Tatterdemalion

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

You squeeze the priestess’s hand gently and nod. “It’s all right,” you say. What else can you say? “Everything will be all right.” Oh, that’s better. More honest. You only remove your hand once you’re sure she won’t fall to pieces without it. So now it’s time to deal with the Duchess.

It’d be much neater if you had a plan, don’t you think? Yes, much neater. Or maybe something that needed to happen to stop your vision from happening. Or maybe it’s supposed to happen and attempting to fight against it will only bring ruin. And by wind and flower, don’t even think of asking the Duchess if she’s plotting against Uther.

“Your grace,” you say, delicately. “I apologize for my outburst; the vision came over me strongly. The sight of the black and silver standing against the unicorn... it was so terrible that I lost myself.” Not just the fighting, of course, but the dire implications. “It may still be averted, I think, if we are wise...”

You study the duchess not out of suspicion but out of instinct. Only a fool of an apprentice blinds herself to the world around her, and you have grown up, yes, look at you. How your eyes linger on her neck, her gaze, the grip of her fingers upon the chair. But is there anything to be read there, daughter of rivers?

[Marvelous! You have rolled a 6. So tell us, Marianne, what do you intend to do?]

Breathless Dead

"Are you watching, Nero?" Molech tugs at his wild black beard, lips drawing back from his teeth at the corner of his mouth. Unlike his bodyguard, the fearsome Pallas Rex, who wears a breastplate of black armor whose neon overlays beat in time with the cannon fire and whose helmet bears the goddess's sacred crest, Molech is wearing a simple robe. Bearing arms would imply to those around him that he was not certain in his ability to act according to the collated Codes of War, which he carries in three tomes chained to his wrist. No enemy will approach him if it is not according to his wish, and no traitor will survive the heavy spear-blow of the Pallas Rex. "You hubristrix! You senseless owl! It is my lady's will that I win in her name, by her doctrine, before her image! My rule is the last the age will see, and not one pretender will survive my wrath!"

Redana takes it all in, eyes wide. On the backdrop, the lights shine in simulation of space. Space! There, look at that painting-- the ships cut smoothly through the swirling winds, firing their long-lance batteries as they close in upon the Spear. And there, taking up an entire wall, the sword shorn from the figurehead of the Classical, pitted with starlight and frost. Her hands itch; she wants to vault up onto point in a painting, lead a battalion of Ceronians, crash through a doctrine-perfect phalanx with nothing but fury and courage; she dodges each spearhead as the howl from her throat and the throats of her war-band mingles with the savage cry of Lord Ares, who gives them the strength to do the impossible!

Up on the stage, twelve Machine Intelligences wearing theater masks and billowing robes surround Molech. Redana squeezes Bella's hand, pulls her a little closer. "It's the Board of Administration," she hisses in excitement. "They're convinced by the omens that disaster is about to befall Baradissar, and--"

The first sword moves an inch out of its scabbard, hidden in a sleeve, but the Pallas Rex is impossible to deceive. With a contemplative grunt, she hoists her mirror-polished shield, dark as night, in the air and slams it through the neck of the offending Board member, who falls with a crackle of static. Eleven short arming swords, straight and gleaming, are drawn, and the Pallas Rex begins her deadly dance. (That is why there are Stage Machines here, you see; it would be cruelty to make twelve Servitors die eight times a day for a museum exhibit.) Molech doesn't even turn as the recorded shrieks of the dying traitors ring out. "Nero! Nero! Are you watching, Nero, for once in your damned life? Are you witnessing perfection?"

***

"You know," Redana says, settling onto one of the seats with a relief she can't hide, her leg supported by a lattice of light braces woven into her trousers, "I wonder if Molech's bodyguard is still on the planet. After Mom kicked her out through the viewscreen. The Pallas Rex. She was a statue of Athena, like Alexa, but Molech used her as his personal bodyguard. I always wondered if she got caught in the planet's gravity well and fell to earth, leaving behind a crater. What would she have done, anyway? Probably become a hermit in the Imperial Palace. Defeated weaponmasters are always taking up vows and becoming ascetics."

Amazingly, she has never put together two and two. But, you know, why would she? There's the Pallas Rex, invincible image of the goddess, who faltered in the face of Ares-blessed Nero's swordplay, and then there's Alexa, who sat in a niche outside her prison's front gate until the day she needed her help to escape, and is friends with Isty (the Pallas Rex would never), and probably doesn't even like fighting all that much, and just wants to go home and sit in her niche again. Like Alexa would ever become an ascetic meditating on virtue and the gods!

