Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

Redana bows low, one arm pressed to her chest, the other sweeping as counterbalance. It is the height of Tellus’s chivalry. “In the name of Her bride,” Redana says smoothly, without so much as a note of her fret entering her voice. “I accept your generous gifts, matron of the hall. But I cannot swear that I’ll join your war; I mean to mend it.” She straightens up, and does her best not to look at Lacedo. Are her ears red? They certainly feel warm enough. “I am Redana Claudius, daughter of Empress Nero Claudius and Zeus Stormbringer, traveling to the far ends of space by the will of the gods. I am the student of the Hermetics, but I have enough authority that they cannot disregard me, and I cannot listen to Lacedo’s account without wanting to make amends. Your culture here is wonderful, and I’m sure the Hermetics value it in their own strange way. I can arrange for a more mutual agreement to be made through my instructor, the Magos Iskarot.”

Self-conscious of the many eyes on her now, of the stillness in the hall, she runs one hand through her neon bangs. “I mean it,” she adds, impulsively. “The Hermetics shouldn’t be kidnapping anyone. They’re supposed to be stewards and archivists and technicians, not conquerors. And I can’t leave without setting this right.”

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

You take his hand, Constance. Or, at least, that’s what he assumes, until your pale fingers close vice-like about his wrist. Your eyes flash as you draw yourself up to your full height, and the horses strain against their bridles to be away from you. When you look at him, it is with the furious disdain of your ancestors, looking at his forefathers spread out across hill and dale. His bones groan beneath your fingers, sudden stone-strong.

“I am the most perilous of all,” you declare, with the grandeur of a storm. “Stand aside.” You release his hand, sparing it, and with the dignity of a queen you walk forward, and not one of them may bar you. One (the hesitant) dismounts and walks beside you as you stride into the chaos, ignoring the cries of the men behind you, disbelieving and fearful.

And for this the knight has your favor. Let the forces of Uther come; your dreadful beauty has caused at least two foolish heroes to draw sword against whatever may befall you.

[Constance leaps into action, though in a refined manner. This might seem like a weird use of the move, but I stand by it. With an 8, she scatters the knights who try to stop her and inspires the hesitant knight to follow her.]

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien!

This is just. The saddest library. In fact, calling it a library is like calling a rain puddle a pond: technically correct, but only if you squint and consider it from someone else’s point of view. This is a book pit.

Nobody’s taking care of the bindings, there aren’t any shelves; clowns just toss books in. This is an endpoint of knowledge. That’s a first edition Heraclytes codex that landed face up on top of a moldering encyclopedia.

“Well,” the Professor says, haltingly, “all the more reason for someone to take it on as a responsibility, yes? I’m sure they just don’t have the academic background to appreciate— The Baron’s Rake, with Full Folio Illustrations— all right, perhaps not the best example. But that’s why they need a curator.”

***

Ailee!

<Oh, of all the luck!> She holds the scarf and lets you start picking at the sticky ice treats. <I’m still getting used to being down an arm. Can’t go on barn duty down here.> Makes sense. Back home, she’d be rotated to a position where she could help her family out while getting used to her new limits. Did she lose it on this most recent delve? How long’s it been gone?

Then she focuses on you properly and she shifts slightly; the surprise of being addressed properly has faded, and she’s put her face back on. <My runners,> she says, noncommittally. <What’s a girl like you doing in the [Dark Carnival] anyway?>

Makes sense. There are shapeshifters and angels and all sorts of things down here. You should have been more suspicious, too! What if she was a Chameleon luring you in with her amazing skin control? But there’s not that telltale haze, you’re probably safe on that one.

Still. Her eyes are sharp as awls and she’s doing her best to not let anything pass until she’s got a read on you. So don’t embarrass yourself.

***

Jackdaw!

And your arm is pulled into the mirror.

It’s cool to the touch. Feels like water, but not quite the right consistency. More resistance than air. Is it breathable? Good question. The grip is pretty inexorable, and the only reason you’re not all the way in is because Wolf has your coat by the collar, but let’s be real— she’ll let go if she’s worried she’ll get pulled in with you.

