Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

The spirit that stalks through the dream is not the Nemean, mighty and untamed. She is not a Coherent, shielded with a shimmering shroud of stolen time. She is not one of the predators who make stagnant stasis zones their hunting grounds, a ripple of unscales and clock-crooked teeth. But she is something like all three.

She does not make of her wand of empty space a bow of light worthy of bearing the Astra of Apollo, those war-ending devastations. She takes the shape of the wand and it becomes the shape of that bow, and when she draws it to her cheek, the shining absence of heavenly darts pin the falling ships to the sky and tear through Coherent shrouds like tissue, leaving them defenseless in the time that once was.

The trick, however? Easy enough to eventually pick up on. These are the warriors of the Saffron Order, after all; they know time and its games. Redana is here, and Redana is her mantle. She is not drawing power, painfully, from the quantum possibility of the Nemean, sideways; she is mantled by the Redana who will be. An excellent object lesson in the Twenty-First Mystery. This foreshadowing, this back-cast shadow?

It can last only so long as Redana flits from angle to angle, scene to scene, within this temporal panorama. Simply do the impossible— lay a hand on her— and she will revert almost to her former self. And so the net tightens around her, even as she dances laughing from moment to moment in those tall white boots, her hair following her like a tail, her face harder and harder to look upon for the radiance of her crown and her smile. Fair and terrible she makes herself, a child of the gods—

But every dance eventually ends. Haven’t we heard that lesson once already today?

[A beautiful 5 on keeping the Coherents busy.]

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Constance takes the rooms in— more luxury than she’s ever had in her life, certainly. Her own furnishings back home? They’re quite modest. She is a representative of the old faith, not a member of the nobility.

So for his kindness and care, the knight receives a smile as delicate as the snowflake that lands on the back of one’s palm. “Thank you, Sir Harold,” she says. “This is more than I had hoped. May the castle remember your service when we are both departed.”

Behind her, Tristan lets out a little whoop of joy, and Constance exhales through her nostrils in something that is almost, impossibly, laughter.

Sunshards

The collar hits her lap with more weight than it should have— or is that simply Rose’s perception? She’s sitting up now, back to that simple black pillar. One finger runs along the simple, humiliating studs. (As if she were some dog! Not even the fine gold of Ys!) The name is written in the flourish of elegant curves, a reminder of a mistress’s refinement.

Then she is on her feet, and that tattered twilight-orange robe blossoms between the two of them. It takes Qiu only a moment to make a perfect cut right through, but that is moment enough for Rose to pull the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade from the pillar with a scream of effort. Then it changes in her hands into a staff once more, and the collar swings jauntily on one end of it.

“Your offer is so sudden, your insufferableness,” Rose from the River says, hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. “You can hardly expect me to make a decision so weighty in haste! We’ll call it a draw for now, shall we?”

But both of them know that Qiu won, and that’s obvious as Qiu allows her to disengage, still carrying that collar on the end of her staff. Rose shows her the courtesy of walking backwards, keeping her eyes on Qiu, rather than showing the disrespect of turning and walking away. She might be impish in this moment of defeat, but she’s not that cocky. Not after a display of swordsmanship like that. As it is said,

A sudden hiss, a coming to blows;
then the defeated leaves, tail lowered.
When cats come to blows, they show mercy;
shall their masters show anything less?

Breathless Dead

"Father Zeus," Pria spoke, under the thunder of the war in Heaven, trapped beneath the cast-off vambrace of the Orleans, which even now reeled from the lance-thrusts through its breast, and its reactor vented in columns of fire speckled with the colors of the aurora, the deep places of the sky; it would come to rest in the deep places of the water, and its honored passages be no more than the road-ways of the fish who gleam with those same colors, for all belong to the Lord of the Depths. "Glorious and great! Spare me, and see me safely home, where I have left my clutch in incubation, and promised to return to them. If I am to live, send me a sign; show me one of the birds of good omen, that I might see it and know I am not meant for the Halls of Hades, where there is only slumber on a dark bed, dreamless and without stirring."

Zeus, Lord of Counsel, heard her prayer. Forthwith she sent the kingfisher, whose breast is smeared with blood and whose wings are the colors of the shallow waters, and the red light of dusk gleamed on the wings of the swift hunter, who darts through danger without misfortune. And seeing this, she redoubled her efforts, and dug her fingers into the sand, straining with the very dregs of her strength to work her way from beneath the ruin of lance-slagged metal. But she was sorely wounded, and her legs twisted beneath her; many weeks would she spend in the care of an autosurgeon, were she to live. And seeing this, Zeus sent forth one disposed to escort those on their way, guide and guardian, slayer of the living dead, player of the electric strings.

