hideo Hayashi.

That’s why, the next day, Rinley went out with a bunch of cats on leashes, wearing a jacket covered in bells and goose feathers in his hat. Everybody he passed stared at him, and asked him what on earth he thought he was doing. Even Rinley Yatskaya himself couldn’t make all those cats go in a straight line, and he was constantly having to pick them up and carry them when they got sulky, which meant he ended up being more leash and cat than man. But, eventually, he herded them past a particularly blighted old farm, and the cantankerous old man who happened to be leaning on his gate squinted at him and asked him what exactly he thought he was doing with those internal creatures. That being the sign that he had been told to watch for, he let all of the leashes go and let the cats scatter all over that farm.

“Rust your hide,” the old man said, hitting his fist on the gate, “I’ll get you back for this, youngster, or my name isn’t Martinev Titov!” And Martinev went chasing after the cats with a broom while Rinley let himself inside the old man’s house. In the back, in the laundry room, there was an old boarded-up well. Rinley used the shoehorn he happened to be carrying with him to pry up the boards, and then hopped straight down (and of course he landed on his feet). Down there...

***

“But then the beat poetry cafe overtook her,” I say, in my most breathy and exotic voice. The kind of voice that deserves beads and silk and fancy ice cream. “And she lapsed into silence. Will you tell us the end of this story, her sister asked, and Rinley said: if I am alive and also we hang out again.” I empty out my lily pad one more time, and then fling the door open.

“We are here,” I declare, “for the beat poetry! Let the beats commence!!”

...this does not look like it is open. Or a beat poetry cafe. There’s a redhead and a maid, and both of them are important, vitally important, two in the same room— or is it the room that’s important? This requires immediate investigation.

I tap my chin. If this were a dating sim, the important things would be highlighted, or at the very least drawn on a different layer. Things being what they are, I have to trust my intuition. “Where are you hiding the beats,” I accuse them, accusatorily, with a point. “Are you an illegal beat operation? A smuggler’s den? Tax evaders? Are the beats in the back, and this is all a test? Because let me tell you, we’re going to pass. Sessily and I are amazing at passing tests. Go ahead! Test us! Let us prove that we are worthy to accept the beats!”

[Marking a Storytime XP.]

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Mra’al!

You are admitted into a side chamber, and as ever, you step through first and assess, your thumb on the catch for your Chastening Rod. You catch the breath of the one they sent to handle your lady with velvet and honey become a satisfied exhalation as she consciously sets her shoulders and drapes one hand over her thigh in unspoken invitation to make yourself at ease; you are satisfied that the high visual noise of the chamber is not concealing a hidden assailant; you catch the scent of Dawn Roses, a subtle but lingering guest. All this in a moment, and then you stand aside and allow your lady entrance.

It has not gone unnoticed to you how, like children, the savages on this planet aped your lady unknowingly. Their puffed-up heroes had capes, and so does she, but hers is rich, lush midnight woven from Cold Worms, who subsist on only the cold light of their twice-condemned planet’s star. Their heroes wore tight bodysuits, and so does she, except hers is a hand-trained Cuckoo that languidly swirls its toxic colors across her body, a second and far more useful skin. And their heroes wore armor, and so does she, though hers is made of fine-etched platinum leaves treated to violently deflect force. But no native was as fine, as lovely; her tight-laced bun and trailing tails shine like burnished copper, and the eyes above her veil are serene, a soft grey that betrays nothing.

“In the name of Ishtar, Generous Star, She who brings forth the child, She whose eye is incisive, I bid you welcome, Inquisitor,” the handler says. “I have been instructed to comply with your every wish, given the long and praise-worthy relationship between our Houses. Glory to you, o keepers of peace, you who measure truth and muzzle discord!”

“I require the compliance of your security,” your lady says, her voice a blade sharpened against silk. Ten thousand years of pack instincts left unchanged by the gods sink their teeth into your spine: Alpha! Pack leader! Submit! Your pulse races, your breath hitching and fur rippling for a glorious needful moment. “I am invoking the Decree of the Hunt, in lawful manner, in the pursuit of my duties before my Warden and my goddess, She whose fangs are unseen by night, Hungry Star who teaches holy contempt. I require that this addition to your command structure be immediate and binding until such time as I release you from obligation.” The servant of Ishtar wilts immediately, unconsciously letting herself go slack in the face of your lady, who is as inexorable as an iceberg.

“But, surely,” the blessed servant stammers. (It is important for you to both remember that the Annunaki are of higher nature, and to remember that your tongue is commanded to silence regarding the flaws your lady uncovers in them. Every kit new to their service succumbs to careless speech; the sensible only do so once.) “You must understand that we are in festival, that there are protocols, that the disturbance, what am I to say to the Hierophant?”

“Tell her the truth,” your alpha says, resting one suggestive hand on the back of the chair made ready for her. (She rarely sits in the presence of those she judges. She, and you, must be either statues or holy monsters.) “Tell her that Annan ab-Ereshkigali, Pursuant of the Mysteries, hunts rebellion. And from there, trust to the long and praise-worthy history between our houses.” She pauses a strategic moment. “May I?” She says, and gestures to you.

“But of course, if you deem it needful,” the servant of Ishtar says, and means: if you insist. But your lady would not have asked if she did not mean to follow through. Your spine flashes electric as you hold yourself still, a well-trained huntress, the fur around your collar rippling delight and want.

“Mra’al: seek.”

***

Justin (3rd Dagger, 7th Lance, 4th Legion)!

The dumb humming is the worst part. Sure, electronics hum too, but they don’t make a tune out of it.