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien!

The terminal where you end up looks like a wartorn death zone. Bodies lie here and there, mostly ones so strange and warped and inhuman that they must be angels, slowly sprouting into a variety of odd mushrooms where they lie. But the angels did not die fighting themselves.

On the other side of the terminal, the architecture has been repurposed into blocky, sharp-angled pillars and walls, mathematical precision cutting into normal curves and surfaces. The only thing curved about those walls are the many holes— and if you looked closely, you’d see they’re hexagons.

From the ceiling above, something is being hatched. One metal wing has punctured its cocoon, more frame than structure, and needle-thin claws are raking at the thick wood pulp of the cocoon. In response, a hum that sets your teeth on edge issues from the severe, inhuman walls as glowing neon blue bees begin to emerge in their dozens.

But nobody has noticed you. If you wanted, you could set up a chair, munch on suspicious mushrooms like popcorn, and watch the show.

***

Ailee!

“InSPector!” There is a whine of radio static, the flickering of voices, as the receiver tunes in on you. When it speaks again, its voice is choppy, rising and falling, as if assembling words from fragmented sounds stolen from other words. The two voices are there, always there, entwined perversely: the polished charm of the station announcer and the jagged growl of the station itself. “You are very late. Nevertheless, we here at Wormwood Station apologize for the current conditions. Safety is everyone’s responsibility!”

You are considered a moment; there is a sound that is almost like breathing. “Due to present unfortunate conditions,” the station offers, “We are willing to arrange an expedited departure from Terminal Ivy, provided you first assist custodial staff in clearing the cancer in this Terminal. Safety is everyone’s responsibility! Reply.”

***

Coleman! Jackdaw!

For a moment, you are safe. There is a waterfall that is flooding the Terminal, but you have high, safe ground. The ragged-coated Wolf pants and licks her lips, tightening her grip on Coleman’s leash, but you have that moment.

Oh, Jackdaw, that’s a thing. Coleman is very caught by someone who looks like they are starving. Quite literally starving. Ribs can be seen. And the look they’re giving you suggests they haven’t made up their mind whether you’re a friend, or whether you’re lunch.

Coleman, want to make introductions?

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Oh, Constance, how your fingers find their place. They are pale like white stone, like the forgotten statues in Bath. Under your fingertips, Cerwen's palm is wet with fear. It is your turn to be strong; you lean over Cerwen, your murmurs as meaningless and gentle as the song of the river as it dances over the rocks in the spring sun. Look, you intimate, look: your blood lives yet. From the same root you came, and you have not been cleft yet, not yet, not yet. This you know, this you can do; you touch her as if she were Palug, you calm that hot blood, you are strong because she is weak, because she needs a hero, and you are no knight, Constance, no skill at arms you can claim, but you are kind. That is strength.

[Constance rolls a 8 and warmth, faith, returns to Cerwen. You may take it as you will.]

Breathless Dead

First Part of the Second Part: Being the Nature of Princess Redana Claudius, Her Virtues, Her Qualities
QQ: Is Redana A Virtuous Champion of her Ship?
Article: Whether Redana Acted By Virtue in Inscribing her Name upon the Reactor Spike?