Forthwith she bound on glittering sandals, with which she could dart faster than the Hind of Artemis; in one hand she bore a wand of power which was the impression of a shape, with which she could turn aside disaster and say: be not as it was. To look at, she was like a young woman of noble birth in the heyday of her youth and beauty, with the skin of a great lion draped over one shoulder. And when Pria saw her, she took her for Zeus in the form of a youth; but her eyes were shining green and blue.

"Thunderer, save me," she cried; and the champion of Zeus took the vambrace of the Orleans and with a great cry overturned it, as the wild boar hooks its tusks beneath the belly of a turtle. Then she took Pria up in her arms with great care, and said, "Honored grandmother, you do not die today." And at these words, Pria wondered; but then the champion of Zeus touched her forehead with the wand which was not, and sleep overtook her. To the Violet Ward the champion bore her on swift feet, and laid her down on a cot, and she breathed good fortune and renewed spirit into the daughter of Calybe.

Then on light feet she returned to the battle, and without weapon she roamed fearlessly on the beach, and dived into the sea to aid those who fell from the heights of the sky, and wherever the Alced were hard-pressed there she came to bear away the fallen and bring solace to the dead. And her hair was a shroud of gold over her shoulders, and where she came the battle stilled and turned aside, and the Alcedi gave her the name Epimelios, guardian of the flock.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

“It is the duty of a knight not to be swayed by dragons,” Constance says, as bitter as yarrow. “No, Tristan, that one will not see judgment here; she has already been judged, and one day— may it be soon!— it will catch up with her. But Robena should have been better. She should have known better. I...”

She trails off, circling self-recrimination again. Then, with the briskness of a winter gust: “Tristan, let us go with Sir Harold and see to the rooms.”

Sunshards

"Tch... you damn brat!"

Impossibly, Rose from the River has lost her cool. The Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade flows through shapes like water, but its tip is driven into the crack between two tiles. One of Rose's tight vine-braids comes loose, the ties around it snapping, and her too-thick-to-be-hair curls like the leaves of a fern in the rain. When she looks up at Qiu, her serpent's slits throb with passion, reflecting the ice-and-fire war raging in her own heart.

"Where do you think you get off... hnngh!" Qiu's blade kisses her cheek, and her fingers fly there just a moment too slow. Another strip of orange flutters to the ground. (Orange she wasn't wearing this morning; blame the stylization. A conical hat lies askew on the tiles; her practical black top peeks through the long gashes in the robe, which is much more striking in its damage, and isn't that what matters right now?) "You think I'm going to roll over meekly for you?"

(No, her heart sings: she's going to take those strips and wrap them tight around you, bind those swordplaying wrists fast and pinch your nose shut so she can cram in...)

Rose from the River makes a sound like a thousand-year-old tree being uprooted, all groan of roots and scream of branches, and darts into a nameless style we'll call Move Like Armies Form. She moves so fast, stones shattering underneath her feet, that she leaves afterimages to surround Qiu in a ring of illusions, only to strike from behind. Qiu stands still and blocks the strike without so much as looking behind her. The wind roars through the pillars as the air catches up to their swords.

Rose jumps, leaping from pillar to pillar, stone crunching under her terrible fingers, and then descends like a broken space elevator, howling. Qiu calmly vacates the landing zone, riding the rippling current of Rose's impact on the buckling flagstones, and makes it look easy. When Rose flings herself after, taking her blade in both hands and swinging it like a claymore, Qiu has already moved out of the way of every swing before Rose so much as makes it, and each swing is punished: hiss, hiss, hiss! Like a wasp, Qiu's sword flickers in and out, stinging Rose's skin and reducing that robe of the twilight sun to nothing but tatters, tatters draped over her like a shroud.

There: Qiu makes to block, and Rose surges forward like a hungry sea to slam her weight, her strength, her throbbing lunar blade, all of herself against this waif of a girl who thinks herself better. And at the very moment it is too late to do anything but follow through with the blow meant to pin her fast against a pillar, to drive the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade through her dress like a spike and crush the breath out of her pretty lips with shoulder and hip, Qiu melts away, ducking impossibly low, leg swinging wide to unbalance the monk. Rose hits the pillar and then the ground hard in quick succession, and before she can stand up, one high heel presses insistently on the back of her head, pushing her back down. The sun gleams mercilessly on the hilt of the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade, sunken to the crossguard in the black stone of the pillar.