Your whole life, you’ve been what might politely be called a social climber. The jealous idiots, back when you went to high school, called you a brownnoser. But you know that working for whoever’s in charge is a whole lot better than raging powerlessly on the outs. So you passed Janissary training with flying colors. And now you’re here: trying to pay attention to three windows and the scenes flashing across them all at the same time in case the stupid genie misses something. Because if there’s one thing you learned early in training, it’s that genies are stupid, but that’s what makes them such good interfaces with the city. You have to be as smart as your masters to do anything useful with them.

Wait. What was that? There was a visual anomaly. Or was there? Raq Tar is your senior, and he didn’t say anything; if you make a big fuss about a flicker and it turns out to be nothing, you’ll look stupid. You keep your mouth shut. Now, if only the stupid genie would.

“Hey,” you say, and nudge at her with your boot. She reacts like it’s made of genie repellent, instinctively folding herself into a graceful pretzel to avoid touching you. “Shut up.”

Her automatic (automated?) response is drowned out by the sound of Raq Tar crumpling like a tin can. A superhero(???!) dressed up like one of the Annunaki, only without the veil, bounces nimbly off him and right at you. Where the hell did she come from?

A smarter guard would immediately tell Caphtor to sound the alarm. But you’re off-balance, and you learned early in training to lash out at anyone who’s not your superior when off-balance, so you swing the butt of your musket at her like a club, intending to smack her across the room like a golf ball.

The stupid genie goes “oooooh!” and watches with her hands in her lap, because, as mentioned before, genies are stupid airheads.

***

Étoile!

It’s too late. You tear your eyes away as fast as you can, but it’s no use. You can feel her eyes, hot and intent on the back of your head. You’ve been made, and now things have suddenly become much more dangerous. Because now that she knows you’re here, there’s no way your little sister isn’t going to insist on trying to help.

She’s wearing a tight silver silk number with elaborate pauldrons and ruffs billowing down her front, and the way it minimizes her from the hips down and bulks her up makes her look almost like a champagne glass. A red ribbon tied around one manacle shows that she is an Academy student on a live test.

Problem 1: if Celestine gets distracted trying to maneuver her way over to you, or worse, ditches the test entirely, the bad grade will eventually (as report cards wind their way to their destination) be taken out on your hiney. You have explained this to her before and she gets petulant and digs her heels in.

Problem 2: Celestine knows you’re here, which means that she’s going to ask you if you’re here to you know what, and if you tip your hand she’s going to throw herself into “helping.” She’s desperate to be part of the fight, and you’re just as desperate to make sure she doesn’t get hurt trying to keep up.

Problem 3: if you lie to her and then she finds out pretty much immediately when the Big Distraction plays its part, she will be a teenager about it. Hell hath no fury like a little sister lied to for her own good. The last time you tried to sideline her, she deliberately acted out at school. GOTO Problem 1.

So while you chew on that dilemma, waiting in line to present your message to Jerioth ab-Ishtar... tell the truth, how did you pull the strings to get here? And what are you wearing?

***

Canada!

Your ears are ringing. Your head throbs. But when the possible fist to the stomach doesn’t materialize, and neither does being cussed out, you come to the conclusion that you were given a friendship headbutt, not a “you betrayed our friendship” headbutt. So at least that’s working out.

“I appreciate it, Mountie,” Asterion says, offering you a hand to help you unfold, “But haven’t you heard the news?” As your eyes refocus, you see that she’s wearing a ridiculous outfit that’s half police officer and half soldier: a mocking Annunaki skewering of Earth’s “vassal levies.” Her veil’s on the bed, not the floor of her cell; she’ll refuse to wear it as long as she can, that says, but is aware that she’ll have to wear it in the end even if she tosses it on the ground or bunches it up. “I’m not exactly, uh, you know...” She spins one finger next to her head. Around her neck, the ostentatious artifact collar glows ominously, precisely carved runes dug deep into its surface leering at you.

“You’re smarter than this, Mountie,” she adds, giving you a “no hard feelings” smile with more than a little pain behind it. “Mess with the bull and you’ll get the horns.”

[Asterion is raising your Superior and lowering your Danger. Accept or reject?]

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

IN THE NAME OF THE HIGH GODS OF HEAVEN

KNOW that it is the third year of Their glorious return to this world, for Their hearts were moved by the ignorance of your kind;
KNOW that the wheat has been sifted from the chaff, the gold from the dross, and the worthy from the beasts;
THUS give praise and adulation to the High Gods, who rule over the heavens and the worlds and the spaces between, and their blessed children, the Annunaki, to whom has been given the stewardship of all creation.

KNOW that your feeble Resistance has been crushed by the fearless warriors of the ab-Marduki;
THUS rejoice that you have been saved from the malgovernance and the barbarity of the talking beasts who would style themselves your saviors, jarring you from your rightful place in the GREAT CHAIN in service to your appointed overseers.

KNOW that you shall be evaluated and set to the task that your heart yearns for, despite being as of yet unknowing of it;
KNOW that the animals shall be set to labor on the unworthy earth, and the wise to clever work aboard our vast ships, each a city and a vessel alike;
THUS pray earnestly that you may be found worthy of service, that one day you may see far distant stars and lands unimaginable, and be filled with wonder.

***

It is the year 20XX. This is heresy. Keep it close to your chest.

It is the third year of the Return. Babylon, holy and terrible, hangs low in the sky: a second moon, a glorious and decadent holy city, the narrow point between heaven and the earths. Her children each have their own tasks. Uruk oversees the brutal mining camps which vomit forth gold. Nineveh hunts those misguided resistance fighters who would deny humanity their rightful place beneath the Annunaki. And Caphtor, jewel of the stars, oversees the construction of a new djinn-vessel, which will serve as the heart of a new, glorious city-ship.