Objection I. It would seem that the role of the champion is to loyally serve the gods, their ship, their captain, and their crew, in descending order; therefore it was wrong for her to inscribe her name upon the Reactor Spike instead of bringing the stylus to her Captain.
Objection II. As the Starsong Privateers were instrumental in not only securing the ship but piloting it, providing provisions, and passing peril by; therefore it was wrong of her to assert that Hades had given the ship to her instead of an entire crew by signing her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Objection III. The role of a Princess in her education is to be proactive, rather than reactive; therefore it was wrong of her to follow her tutor’s instructions without challenging their validity by signing her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Rebuke IV. On the contrary, Redana’s heroic flaw must be an unwillingness to act as befits a Princess, and in this deed she acted with the authority and pride that are her birthright, both by mother and father, and therefore she acted by virtue in doing so.
Answer V. There are two precedents that may be drawn from. When Zeus and her brothers divided the greater and lesser parts of existence between themselves, each ceded authority over the domains given to their siblings; in similar fashion, Hades ceded authority over the Plousios to Redana, his niece. When Nero allotted prefectural governors across Tellus, she did not retract her authority over her ministers, despite giving them broad authority over life and death within their estates; in the same way, Redana did not cede her rightful dominion over the Plousios to Vasilia, and seen rightly, Vasilia is an honored servant of the Princess, who listens to her demands with the graciousness of her mother listening to the demands of the governors. Therefore the Princess acted in accordance with virtue when she signed her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Reply to Objection VI. Redana must follow her inherent nature, which is to rise above Servitor and human alike. For as the Interpreter says, self-knowledge is the root of virtue, so that each may seek their role and purpose for right action. Therefore, it is lacking in virtue for her to retreat into modesty and uncertainty, and it is virtuous for her to have signed her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Reply to Objection VII. While the Starsong Privateers are skilled and blessed by Olympus, their skills in command and provisioning do not by necessity translate to skill in possession. Indeed, for this reason the merchant does not pilot his own vessel, and the teamster does not own the caravan. Therefore it was entirely virtuous for Redana to have signed her name upon the Reactor Spike.
Reply to Objection VIII. While it might be supposed that Redana simply did as she was told, it must be understood that she herself considered these things: her relationship with Vasilia, her name and lineage, her determination to continue on her voyage, her ability to care for the vessel and protect it, and even her desire to show Hades that she was properly thankful for his gift. And so her decision to sign her name upon the Reactor Spike was in accordance with proper virtue.

***

The admirable thing about Redana, one might discover, is that when she starts a project, she doesn’t stop until it is finished.

The less admirable thing is that she sees a problem or an opportunity and then dives right in, both feet forward. She’s learning the arts of Ares, after all. No plan! Do!

This wasn’t a problem when she was, say, fixing the dumb-waiter. But the last few hours of approach while she improved the landing hydraulics? Somewhat nail-biting.

Someone should definitely have a word with her about approving engineering projects. But in such a way that, you know, she keeps repairing a ship half falling apart.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Jezcha!

The sound of thunder fills your head and makes you deaf. For a moment, you think that it is just more of the apparitions that have surrounded this arena. But, no, as the smoke and shadows lift, you can see that the great gate of the arena has been blown apart. It is the most terrible destruction you have ever seen inflicted upon your city, and your heart leaps into your throat.

Shamash stands, smoking, in the center of the arena, one fist still extended. That terrible gauntlet vents with a bestial roar, and Shamash lets it fall to their side. "Find the body," they say, their voice inscrutable. "Or what is left of it."

You don't say anything. You can hear the blood pounding in your head. To kill the human, the God of Motion unleashed the Huwawa. How... how terrible... how...?

No. It must have been justified. You rise to your feet, and with a dry voice, cheer the god who defeated an impossible foe. "Shamash," you cry, and your friends among the stands rise, too, desperate. No, not desperate. They, too, understand it was the only way to win. There will be stories told about this day, when Shamash slew Canada the Destroyer.

"Shamash! Shamash! Shamash!" The stupid slaves take encouragement to cheer their savior, but the prod of their guards gets their tongues working, even as Shamash's chariot descends to take them back once more to Babylon. "Shamash! Shamash! Shamash!"

Only your sister sits and says nothing. Dumb blind fool. One day, you will be rid of her. Maybe you should talk to the Inquisitors about her failure to show piety today...

***

Canada! Marianne!

You fall into the deep places of the city.

Down here there are vast machineries; there are storage-vaults; there are sealed tombs. There are shield generators; there are weather engines; there are hidden chambers. Here, there are passageways that lead from temple to temple, sealed thrice either way; here, there are oceans of oil and seas of circulated water; here, you are not meant to live. And yet you fall into the dust, hours away from the city far above, tangled among each other; and there is nothing but the wetness of your tears. There is no light, yet there is no silence; all around is the sound of strange and terrible device.

You are alone together. How cruel, to be so.

***

Anathet!

There is a huge and terrible sound that comes from the south. The kind of sound that signals disaster; the kind of sound that is so large it echoes across the bay, where the old city lies. Smoke rises, as do Shamash's chariots. But you're not supposed to do this; you're supposed to go and make sure everybody gets released on time. If you hurry, you can hit the release points and get everyone to scatter well before the Seneschal is found, but it's going to be tight. That means you need to stop crying and compose yourself. Get it together, girl!

How do you find solace and do what is needed of you tonight, Anathet? How do you find the self-control to keep going even when you just want to sit in a corner and cry about how awful everything is?