Her heart is racing. It hammers against ribs and lungs heedlessly, howling incomprehensibly about brats and how dangerous it is to be helpless and how no one is ever going to take her seriously again and how her body is a fire from the skin down to the very marrow, and when she tries to raise her head, Qiu exerts the slightest pressure and the head goes back down. If there is any mercy, let no one be watching.

Then the shoe is removed, and Rose traitorously feels disappointed.

"Well?" This time she stays down. "Please, don't let me interrupt your victory gloating, your most excellentness, your royal pain-in-the-ass!" (No self-reflection on her judgment of Qiu. Absolutely none.) "After all, if the Way meant for you to lose here, it..."

It would have sent someone who wasn't Rose. The realization of her own pride slams into her like a mountain falling on her back. She'd not just failed herself, she'd failed the Way-- unless this was exactly what she was meant to do, meant to learn, and the proper harmony of the universe required her to be...!! (No, surely not, that's her petals doing the thinking for her, wanting Qiu to conquer her properly, to be reassured that she didn't have to choose between her own lust and her duty to the good of all things.) Her thoughts run round and round in circles, barking at each other like dogs, and all the while Qiu looks down at her, face hidden by the light of the sun surrounding her head as a halo.

Breathless Dead

Redana stands, fingers interlaced with those of the King of Heaven. For a moment she stands, sways, does not fall. Then she pulls Zeus of the Outcasts into a tight and furious hug, the kind that would overwhelm anyone else.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” she says. “I promise. I won’t give up on them. No matter what it takes. The Alcedi, Alexa, Dolce and Vasilly... I’ll stand up for them.”

She releases her father, wipes her face on the back of her hand with a very undignified sound, and then flashes her father a sheepish smile, all vulnerability and rippling will. “King of Kings,” she says, the words a well-worn groove. “Smile on me until the wreath is won.”

And with that, she runs for the door like it’s another finish line.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Constance might as well be a statue, hewn out of the white rock by one of Brutus's camp. Then a tremor runs through her, and she lets out an exhalation that is all too human: a sound, as if made by a squire putting down a heavy burden that had, several miles back, ceased to be regarded as burden or something that could be felt. The sudden rush of blood through limbs; the ache suddenly returning with a retinue and breaking down doors.

"I accept, Lady Sauvage," Constance says, and her voice is quiet and still, like the groaning of ice on the water. "But I fear her doom will claim her, and I will hold it against you if you compel me to witness what will befall her. But it is not for her sake, is it? I allowed the blow to fall; I let her loose and then failed to save a King of Britain from her heavy hand. What a kingdom this is! That even those who hope to save it see their hopes crumble dry beneath their fingers! As the farmer, so the knight; as the king, so the river-daughter."

When she reaches out and takes Tristan's hand in hers, her fingers are steady and strong, and her grip is desperate all the same. Desperate to be convinced that she is not being punished, here and now, for her own failures.

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien!

"Yes, well," the Professor says, gazing with reverent eyes upon the battle between mouse and fox going on right before his eyes. "The House of Mirrors here is a repository of nexii ocularum, a convergence of possibilities. It's a very dangerous thing, and it's only by the will of the Carnival itself that the clowns, that is to say, my brothers in arms, they tolerate it, because they revere the Carnival as the guardian of the Grail. Now, having two Jackdaws running around is dangerous, even here, in the depths of the Heart, though from what I've been able to glean, it's less because of the ironclad laws of time-- which, here, are much more permeable-- but because it draws the attention of the Angels, who will do their best to resolve the situation according to their impossible whims; perhaps they will favor this iteration of the dear fox because she is more closely attuned to the Heart, but contrariwise they might favor the one we have been traveling with--"

And regret floods through the tent. You keep your head above it: you've already faced all of these, you've wined and dined and drowned your regrets. There's nothing left for these nasty whispers to hook into, not for you; but the Professor is another matter entirely. Quite suddenly, he bursts into ugly tears, smearing the greasepaint on his face.

"What am I doing, boy? Immortality, here, as some capering imp without any interest in the pursuits of the mind? The mind is not some ship made of planks; I am my memories and my legacy and when I drink that red, red sacrament, it will drown them both until there is nothing left but another clown! All because I could not stand the reaper standing at my shoulder, waiting to call me to my rest!" He takes your lapels in his trembling hands. "Don't let me-- don't let them-- I won't do it! I won't take the Grail!"