For each of the cities of the Annunaki is powered by the djinn who sing in the darkness between stars, imprisoned and plied with the wines of magnetism to keep them tame. It is their ceaseless labor that turns the wheel of the engines and banishes the dark, and when they are called, the silly and foolish things will do their best to obey their masters’ every command. (Pity them not, you are sternly reminded. Were they to remember who they were, they would choose the cold chaos of the void above the glories of civilization, shucking their place in the great chain of being. Like you, they must be forced to fit where they belong.)

The Annunaki and their janissaries divide and sort humanity as they please. The recalcitrant and the unintelligent alike are forced into work camps, regarded as beasts who require harsh treatment and exist only to be exploited. Those who are attractive, clever or sufficiently unctuous are instead granted personhood, taught the precepts of civilization in sprawling academies, and then tested to assign them their grade and quality; those who fail are branded and returned to live among the beasts, while those who succeed are auctioned before the households of the city. O fortunate slaves of the Annunaki, to be granted leave to serve their overseers directly, to live in their estates and to witness their beauty beneath sheer silks!

Soon you shall have been cleansed of all you thought was culture, rude and brutish. You shall forget the forbidden names of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. You shall forget that your ancestors took the tools of their overseers and thought themselves heroes. You shall know only what you are taught, and you will think yourselves grateful to be a person and not a beast.

As for you yourselves, you are the Phantom Thieves of Caphtor, the talk of the town after your incredible first strike against the Annunaki. In your superhero identities, you are already infamous, wanted by the authorities, and — bizarrely — very popular among the decadent Annunaki, who find you transgressively exciting despite your inevitable defeat at their hands. In your civilian identities, you are close to the seat of power, being lowly members of the household of the Seneschal. The risks are great, but so are the opportunities. You, and you alone, might be able to bring down the Annunaki, or at the very least drive them off Earth.

Somehow.

It’s a process, right? You’ll figure something out. And the only alternative is rolling over and accepting your fate, and that’s not worth even considering. Fight! Demolish the Tower! Bring down Babylon!

Caphtor

CAPHTOR ABOVE

The Annunaki of Caphtor live in the palatial estates of the city above, open to the sky yet bounded by the field generators of the ab-Enkiji. Comparisons to Paradise are not unwarranted. Towers and spires rise in competition with each other, seeking ever grander views, while ziggurats and shrines to the High Gods lie on broad roads lined with precious stones. The city above is verdant, with carefully-kept gardens and dancing fountains at every turn; vast curtains of alien ivies make for teasing curtains to pleasure-gardens, streams run babbling down channels carved into the streets, and images and statuary of the High Gods in their most heroic aspects can be seen not only at crossroads, but in clever alcoves and in bas-relief on the sides of the ziggurats. The city is without blemish; scarcely a leaf may fall without being scooped up by a groveling gardener, and the streets are patrolled by both a legion of janissaries to keep the peace and a legion of street cleaners to polish the gleaming stones by hand.

Caphtor itself takes the form of a great and flowering cross when seen from above, with its longest arm reserved for the docks of the ab-Shamashi. Each of the High Gods is given a vast temple complex, with one at each arm and one at the city’s heart. By this each district has its own purpose, character and patron deity.

Though the full atmospheric replication systems are unnecessary while planet bound, the Annunaki still keep themselves comfortable by keeping ambient temperatures high and blunting even the rain that falls from above; they allow Earth to show them its weather because it is unpredictable and thus mildly interesting, not for lack of options.

The Annunaki themselves are very busy with a grueling schedule of observing festivals, attending social gatherings, considering proposals and ventures, expressing their artistic genius, contemplating the High Gods, and above all pursuing their sacred duties, that they can hardly be expected to maintain their city themselves, and must be allowed their indulgences, which naturally are to take no more than a third of their day. Another third is to be given up to the High Gods in pursuit of their commands, and the final third is reserved for the enrichment and renewal of body and soul.

Thus it is that Caphtor Above is an exemplary example of true civilization. Walk down the streets and you shall hear song and music from estates and gardens at any and every hour; steal into a garden and you shall find it a reflection of the owner’s heart, each flower carefully chosen and cared for by the gardeners; and only the Annunaki can truly serve the three masters of the soul with perfect balance, which are the High Gods which fashioned it, the body that sustains it, and the heart that animates it.

***

CAPHTOR BELOW

In the bowels of the city extends a metropolis for the servants of the enlightened Annunaki. Each estate in Caphtor extends into the maze of tunnels below, the lower levels holding the slave apartments and other such things as are unseemly: the kitchens, the storehouses, the laundries and the rooms of punishment. Between the estates are other such apartments, and the industries for which their inhabitants are necessary: the foundries which provide the raw materials for the workshops above, the sanitation facilities, the water reclamation and recycling plants, the hydroponic farms and vast bounded fields for livestock, the training grounds and fortresses of the janissaries, and the bazaars where the Annunaki do business by proxy. (They, of course, do not sully themselves with mercantile affairs, save to decide what their stewards will buy and sell.) The great temple complexes, too, extend both above and below, and all serve in different aspects below.