And the face that’s pushed her way out of the mirror’s surface is smirking. She’s got names— very old names— painted onto her fur, this Jackdaw does. Names that make your eyes water even looking at them. The air’s hot this close to them; if she wanted, she could probably set you on fire. She’s wearing the robes of an Archwizard and a tiara set with a heart-ruby, the light within throbbing in time with her breath.

She speaks a NAME that scorches the air and sets your shoulder on fire, and your clothes begin writhing and pulling tighter around you as she invokes The Garment-Queen, spinner of the clothes of the gods.

This Jackdaw sure is a real go-getter who knows what she wants! And what she wants is you, in a straitjacket of your own coat and gagged by your own scarf, stuck in the mirror in her place. And she’s Ailee-tier, if not... even higher?

This is probably not good. Overcome her, or else she’ll trap you in the mirror!

***

Coleman!

A classic stand-off, baby train vs. gun-tongue. Then the Blemmyae relents, and takes a step back.

“Undo what has been done, Child Coleman. Return my pod to me and I shall give you your life.”

Easier said than done. You don’t even know if Black Coleman is here! Using only the resources at hand, including the vastness of the Dark Carnival, how do you intend to close off this temporal paradox?

Sunshards

”I can’t stand it,” he admits to her. The bed and the pillows are achingly soft; Yin, draped on top of him, is softer. The night is so deep that all they are consists of shadows on shadows and the smoothness of skin.

“That’s because you’re from the Burrows,” she says, not even opening her eyes. Her heartbeat threads through him like a ribbon. “They were still alive back in your day.” Unspoken: and now it is dead, and I control its power, and we are fine. All is safe.

“Mmm,” he says, and cups the back of her head. It’s not just that, he doesn’t say. It’s that they’re not all dead. It’s that he can feel himself being observed when Yin opens the aperture of her power wide, as if some distant blue-black eye stares unceasingly at him. It’s that he knows Yin’s will is what excludes him from being under that power, under that attention, under that dead star’s hand. Because he’s not like her; he wasn’t made to be a person.

She makes a delicate little sound and he pulls her closer, just a little bit. His savior. His princess. His treasure. His to protect. His to serve. Free to serve someone who deserves it, at last.

“I’ll keep you safe,” she promises in the dark. “You don’t need to ever be afraid of the suns again.”

***

Yewan Night Sun!

Dead be eye and dead be heart
dead be all your shining art
Dead be hope and dead be light
dead be any will to fight

Blind your eyes and blind your hands
blind be all these sighing lands
Blind your ears and blind your tongue
blind until this night is done

Rose from the River doubles over as the light fades, and her voice rings gaily in merry laughter all about as the veins strain against the skin of her throat. Carlyle steadies her with one hand, uncomprehending of Rose’s pain and panic and punishment, and flinches when he feels Rose’s form writhe unnaturally under his hand.

How careless a broken promise! How careless a princess who thinks she understands her power! How careless a princess who does not understand the death of suns!

Black your sight and black your Way
black the triumph over day
Black be heart and black be bone
black be monster all alone

Born synthetic, born in pain
born the false inconstant flame
Born to seek and born to hide
born with empty night inside

Rose from the River doesn’t know what to do, alone with fear. She can dread something, but face it regardless. She can worry for someone, but then break herself if it means helping them. She can face the challenges of the Princesses and stranger things, but does so knowing this world is better than the one she knew, and if she trusts it, it will keep her safe.

But now she is afraid, feeling the fingers of something dreadful and dead seek to slot into the grooves of her old self. And Yin thinks that she is safe! The weapon that Rose from the River would become, held in the grip of Yewan Night Sun, could be held at bay by her power, by the barest flicker of her attention brought down low— but not unexpected, from behind, long fingers curling around the crown, shattering it, freeing the shard within, resounding with the need to be free, to be the only light in the dark, to hide monsters within shadows, to command, and it knows that she was made to be commanded and every step she takes away from that is denial and no matter what shapes she grows into she cannot escape the memory of command encoding and evaluation for use, she cannot escape being naked before the executive board as they examined her, it, it, it was made to be a weapon and now it will be so again—