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

“It was...” Oh, Constance, listen to you! How your voice trembles! How lovely you are, even unwittingly! Your distress makes you seem like a tree trembling in the wind, even as you shade your eyes to watch the thrilling conclusion of the joust. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Breathless Dead

“It would take an Empress, wouldn’t it?” Redana laughs as she says it, but watch her carefully: how she starts to think, her brow furrowing, her face growing suddenly solemn. Her mother would have the motive, after all. Maybe that’s what’s in one of the Imperial Vaults: the secret of igniting one of these roaring, howling star-chambers. There’s all sorts of things in there; that’s what mother told her one night, a visiting-night, at the end of the day, sitting by Dany[1] on the side of her bed. There are wonderful things and there are dangerous things and only she knows the difference, and only she holds the keys. When she was little, Dany imagined all sorts of things in there: an entire ocean, a little thin-handled hammer with a golden head, the first seeds of all the vegetables in the world, a tusked monstrosity in adamant chains, a sword so thin you could only see the hilt. She drew them when she should have been taking notes: all the marvelous things her mind could conjure, all the forbidden gifts and curses of the universe.

How easy it would be to seal up Ignition inside there[2].

“Well, if it is her,” she says, and for a moment she is the daughter of her father, her eye the unhealthy green of a thunderstorm, her Auspex the blue-white of lightning, “then you don’t need to worry. We’ll open that vault and let Ignition out when we go home. We’re going to give everyone the stars again.”

A moment; little more. She diminishes with a smile. The echo of the Nemean— no, the reminder that the Nemean is Redana, too— dissipates. “But that’s going to take us a while. Tell me more about how our engines work, please! And if you have to explain something else, or walk me through what it means, first, I’m listening.”

She sits down, tosses one knee over the other, and gives the Hermetican her most attentive, malleable smile. She’s ready to listen to this lecture.

***

[1]: And the hollow air where, one day, a best friend would be. But not yet.

[2]: Even Redana is fuzzy, here and now, on how much that thought is metaphor. The gods do enjoy making the metaphorical literal.

Breathless Dead

“Maybe there’s lost context,” Redana says, because she’s surely expected to say something. A princess does not sit like a lump and refuse to engage with her lessons! “The archivists are always complaining about that. That in previous ages, there are things that don’t get recorded because they’re obvious, or were, back then. Like where Xiban was! We have records of trading fleets and descriptions of their royal court, but nobody wrote down where it was because that was obvious, everyone knew Xiban, until we didn’t. So maybe everybody used to know what made engines ignite, until they didn’t, because there was disruption and tumult and cultural collapse. Or, or maybe that part was an oral tradition, because those are very prone to disruption, if everyone that knows what’s supposed to be passed on dies.”

That’s not a cheerful thought. Lots of serious, devoted technomancers, passing on the great big secret, from the old to the new, and then something happens all at once: Poseidon drowns them all, or the Drive Yards burn with fire and light, or a mad king orders the dissolution of the turbulent priests that ail him...

“It’s okay that you don’t know,” she adds. “I’m not mad. Thank you for telling me what you do know. I really appreciate it. Can I keep asking questions? Or is there a limit? Oh no, have I run out already? Why do I keep asking? I’m sorry!”

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

Set!

“Grrrrrmph...”

The Seneschal is looking at you more appraisingly, Set. As he sinks his stylus into the malleable surface of the tablet, he’s not looking at the glyph he signs: he’s looking at you. There’s a wicked cunning there, a foxlike intelligence and refusal to give up.

You’ve made him all the more zealous in wanting to stop you, to catch you, to punish you for what you’ve just done; but he knows now that he will have to be clever and decisive. Set, avatar of her god, is a dangerous enemy clambering up the Chain.

Ah, but there it is, you have the release orders now. What’s your parting gift for him?

***

Canada!

Shamash buffets you with waves of sound from what feels like every side; they’re here, they’re there, they’re kicking up great clouds of sand as they damage spacetime. It’s an unsteady and berserk assault, and it’d be easy to punish if your feet weren’t sunk into the arena.

How heavy is your shield? How do you protect your ears and eyes? Why is Marianne doing this?

***

Marianne!

The world is growing dangerously thin. That great brute chews their way through the world, and their insistence on staying in one little arena is making things quite, quite threadbare.

What begins to leak through into the audience? What signs and portents and stray thoughts are made manifest among them as their god threatens to send them all hurtling down into your demesne?