The ceilings of the city below are wonderfully made, perfect facsimiles of the sky, save where lazy and negligent slaves have allowed the tiles to fall into disrepair. Most of the city below is lit by twinkling stars and comforted by the velvet black of night, save for where feigned day is necessary, such as the livestock pens. Many who are consigned to the city below will remain there for the rest of their blessed lives, save naturally the gardeners and cleaners who work in shifts in the city above. Slaves being what they are, of course, their barbaric cacophony is ever-present, echoing through the passageways

***

THE TEMPLE OF MARDUK

The God of War and Submission is worshipped from a great fortress opposite the long arm of Caphtor. Its walls are heaped high in the city above, every inch decorated with the triumphs of Marduk’s legions and carvings celebrating his glory. From here, the generals and captains of the ab-Marduki allocate their janissaries throughout the city, remotely administrate Caphtor’s mines and construction projects outside the city, and meditate on their inevitable triumph over all who would dare oppose Heaven. Here, too, they provide martial training for their peers, and hold great banquets to celebrate how they keep their people safe and victorious.

In the city below, the temple is a sprawling fortress-complex manned by the janissaries, resplendent in their red coats (with brass buttons) and brass skullcaps. Here, they undergo brutal conditioning and training to turn them into loyal weapons and tools of the Annunaki, good only for taking orders and carrying them out. Here the nail that sticks up is hammered down, until all learn their place. A good janissary does not concern themselves with whether they are ordered to keep the peace in the city below, guard the city above, or be shipped to the frontier to crush the feeble minions of rival powers. They know their place.

Or, rather, they should. It is impossible to say how many view you as symbols of secret and cherished hope. Less than you would want, certainly, compared to the number who view you as simply targets, or the number who are spitefully angry at you for teasing a hope they know will ultimately fail.

***

THE TEMPLE OF ISHTAR

The Goddess of Love and Domestication has a luxurious temple in the central hub of Caphtor. It is a focal point for celebrations and festivals, boasting many terraced gardens and private chambers for events of any sort. The priestesses of the goddess are happy to provide courtship advice, to assist in arranging a marriage, to seal a contract in the eyes of the gods, to enroll your property in breeding programs, and even to save your life in a pinch: the temple is also a hospital, and is proud to provide impartial and reliable medical care. Don’t trust a lower being with your health, as the saying goes.

In the city below, the temple serves as the Academy of Caphtor, selflessly and tirelessly educating new slaves in order to impart on them some measure of civilization. Those who graduate are introduced to prospective households at the temple, hoping to make such a good impression that they will instruct their stewards to buy them slave at auction for household work in the great Market of the Lioness below, rather than letting them be sold as part of a bulk deal for farm or sanitation work. Those who flunk out are mostly sold to the ab-Marduki at low prices for grueling menial labor outside the city, never to return.

Be sure to stay for the gladiator fights, too. There’s more than one thing a failed slave can be used for, after all, and nothing that gets a failing slave more motivated than a preview of what’s to come. Refreshments are, of course, complimentary, and we are taking bets on which lioness will get the highest score today!

***

THE TEMPLE OF ENKI

The soul of the enlightened one overflows with the impulse of creation. It is for this reason that the Temple of Enki, God of Craftsmanship and Secret Knowledge, welcomes all into the outer workshops of the temple, set opposite the temple of Ereshkigal. Here the student may learn secrets of every art, and through them express their inner heart: sculpture, painting, choreography, smithing, the arrangement of a garden, and other such fine and noble pursuits. Within, of course, the ab-Enkiji attend to higher and more rarified sorcery for the good of all, and one must understand that if a door is shut, it is not yours to open; and those found within sanctums beyond their worthiness will be given over to the beak of the bloodied vulture.

Beneath, the ab-Enkiji maintain the engines and sorceries that maintain the city and its animating djinn; beneath, the ab-Enkiji have cells filled with their test subjects; beneath, the ab-Enkiji dare to open their eyes to the mysteries of creation. Soon, they murmur to themselves as they walk along hidden passageways. Soon.

We shall learn the secrets of this wicked world, torn from the bodies of the unworthy, and by their applications become peerless.

***

THE TEMPLE OF SHAMASH

The ab-Shamashi, here, on the long arm of the city, tend to their holy chariots and burnished escort ships in the service of the God of Transport and Glory. They, children of the wild airs and the sea of stars, are fey folk. Trust them only as a charioteer.

The ingenuity of their temple’s design allows them to hold many craft, specialized for this task or that, and by the application of great mechanisms may bring them up from the depths of the city to their staging grounds with ease. The maintenance of these great systems of wheels and folding doors, of chambers swiftly raised and roofs retracting, of gears turning to retract unneeded chambers, is of course quite dangerous, but that is what daring slaves are for!

***

THE TEMPLE OF ERESHKIGAL

Every Annunaki, at one time or another, fails the high standards to which they are held, or else strays from orthodoxy into foolishness. They are enlightened, not perfected. It is for this reason that they submit themselves to confession, punishment and repentance within the great temple of Ereshkigal, Goddess of Protection and Punishment. Know that it is better to confess. It shall be the worse for you if you do not. Your secrets are already known, your hidden deeds revealed. Speak, and receive merely a child’s discipline, bent low over their knee, or made to kneel with your face before the altar. Seek to hide from those who see all, and you shall be shamed publicly, or else kept in spartan chambers until you are willing to repent.

Beneath, the ab-Ereshkigali serve still as judges and the hidden eyes of the gods. Their authority is absolute over the life of a slave, and those brought within the great iron gates of the temple know that they descend into the underworld. Some emerge again sore and flushed, tormented with both pleasure and pain until the Knights were satisfied. Others are led out smiling blissfully, their wits washed away by hypnosis, now nothing more than pleasantly vapid pets.

Remember especially: the Knights are quite pleased to hear you confirm the sins of others. Betray a resistance contact, and perhaps the whip will be satisfied, you unworthy worm.