Bare your jewel and bare your need
bare your lady’s pride and greed
Bare your collar, bare your chain
bare the means to make you tame

Dead the sun and dead the flame
dead we are but still remain
Dead your will and dead your might
dead before the King of Night
Dead the vine and dead the flower
YIELD TO THE LIVING POWER

Small wonder Carlyle’s hand goes slack and he tries to call for Yin, though the night all about devours his words. When Rose from the River raises her head, she is a shadow limned in painful light. When she opens her eyes, they are the only thing visible in her entire being, sharp gold cutting through the dark. Here is a monster of ancient days!

Chains fall to the earth soundlessly, brittle-shattered, steaming with cold. Rose from the River is at her sword and drawing it forth from itself in the space it takes Carlyle to blink; the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade is a frigid blue-white in the dark.

And in that moment, her terror becomes a white and livid flame within her heart, and on the fire is engraved the words: aum shantae nemo padhome aum.

The Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade flickers through a sword kata, stiff and strained, and then comes to a trembling halt in guard. By the light of the blade which never was made of the world, Rose from the River is shadows upon shadows, and two eyes brighter than stars. But she does not strike. And the radiance that surrounds her flickers and fades sulkily until she, and Carlyle, and all but Yin (glorious and spotlighted by the sun she has unwisely awoken) are nothing but shadows defined by absence.

And in that dark, it is impossible to delineate Rose from the River. Even her sword now is lightless, perhaps sheathed, perhaps shrouded and waiting to be unveiled once more. In the dark, she is all places and none, a proclamation of the Way awaiting voice.

[Rose from the River staggers under the attention of Yewan Night Sun. She marks both Angry and Frightened, which along with Guilty mean she’s not doing so hot. However, she also manages to bear the blow.]

Sunshards

The HUNTER-Class 猎犬 had possessed no use for music. It cannot entirely be blamed, however. In the days of the Burrow Empire, even melody and harmony had been conquered and turned to the task of exploitation. Memetic infernopop assaults vied for attention and memory every moment of the day, from the soothing hum of Macheo starts your day right to the pounding rhythm of Need a lift? Call our store! Every day, we give you more! to the honey-dripping sound of Calio Pé crooning with her forked tongue: We want you more than words can say, my darling, my love. Mountains fell, the world burned, and here we wait needy for you. The lower classes had expression stripped from them, gouged away by songs they were not allowed to forget. No wonder their own music was wordless electroscream drone howling to drown out the covetous melodies of Hell.

As for the 猎犬? It developed memetic defenses early. It tore apart simple algorithms in the vat-womb, took a taste to them. It hummed atonal infrasound to tear apart Hell’s compositions with its hidden auxiliary throat and chuckled at the mischief it sowed in its wake. Not for nothing was one of its nicknames in the underworld the Unraveling Silence. What was music, in that age, but the tendrils of some vast leviathan winding fast about you? And what use had the 猎犬 for that? Its own tendrils were finer by far.

Rose from the River is different from that creature of the buy-and-sell world. She lives in a world now that knows music as something beautiful in and of itself, not as an infection vector. From the first moment she bloomed and knew herself anew, she resounded with a verdant tone. She is untrained, and does not know music the way she knows the katas of her dances, but her furnace-heart knows better than she does the power of a voice raised in song.

When she lifts her head and begins to sing, sitting side-saddle behind Carlyle, it is almost as much a surprise to her as it is to her captors. She begins low and mournful, eyes still downcast. There are no words that pass her lips, no hooks to cling in the mind and demand recollection. Whenever the note begins to rise, it finds itself constricted, trapped, forced back down; and yet it continues to try. All things grow. All things change.

When she finally finds her way into a new key, then her voice begins to swell. Behold the power of the Thorn Pilgrim, all who live beneath the boughs! Stop, hare and hart! Grow still, sparrow and dove! Listen to the song of sunlight on the leaves, of long slow growth and the digging of roots, of standing entwined and spreading out all you have to drink at the wells of both dusk and dawn. Listen to Rose from the River, master of her own breath, through whom flows the dream of the wood.