A terrible cacophony of honks sounds from outside the tent, and the Professor's face twists into a rictus of ridiculous horror. "They... they'll know... they won't let me go... not after I'm so close..."

***

Ailee!

Sobbing, furious, Surma the Bookhunter is there at your side, using her legs; she plants her hand on your shoulder and rears up into a kick, and knocks Evil Jackdaw right out of the tent. But you won't stop with that, will you? You can't. You have to keep going; you have to put her in the ground. That's the point of the sacrifices you have made.

You lunge outside and come to the conclusion that you have made a mistake. Sure, you bowl over Evil Jackdaw into the mud, hands around her throat like it's the mallet for the test of strength, and-- be honest-- is this fun? Is this fun? Or is it just more misery to be a part of?

Anyway, the wind nearly bowls you over, the rain is punching your back, and there is an entire fucking convocation of clowns arrayed around the tent. Evil Jackdaw writhes underneath you like a snake, and the Bookhunter's still there, but her words are ripped away by the storm.

***

Coleman!

Several things happen all at once. Jackdaw and Wolf are swallowed by the floor, which hardens into a cyst all around them. The Blemmyae lunges for you, and gets his huge hands around your throat. Black Coleman pulls the trigger, and the Blemmyae makes one more transformation from a fury straight from the depths of the pit, about to snap your neck like a twig, into something soft and wet and heavy. When Black Coleman hauls the Blemmyae off you, he kicks him to one side and lets the Blemmyae curl up whimpering into the mortal wound.

"No shit," Black Coleman murmurs as he spins the chamber of his pistol. "Tell me something I don't know. I finally run into you, and we're still too late; Wormwood's still gone. Maybe it won't let itself be fixed as a last bit of bad luck." He fixes you with an exhausted eye, even as a Very Angry Clown approaches to have a word with him about violence! in! the! aquarium!

"What happens? Lucien and the Professor get clowned. Ailee burns herself out to kill King Dragon. Jackdaw goes down past the First Station even after we ask her not to go, and that's the last time we see her. And Sasha hatches into hell, so you go on some damn fool quest trying to travel back to before Wormwood Station was destroyed, just in case it's still connected to the Heart, because nothing's impossible down here. Now give me a hand with this clown."

The breath of the Blemmyae is ragged. Jackdaw could save him, but... well, on the one hand, Jackdaw's just been swallowed up by the Heart, and on the other hand, he was just trying to kill you. Is there any mercy left in you, Coleman?

***

Jackdaw!

The Heart swallows you up.

No, something else swallows you up.

You've been vored. By an Angel.

Wolf digs her claws into you in sudden panic, and then... slowly, she relaxes her painful grip, as nothing violently contracts or tries to kill you. It's dark, and wet, and warm, and... still. Like being held carefully in something's mouth.

The Heart itself has put you in time out. Probably? Definitely. Almost certainly. And it's dark, but the walls all around give off just enough light to see the silhouette of Wolf, and she's not very talkative, so it's completely up to you to fill the silence.

In fact, one might suggest that you almost feel compelled to speak; as if some vast spotlight had been dropped on the two of you, as if you were on a stage being listened to by an audience, as if you have lines that you're supposed to speak. As if your heart wants to be flushed clean.

Breathless Dead

“I’m not good enough,” Redana admits into the all-encompassing acceptance of her father, here and now. “I’m not clever, like Mom, and I’m not strong, like you.”

Her bloody fingers take Zeus’s hand in hers. She can’t look the king of the universe in the eye, and so her eyes linger on those scars, revealed to someone who does not deserve the revelation.

“How can I keep them safe?” The Alced. The Privateers. Her statue, her bodyguard, her friend. How can she keep them safe from a harsh universe and a furious cat and a gun that breaks time?

Whether she must is not in question. She only doubts if she can. The crown gleams like the eye of the Nemean on her head.

“I couldn’t protect Isty’s mother. I couldn’t stop Alexa from killing Molech. I couldn’t stop Bella...” The blood, sprayed on a rain-streaked wall. The hand, stopping her from spitting out the Paragon capsules. The hatred for someone who’d never been in Bella’s heart, after all.

And that was the worst part. Missing someone who’d never even existed. Falling for the mask, because she’d been so desperate for someone who thought she was good enough even when she failed, over and over again.

“So how? How can I be a king? Please?” Her voice cracks, and she leans her weight on the shoulder of Zeus, she who watches over the exile and the refugee.