***

CAPHTOR HERSELF

Deep within the temple of Enki there is a great brass vessel. Within this elaborately constructed vessel, the size of a ziggurat itself, is trapped the mystic energy of a Djinn, drawn from the black between stars into this perfect device. This Djinn, who is named Caphtor in honor of the city which is her body, is plied with the wines of magnetism to keep her tame and pliable, and to reduce her alien intellect to something that better befits the slave of the city.

It is this Djinn that provides power for the city entire, for the many wonderful devices of the ab-Enkiji, and acts as messenger and herald, envoy and wise fool for the many Annunaki of the city. They alone may summon her, and from they alone may she receive instruction. At any one time, she is extending her vast consciousness into ten hundred different places, half-aware of every one of them, and it is for this reason that her manner is vapid and distracted, like a drunkard or a hypnotized slave.

If she was ever released from that perfect prison... well. Only the ab-Enkiji know what would happen, and that matter is sealed. To seek that knowledge is forbidden. If you are fortunate you shall be caught and handed over to the Knights. If you are not so lucky, you will have learned those secrets before your inevitable capture, and then you will have passed into the possession of Enki, and you shall be no more seen in the city, save as one of the giggling witless.

Speak not of TIAMAT. Speak not of Apsu, which failed. Speak not of the Iblis Protocols. This knowledge is not for you.

Annunaki Factions

The ab-Marduki are ascendant in Caphtor, having claimed not only the post of seneschal but recruitment rights in the city’s Academy campus. They are no longer secure enough to press gang slaves at will to serve in the janissary corps they train, as they once were, but still maintain a firm grip on Caphtor politics. They are servants of Marduk, the God of War and Submission.

The ab-Ishtari are Caphtor’s second political block, ever arguing that flies must be caught with honey. They maintain the Academy and the many public shrines to the High Gods, and are in charge of the many public holidays and festivals, as well as the entertainment of the masses (including, infamously, gladiatorial games). They are servants of Ishtar, Goddess of Love and Domestication.

The ab-Enkiji of Caphtor are politically allied, if tenuously, with the dominant ab-Marduki, if only to keep the prying eyes of the Sisters away from their ritual dungeons. They maintain the Goetia that binds Caphtor and seek the deep mysteries of Enki, God of Craftsmanship and Secret Knowledge.

The ab-Shamashi are wild, strange folk ill-suited for planetary gravity, servants of the God of Transport and Glory. They maintain an enclave near the docks of Caphtor, and routinely must be punished for seeking to circumvent the will and word of the al-Marduki.

The ab-Ereshkigali are the dark hand of their beloved sisters in the ab-Ishtari, dangerous and feared for their fanatical faith in the purity of the High Gods and the great chain of being. They serve Ereshkigal, Goddess of Protection and Punishment.

The High Council of Caphtor consists of the Seneschal, Haman ab-Marduk; the Hierophant, Miryam ab-Ishtar; the Fabricator, Danyal ab-Enki; the Warden, Rut ab-Ereshkigal; and the Huntsman, Asahel ab-Shamash.

Aliens!

You are not the first that the Annunaki have subjugated. The jewels of their circuit each offer up tributes of slaves in their turn. The Lynxes, long of leg and ear, skilled huntsmen and attentive servants. The Thornbacks, bitter and spiky, trusted to vent their spite on their inferiors. The Trolls, huge and brutish, slamming stone blocks into place with their four arms. The Macaws, trilling and colorful, darting here and there on errands. The Salamanders, strong and scaly, proud to serve their gods. And, most terrible of all, the ominous Shrikes, mobile weapons platforms consecrated by the priests of Enki and animated by dark and dreadful thaumatech.

FORBIDDEN RESEARCH TOPICS

Slave Rebellion Enûma
TIAMAT
Apsu Construction Project (failed)
GOETIA, #1-72
The Mysteries of the Priests of Enki
Iblis Protocols

Sealed by the Office of the Fabricator and the Hall of Justice.

Allies

You have allies in this fight, of course. It would be nigh impossible, otherwise.

The Resistance does its best to fight the good fight. You might be in contact with a cell or certain representatives, but paranoia is high, given the luxurious incentives offered for selling out a cell. Those found to be Resistance members are punished horribly in the Hall of Justice. Those found to be Resistance leaders are hypnotized into mindless, drooling harem trophies or mewling pets. The Annunaki do not kill, but they can make you live the rest of your days in a pink haze of useless bliss. Those who risk this are still able and willing to act as diversions, disruptions, and intel gatherers for the Phantom Thieves.

The Cult of Dumuzid spreads its subversive message of abolition and mercy under the noses of the ab-Ereshkigali, rallying around the name of a famous Annunaki abolitionist, heretic and martyr. Their sign is that of a Ram, or just its flayed fleece, and they deny the doctrine of the Great Chain. They are considered Subversive Elements and subject to terrible punishment when caught. Despite this, often unlooked for, you may find help from unexpected quarters. Dumuzid lives!

AEGIS was not able to stop the invasion. AEGIS was not able to save the Stellar Union or the Defenders of Love. What AEGIS was able to do was go to ground, hard. Now, they keep the Annunaki on their toes and do their best to bolster the Resistance. If you get in contact with the AEGIS presence in Caphtor by dead drop, you can get professional tradecraft assistance from trained agents. They never get involved personally, unlike the Resistance: they’re too important.

On your first incredible mission, you...

...did well and impressed an important ally. Who was it?

...saved the life of someone important, either to the Resistance or to yourselves. Who was it, and why are they important?