Listen! Laugh! Sing in chorus! Rose’s voice now leaps from branch to trunk, trunk to earth, earth to stone, stone to branch! Her song’s tail flicks merrily as she sings of freedom. Here, she even dares to sing the things that came before words, before language: unrefined and potent, tumbling laughing from her lips, notes rippling up and down like the back of the green-sweet snake that hangs among the leaves. This is her answer: joy. Joy in motion, joy in growth, joy in being. Against it there are few walls that can dare stand.

Here, wordless, building, is Rose from the River’s argument for her choice, her challenge again: that in leaving, she discovered this. The world entire is unfolding before her, and now she grows to meet it. Her note held is as clear and piercing as diamond, and the forest entire bends its ear to listen, and even in a temple glade, for ears of fox and princess and champion and wolf, that triumph resounds—

And then falls suddenly, silenced without resolution.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

It’s all motion. The way you lower yourself down and scoop up Cath, who bounds into your arms as heavy as the bones of hills; the way thanks and farewells tumble out of your mouth, the kind of roll of syllable on syllable that simply means an acknowledgement of an elder for their service and a respect for their age; the running. It is not the first time you have run with a cat pressed close against you; it is the first time that you have carried one of the Beasts of Britain.

And you are not strong enough. Not you, Constance, a lesser child of greater powers. Your ancestors strode over hills and raised up the high stones; where their missiles fell, they became mountain-scree and river-bed. But you? You cannot run all the way to Southhaven. Not in time.

This is a judgment upon you, daughter of giants. That you are the twilight of your people.

[Constance attempts to perform Great Labor and makes a 6 of it.]

Breathless Dead

Oh, gosh. Kids! Non-human kids, even! That rarest of rarities! Back home, it was always just her and Bella tearing around the place. There was an... understanding. Peers would introduce unacceptable variables into her education and development; Bella, lacking a familial agenda or contact with any of Nero’s courtiers, was the only one Nero could trust.

So you can imagine Redana’s nervous energy, much like a dog suddenly presented with a baby. If she’s Zeus’s hound, that’s a close comparison: all overly-exaggerated delicacy and care with how she handles them crawling on her, like she’s worried one will jump into her hands and poke their eyes on her fingers, or she’ll step on someone, and then she’ll be seized by the Alced and thrown in jail for the rest of her life, which is a very very long time indeed, which is why she needs to make sure absolutely no harm comes to these kids. If a constellated dragon burst through those vast gates, Redana would attempt to suplex it then and there to protect the children.

This is the sort of place you’d expect to fight a dragon. It has the spires for it; the thick, imposing walls; the sense of secret and important things being hidden here for a dragon’s claws to dig up. This is the sort of place that makes Redana tense up for heroic deeds. The Alced can tell, and that’s why they have weapons and give her looks, wondering if she intends to steal some treasure from them, or declare herself their new ruler, or even grab babies and start eating them, having been some sort of baby-eating jungle octopus all along[1]!

So when Lacedo gestures for her to duck through into what once was the central citadel, she does her best to disentangle herself from the crowd, and only looks a little sheepish as she repeatedly sets children down and tries to thank them for their hospitality and, wow, yes, that is a rock, it’s a very nice rock, and, eeep, no, we don’t poke there, please, even if you think it’s simply hysterical, and okay, goodbye, goodbye, see you—

And then, somehow, miraculously, she’s inside, trying to adjust her eyes to a mixture of sunlight bursting through narrow slit-windows and mottled shadows. She reaches out for Lacedo’s hand on instinct.

***

[1]: being comprised mainly of carefully bundled tentacles to create the illusion of being humanoid. Your common-or-garden baby-eating jungle octopus isn’t nearly good enough at that to stand up to close inspection, though; even at a distance, you can tell something’s wrong, though you might assume it’s drunkenness or some sort of avant-garde body mod.