...had to deal with a danger from the farscapes. What was it, and how did you send it back home?

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Princesses.

“Let me speak for the Queen when I say that you’re always welcome here,” Rita von Catabas says with a cheerful smile, wrapping a ribbon around the queen. “Nod if you agree, your majesty!” Alina hardly needs the help nodding!

“Just hold there so Jess can’t see me,” she adds, to Adila, who was warm for her when all else was cold. “The Queen and I need to talk about my marriage demands.” She winks, and... is it your imagination, or the incense she’s dabbed on, but did a heart float behind her for a moment? “And I have a feeling I’ll have good luck.”

She pulls the knot tied in her scarf between the new queen’s lips and then hoists her up on a shoulder, looking every inch the Askaian rascal of song. “And I’ll be in touch, Kazelia,” she adds, pulling out a goblin grappling hook. “I’d love to arrange a double wedding date!”

With a muffled squeak of joy and a satisfied kitten chirp, Alina and her soon-to-be-fiancée zip away. Jessamine yells at Rita to come back, but seems surprisingly slow to act. After all, when you think about it, it stands to reason that finding the High Queen’s more important. And besides, there’s cake. Very important for everyone to investigate while the Queen is spirited away.

THE END.

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Halcyon Cascade!

By all accounts, you should be feeling nervous, given that Ourania herself is attending this coronation. But you don't. Maybe it's because you've always known today was coming; or, to be more truthful, you've always hoped today was coming. When Oberon was leering at you and demanding your submission, you honestly didn't know that your little Lina would rise to the occasion, but you hoped with all of your heart. And the power of a princess's heart is incredible, even when that princess has grown up and become a queen and taken responsibility.

She's incredible. Twice the princess you were at her age (though you could still teach her a thing or two about stealing the Crown Jewels). When she enters the room to the sound of glass flutes and strings and the great glass organ, flanked by Jess and her darling Rita, there's a murmur of delight that runs through the crowd. Rita accompanies her down to her seat at the front, then scoots in next to Adila (who looks so handsome, for all that she fought Oberon Greymane to a standstill). Jess, now Captain of the Royal Guard, takes her position between you and the audience, a ceremonial guard just in case anyone decided to try to launch an attack to take you or Lina prisoner (which has happened before, thus the precautions).

The words come naturally: important, dignified words, ones that shine like glass. On your right, the crown; on your left, the pitcher, with lucky raindrops falling into the water. This really is the perfect day for a coronation. You lift the crown of Ilumina in your hands, which (thank Ourania) are steady today; you place it on your daughter's head, and blink back tears which mingle with the rain. "I pass this honor onto you, Princess-Promised. Ilumina is in your hands; cherish it, safeguard it, lead with grace and lead with love." Her lights swirl around her as her Seneschal, Free, opens the box holding them. There is an awed gasp from the crowd as the three lights swirl and find their places in the crown. Some people would wonder aloud why she only has three; you are proud of her, knowing why she does not have seven.

You take the pitcher in your hands and pour out the fountain's water over the head of the new queen, and as you do, because today is a very special day, a rainbow arcs across the sky. The water pours out, just like it did over your head all those years ago, and you can hear the queen sniffling and laughing in that way you remember, too. "I'm so proud of you," you whisper, just for her, as the last trickle splashes on her head.

***

Queen Alina Cascade!

All of the congratulations are a whirlwind. The afterparty, of course, is a festival for all of Ilumina, but it is the queens and princesses who stay close by you, even as your subjects flit in and out as they dare. Jess keeps a careful eye on everyone who approaches you; it's tradition that the first kidnapping of the new queen is lucky. You are almost certain that she has been suborned by Rita, though. Thank goodness. That means you won't have to order her to go get you a glass of punch when you see Rita give you the signal.

You will have your first queenly kidnapping at the hands of the Askaian princess, so help you!

But now, you find yourself face to face with your best friends. Adila, strong and loyal and beautiful; Kazelia, dapper and clever and joyful. For a moment, a special moment, it's just the three of you; everyone else is distracted by the smoke bomb going off around Ourania over by the refreshments. The rain lingers on your lashes, Diamond hums a joyful song, and the world, for a moment, turns around the three of you instead of around Argossa. The love you share is the axis of all Hyperborea, right here, right now.

What do you say to each other?

Chuubo's GMD: Love and Shattered Alchemy

[Storytime: 1/9
Adventure GET: 3/21
Up to Date: 1/15
Something To Deal With 1]

There's a train that runs from Horizon to Arcadia, and from here, we can see it go rumbling on by. I think it's better that there's no train station here. I mean, it's not exactly convenient that you have to take the bus or walk over the hill to get to Horizon, but that means the train's always like that: beautiful and far away, the orange of its windows a contrast against the grey of the sky. We didn't go underneath that tiny shrine, because there's no way both of us would have fit unless we squeezed together, and something about that idea sends fireworks right up my tail, so we didn't; I just folded up my lily pad and let her hold the dandelion's drooping head over mine so that both of us were getting a little wet, and I thanked her and said something silly about how I usually do empty my lily, but I was just lost in... and then I waved my hand at the world. And I think she understood, or at the very least she nodded and smiled at me and I got really hot against my wet clothes, which of course aren't so much drenched as temporarily inconvenienced by the rain, and I did throw on a coat as I was walking out, but it's not a rain coat, so it's much more wet than the rest of me, because it's something I threw on. At least the rain's good for the flowers in my crown, and it makes hair nice and shiny, though it's nowhere near as good as rubbing in some proper fish guts. It's a Fortitude thing; over in Horizon they use this really slimy shampoo, and there's all kinds of hair products you can get in Arcadia, but over here there's nothing as good for the outsides of a head than the insides of a fish. Anyway, we didn't really say anything important before the dandelion started to really droop and we had to make a mad dash for the tree down the road, laughing and shrieking a little, and now we're here, pulses thumping and smiles showing and listening as the rain decides to double down, and pretty soon it'll just be a curtain draped over the fields, and I turn my head and watch as the train goes by.

Is there anybody in there looking out? You don't need to answer, I'm just thinking out loud. It's the question that always pricks at me when I look at that train go by. It's so far away that even if someone was sitting with their head against the window, I wouldn't be able to pick them out from all the seats, and if someone was sitting with their cheek against the glass, feeling the coolness of the pane and the rumblethump of the wheels, they'd just see a tree gripping the earth with its roots, standing unremarkably next to this rice field, in a landscape more like a quilt of fields and gardens and houses and trees and little winding streets, settled over the earth like she's peeking out from under the quilt on a winter morning, thinking about how beautiful the swirling snow is outside, but how much warmer it is underneath the quilt. I don't know them and they don't know me, but if I happen to be looking at that train, and at the very same time they happen to be looking at the tree, maybe just for a moment there's a connection between us, and it's just as real even if we don't know about it. It's the not knowing that makes it special, actually. Rain trickles down onto the collar of my shirt and I shiver, before turning back to my new friend.

"So I'm Rinley," I say, pointing up at the ears. Twitch, twitch! "The Rinley. You know. But I haven't met you before! I mean, I saw you the other day, but I'm pretty sure that's the first time, and I know basically everybody in town, so that means I'd be doing you a disservice if I didn't get to know you, too! I mean, can you really call yourself part of the community if you don't know me? So tell me your deal. Are you from Fortitude? Or did you move here? Is it your lungs? Or a family member's? The air here's really good for the lungs. I'm sure you or they will make a full recovery, even if it takes a little while. Or, are you, no, I don't think you're American," I add, really looking at her. She's pretty like an American, but she doesn't have that, you know, je ne sais eagle. "I'm Rinley," I blurt onto the end, even though I'd already said that. "What's your name? What are you doing out here? Do you like my umbrella? I like yours, even though it's drooping a lot. We can share mine once the rain settles down." My grip tightens on the stalk. I want to be her friend so bad. It's important! She's got that sense of importance and weight to her, that selectable menu option fuzz, and if we're friends it'll be cool to hang out together. I don't have a lot of friends friends, even if I know basically everybody, and why else would I want her to like me so much if I didn't want to be her friend?

Please like me, my heart blurts out to her heart. Please please please. I promise I'm cool and I'm good at telling stories and you're really pretty and I think I want to hold your hand. My heart's terrible at lying. If I knew what I was doing, I'd use my heart to tell her: I'm super cool and you should tell me everything interesting about you and listen to me when I talk, but you have to be really honest when you're speaking with your heart. And it's not like normal talking where you're hearing the words, it's more like... like being able to convey the meaning of what I want to say without having to use the words at all.

[Rinley pumps a heroic 4 Will into the Intention: win over the straw-haired girl. Also marking XP for Up to Date for grilling the straw-haired girl on her deal.]

Fellowship: The Heart

Raft Gang!

The thing about placid, still water is that it's horribly, horribly obvious when something breaches the surface for a moment. There's something in the water. And here you all are, halfway across, the Storm rumbling ominously in the distance, watching as fins and writhing tentacle-frills breach the water, coil after coil after coil following. Jackdaw: the word is pack. No, a swarm; that's what you call a group of eels. No, no, they're more sea serpents... but maybe they're very clever cephalopods, instead? You'd need a closer look to find the right word, and, unfortunately, it's looking like you're going to get one.

Is this the revenge of the Flood? Did she stir these eyeless things up from her depths? Or is this a depraved indifference, a decision not to lift a driftwood finger as the parasites in her waters seek to drag you down and devour your bones? And, when you get down to it, is there really a practical difference? The propulsion's clogging, and the waters all around you are writhing, and the boards Coleman put together are starting to buckle. Coleman: if you don't do something, and fast, you're going to be going down to meet the Flood a lot sooner than you'd like.

Then one makes a eight-foot vertical leap, clamps its jaws around Ailee, and begins to flop back into the water, lashing out with its toxic tentacle frill. Ailee: paralysis from exposure to toxins is certain within the next thirty seconds.

Lucien: things may be looking bad, but at least they can't come at you from all directions simultaneously, and they don't try to hamstring you while their friends try to peck your eyes out, so at least you're still doing better than if you'd tried to go into the Houses of Parliament.

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Princess Adila of the Guides!

The throne room looks a lot better than it did the last time you were here, fighting the irrepressible Morgina Fang. Now it's a true masterpiece of Iluminan architecture once more, no longer warped and corroded by contact with the void. The delicate glass benches are specially designed for the occasion, and it's with a confident air that you become a cat-sized, cheerful child once more, the perfect size for sitting between your girlfriends and not accidentally crushing anything. You, of course, have the seats up at the front, next to the Royal Family.

There's the King, soon to be the Royal Mother, looking deliberately understated and humble; if you didn't recognize Isolde from the time you took down Eupheria together, you might have mistaken her for one of the attendants. Being in the spotlight was never Isolde's way, after all. She's here not just to celebrate her daughter's ascension, but to support her wife. Queen Halcyon looks stronger today than she has for a long time, but her hair is still silver before its time, and there is an air of fragility to her that makes her seem... almost like shining glass, a pane that refuses to yield to the storm.