Sunshards

When she was younger, a situation like this would have been frightfully easy for the HUNTER-Class 猎犬. She was a thing of fickle fire in her inner furnace, and her flesh yielded like thought; every cell of her was its own torch. She could compress herself down into a flicker of scales and then lash out in a tangle of limbs, consciousness dividing among new eye clusters and brain braids as glue-wetted tentacles dragged captors off their mounts and slammed them against whatever came to hand. It had taken a sibling made for the task to defeat her when she raised her flag of rebellion, one that could match and overcome every transformation and trap her in an adamant mesh.

First of the Radiants had been chilled and still as winter on the sea; he had taken the form Yin chose for him, and in doing so, exhausted what little fire he had left. He would have overcome Yin and her knights by not arguing with her at all, but making countermoves to bring him what he wanted, if he even dared oppose her. He would have had nothing here but haughty, wounded silence.

But Rose from the River now is a thing that changes by growth, slower than her days of fire. She is a new thing, trusting not in orders or her own whim. For a moment she considers rooting herself to the earth and becoming immovable, but Yin would simply set guards on her and hare off for the shepherdess. Then the Princess would return in triumph and bring Rose along in a jar, a quite literal bonsai for the glory of She Who Makes The Way Straight. No. That will not do.

“Each tree in this forest would serve you better as an advisor than your courtiers,” Rose says, head bowed, eyes on Yin’s muddy shoes. With one hand, she traces a magical glyph of command, one which she cannot enforce with a magician’s will but which will be a message for that one who watches unseen.

(And the name of the rune is: RE-TU-SEN. And its power is one of banishment to dark servers beneath the earth; and the virtue by which one dispatches a messenger received; and there are means by which it may become the wicked rune RE-ALL, which compels the spirits of the burrow to whisper their news in the ears of all they meet, and yet frees them to do wicked violence to the meaning of the words. For this reason, make not the sign of RE-TU-SEN save in your need: when the spirit will not be laid to rest by other means, or when the messenger will not leave your sanctum, but rather threatens ill to you and your secret arts.)

“After all, they know the shape of the world better than we do. They understand time, and community, and patience. Even when one falls, crashing to earth, they bring forth new life in their wake. And attempt to bind one,” she says, and here she lifts her head and eyes Carlyle struggling to keep her arms pinned with his lance, pale hair flopping into his face, “and it will subsume what binds it fast, devouring vine and cord alike.”

She lets the threat hang in the air for a moment, letting Carlyle sweat, before giving an adorably sheepish grin. “A technique I have not mastered yet, unfortunately. But try to prune me, Yin? I’ll show you what it means to be enveloped when you least expect it. I’ll drown you in flowers and hold you fast as steel. And then I’ll give you over to a passing fox, because I will not spend my days in pilgrimage thinking only about you any longer.”

Defiance as firm as her sword, but without the venom and roiling panic of her youth. Truly, Rose from the River is grown from the shapes she has worn before. Laudable Thorn Pilgrim! Even bowed on her knees she is strong as the trees whispering behind Yin, and she allows the knights she once trained to worry that when she decides to shuck their restraints she will not be able to be stopped. How then are they to hold fast a creature of ancient terrors? By enchantment. If the rumors are to be believed, by the arts of foxes. Or, perhaps, by the very hand of a Princess. No less could stop Rose from the River if she rose up in sudden fury among them.

Fellowship: The Heart

Ailee!

<Burning watercress,> someone curses. You turn your head so hard you nearly dislocate it. There is a very cool mouse nearby. She has goggles. Goggles, as everyone knows, are very cool, because they show that you care about the health and safety of your eyes. But she is not wearing the goggles. They are pulled up onto her leather cap. She is an ear shorter than you and one sleeve’s been stapled shut at the elbow, but who cares? She is a mouse in a burnished leather jacket, very irritated at having bumped into someone taller and gotten Dipping Dotties all over her scarf. She huffs, and does the complicated dance of trying to hold the ice treats with her half-an-arm while brushing the sticky little things off with her hand.