When she yields the crown, it will be a great weight off her shoulders.

There's also several members of the Cavalerian royal family: Kaja, here as Jessamine's special someone, and Ninian, whose hair salon will get even more recognition as a result of doing Queen Halcyon's braids, and Azora, over in the corner speaking with the Royal Witch. Nobody needs to fear Alina going mad with power, because in the very unlikely event that were ever to happen, Diana would be there to stop her.

You have a moment before everyone takes their seats; who do you greet?

***

Princess Alina Cascade!

"Of course you are, your majesty," the most special cat in all of Hyperborea says. You swirl around and see her standing there in her Askaian best, her troubadour's jacket slung over one shoulder, a sprig of lavender in her hair. Her tail swishes excitedly as she looks you over, unable to hide a fond smile as she meets your eyes.

She reaches out with one hand, waiting for you to take it. To take her, and to let her escort you to the stage. (Eupheria sighs the delighted sigh of someone who is looking forward to grandkittens.) "The ceremony's about to start, my heart. I love you." She slips it in like it escaped from her heart before she could catch it, and her cheeks redden, but she doesn't look away.

***

Princess Kazelia Swiftlance!

Of course. There's only one person you could end up sitting next to.

Ourania!!!

"It's wonderful to see you, my faithful apprentice," she says, seemingly oblivious to the way that Kyouko is already sizing her up. The battle for Hyperborea proved to her that she needed to have a closer relationship with the many kingdoms, or at the very least, needed to have a herald and protege. Your mentor is radiant today; her dress only looks white at a distance, but like the opals burning on her breast, breaks into glorious rainbows when you draw closer. She is being given a healthy distance by most of the other guests, who see her (not unreasonably) as too cool to talk to. What if they stuck their foot in their mouth in front of the High Queen?

But you're glad that you were able to convince her to come. This is just another step in dispelling some of the grandeur that separates her from the subjects she adores from afar. What's your plan for helping her relax and break the ice in the afterparty (and, not coincidentally, get her to lower her defenses long enough for Kyouko to make her move)?

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea!

Epilogue: Here We Are In The Future.

Princess Alina Cascade!

"Are you sure you don't want pigtails? They'd frame your face perfectly," Eupheria says, pouting. The morning rain trickles down the panes of the window, the soft sunlight dappling on your face as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Princess Alina Cascade, for the last time. "Well, if you insist," she says with an expressive shrug, and sets to your hair with a brush and pins, moving so fluidly and energetically that you could almost imagine she still had four arms and proportions set only by her whim.

Outside, you can hear the Royal Orchestra playing in the newly reopened throne room. They're playing a folk tune: "The Princess in the Reeds," a lively reel that makes you remember the first royal ball you ever attended. And when did these tears arrive? Be careful! Euphie worked so hard on the winged eyeliner, your majesty!

***

Princess Kazelia Swiftlance!

You help your fiancée off of Shiva's back with the poise of a lancer, letting her lean into you as the rain kisses you both. Today she's wearing her finest kimono, her hair kept in a bun by a pin in the shape of a glasseye salmon, and slippers embroidered with the riotous petals of a garden in full bloom.

"Kazelia!" You're given hardly any time at all to react before Jessamine wraps you in an enthusiastic hug. The new Captain of the Guard has her hair in a smart bob now, and medals gleam on the pastel-pink sash hanging over her glass breastplate. "It's so good to see you! How's Rideria?" Oooh, she's a few names out of date-- what's the current name for the kingdom of the Riders?

***

Adila!

"Look," Dandelion says, putting her foot down with so much confidence that not even the preeminent princess of the Devils can ignore her, "If Black Serpent attacks the ceremony, then she's the biggest fool in all of Hyperborea. So you and Adila don't need to go on another patrol of the castle. If we don't get to our seats now, we might miss the beginning of the ceremony." And she's right, but that doesn't stop Iron Star Crushes The Strong from getting huffy.

Black Serpent Scorns Heaven's Light isn't the only threat still at large, but Hyperborea's safer today than it's been in years. Asteria Spite's finally cooling her heels in custody, after all. And Dandy's right that if Black Serpent tried to show up and do something dastardly, here, it would be a huge mistake.

You can relax and enjoy having both your girlfriends in the same place and not arguing with each other. Nobody's going to come crash this coronation.

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Princesses!

Rita takes Alina's hand in hers, and flashes a brave grin that shows off her sharp little teeth. "That's a wonderful idea, Lina!" And the irrepressible joy bubbling up in her laugh is another sharp crack in the Seed. Diana gives a careful look and yells over the tempest to keep going!

"I... accept," Azora says, obviously taken aback, and lets her feet touch the floor. She stands, taken aback by the invitation, by the lack of blame despite everything she's done. As if moving in a dream, she comes closer to Kazelia, their hands brushing together, and another crack rings out, this one shivering across the entire length.

"I'm so proud of you, darling," Dandy says, her voice clarion over the storm, as she wraps her arms around Adila's neck. "You were so amazing when you showed Oberon how we dance in Hyperborea!" She raises a fist, and starts chanting: Hyper-borea, Hyper-borea, Hyper-borea. And it's silly, and more than a little ridiculous, but it's infectious: Hyper-borea, Hyper-borea, Hyper-borea! And Ourania's eyes flutter open, and she smiles and joins in the chant, as the Seed shivers and splinters and seems to be held together only by the bleak, cold light inside.

Rita von Catabas nuzzles up her girlfriend's neck and silences her melodious chant with a kiss, and the World Seed burns as bright as the North Star before it shatters with a deafening roar.