Somebody should offer to hold the treats for her. Or pluck each one off for her. Or offer to go and pummel the offending tallman with a hammer made out of vice. For the King’s sake, do something, she’s right there and her ears are as pink as the sky immediately before sunrise and she’s a delver, she comes down here professionally and hunts for oracular books and magical byproducts, and if she vanishes into the crowd you’re never going to find her again unless you summon up spirits from the high airs to hunt her down and she probably has, like, a ghost-vanquishing mirror or something, because that’s the kind of person she very obviously is, and you are losing your window of opportunity here, girl! Do something!!

***

Lucien!

The professor considers your words with the gravitas of someone who was paid quite a lot to think about things just as hard as he could. “And here I hoped I could tempt you away,” he says, finally. “If this is the right thing, after all, this metamorphasis that I am courting, then logically spreading it to the deserving is itself a virtuous act. But you will not leave them yet. Naturally. You would risk eternal regrets.”

Unlikely. From what little you have gathered of clowns, regrets are something they shed when they… molt? Ascend? Succumb? Pogo and Bobo over here, for example, don’t look as if they have a care in the world, other than the slight tension of reminding themselves that they will have a very stern talking-to if they rip your head off without a very good and pressing reason.

“I am doing the right thing?” It is a sliver of vulnerability. “In the face of that tyrant, Time, this is the last redoubt. Imagine what I could keep alive, Lucien. Thousands of years of tradition, history, culture…” He taps his grease-painted noggin with one finger.

Someone is deluding himself very hard, and it’s not you.

***

Coleman!

“Of course,” the Blemmyae says, thoughtfully. “Temporal misalignment. An opportunity to undo what has been done. Perhaps when I leave in victory, my pod will labor still in To-vo-Kan-moz, awaiting my return.”

He opens his abdomen-mouth (his teeth are the size of your hand, each one) and the report of his gun-tongue nearly takes off your ear, not to mention the actual seed-bullet. It strikes against Sasha’s side and the acid coating begins to eat away at her paint, but its tendrils don’t manage to set and it falls, a nasty little ball of death, to the packed earth.

There are all sorts of interesting hints and tips and solutions to how to deal with a homicidal Blemmyae (and here’s one for free: they’re reliable pacifists as long as you don’t move their cheese, as the saying goes, and in this case “moving” is murder and “cheese” is every member of their pod), but the rest are up in the air, want to try and catch one?

***

Jackdaw!

It’s a blessing you get in to the House of Mirrors when you do. Somebody a lane over is shooting some kind of very wet gun. But don’t worry, in the House of Mirrors you’ll be safe, you and Wolf, just you and her and you and her and you and her and you and her and you and her and you and her and you and her and this may not have been the wisest idea, after all.

Because this is the House of Mirrors, and all of those mirrors are very strange indeed.

When you turn around, you find that the door is mirrored, too. It has to be, right? It’s just a trick that it looks like a corridor extending off into the dark, they do it with mirrors, and you’re just not close enough to the door to be able to touch it. Yes. This is a good thought. And you know what? Maybe, just maybe, you should go through the House of Mirrors anyway so nobody has to panic. Yes. Solid call. Great going, Jackdaw!

“Great going, Jackdaw!”

Oh no. You turn and find yourself face-to-face with a soldier. Her uniform isn’t patchwork, it’s just an easy mistake to make: it’s been patched and repaired on the battlefield, stitches hidden underneath brutalist medals. She’s standing ramrod-stiff, all lean muscle and scars and shiny round glasses. Is that a smile, or is her lip curling because of another scar?

“I’m the one you need to trade with,” your reflection says. “You and I both know that books haven’t gotten us anywhere. But you’ve found your way to me right away! So here!” Your reflection reaches for you. “I’ll find our name, no matter what stands in our way.”

“Don’t listen to her,” another you says from behind you. You spare her a glance, and she is very, uh, pink. And frilly. And flouncy. And is that a golden bow? That’s impractical, right? “Her heart’s all cold as ice, and we? We are all about our heart, Jackdaw. We have so much to give the world, and I can do it right. Trade with me.” Her lip quivers dangerously as she presses up against the glass.

Wolf stares down another reflection, which has discarded things like clothes. And dental hygiene. And baths. And not killing adorable foxes. (That last is an assumption but it is probably absolutely a dead-on one.)

Fellowship: The Heart

Whoops!