Thanqol

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Don't -"

Composure breaks like glass. The block comes too hard, too fast - she's out of position for the tail slam. She hits the ground with bone-crushing force, ruined mana exiting her body like breath from struck lungs.

Then she's back up.

She isn't even appealing as a duelist. It's like fighting a Berserker - pure numbers to make up for the fact that there's nothing going on beneath the surface. She whirls and strikes as predictably as a novice and with enough speed and force that a grandmaster would struggle to keep up with.

"Don't!" she hisses through grit teeth. "Talk about! This stupid!!!! Lance!!"

A nerve has been touched.

The ugly, stifling mutter has gone. She doesn't have the focus to maintain it. Those vines extending down from her flowering wreath are growing around her arms, gripping the lance firmly in place, wrapping around her chest in a weave part bondage and part armour. As she fights, she's becoming less and less of a hero - in a way that Elizabeth Bathory, Best Dragon Idol, actually knows something about.

See, Elizabeth knows something about vampirism - about absorbing the power of others to reach beyond your limits. It's a powerful technique, but there's only so much blood you can drink at a time before you start risking your girlish figure. Those calories all add up! Put another way, you can get very, very intoxicated by power like that. And that's what you're seeing here - there's so much power pouring into that Spiriton frame that it's starting to displace the original identity to make room. Give it enough time and this won't be a heroic spirit at all, but simply a monster - a puppet to be operated by whatever is pouring all that power in.

The lance, though? That feels like something with some real emotional investment. It'll be the last thing to go.

Return to Thellamie

"Oh good!" Tsane! said. "Because now you've accepted the idea that ruin, destruction and war are what you are going to get if you do not comply with my perfectly reasonable demands for courtesy and hospitality. As the representative of the Civil Church and Princess Heron -"[1]

[1] Tsane was awful at pretending to be Princess Heron. She was extremely good, however, at pretending to be the Hero of Ages disguised as Tsane. That fire in her eyes, that unending determination, the confidence that there was nothing she could not bring to an end - all of it made her seem less like a mere handmaiden and more like an unconvincingly disguised comet.

"- I am going to get to the truth. Your argument hinges on would, and would is a question of motive. Is it impossible she gained a new one? After all, I just told you that the Fire In The Wood has returned - how would you describe Ms. Espoir's resistance to poison? The False Fire is still at large - does your companion have a heart of stone? Your organisation has been around for centuries, dutifully serving the lands of Thellamie - we heard such words from the outraged monks of Shindenbutai even as the mark of the Demon Queen burned upon their hearts and their teeth curled into the tusks of boars. You tell us that you deal with tasks beneath Heron's notice - well, you are now the subject of Heron's notice as she deals with threats above your station."

"Is there something here you need to keep secret?" asked Kalentia quietly. "Or are you trying to defend something? Because I am a healer; if I go in I would pose no threat."

There was kindness, but also firmness there. She wasn't contradicting Tsane. They had a duty, and some things could not be taken on trust.

Breathless Dead

Bella and Redana!

"Ceron has taught me to accept this," said Empress Nero, broken neck jerking out a serene nod. "Every connection is violent. Every love is hate. Build a road and an army can pass through; build a ship and plague will fill its sails. My role was difficult before I understood that bridges were military infrastructure and love was prelude to the launching of ships."

She leans forwards across the wall of flames, as close as she dares. Her undead face smiles.

She must not be let out.

"You, of course, have no function in and of yourself," she said. "That is not your role - nor is it even a worthy goal. Ability is a tool. Simply draw a line and all the worlds will be drawn after it. Open a gate and the sheep will flow through it. You have a goal, somewhere to go, and that is more than all of these ten trillion servitors will ever have. It fills them and animates them, and they love you for giving it to them."

She abruptly turned and settled back on her throne. "It was different, once. Once a turning wind set pulses racing. Once the dream of exploration ripped children from their homes. Once distant mountains inspired joy, wonder, curiosity. Now not only is the galaxy mapped, but its future is mapped - there is nothing left to explore and no one alive who would be interested in exploration. The frontier has closed, expansion has stopped, and all that remains is a long and slow decline. Every connection has already been forged and perfected violence flows through every vein of civilization without friction. The only souls who can truly feel the joy of adventure are all dead, and so that is why I chose you, my daughter. I hope that it was everything you dreamed of."

Dolce!

Each time you step through a sequence, Artemis continues it. She continues it on and on and on, following through diligently on every implication of the notes that you set in motion, on and on and on. First like she's finishing your thought, then continuing it, expanding on it, taking it further and further from what you originally envisioned while still feeling like a natural extension of your own idea...

And then she stops.

Perfect obedience, right up until the point where it stops. Perfect patience, right up until the point where it is over. Perfect music but she decides when it ends.

The moon goes silver through the sky, night after night, until one night you look up and it is gone. The trail of breadcrumbs continues joyfully onwards until the hinge of the trap slams shut. Music that could go on forever until the string leaves the violin and fingers lift from the keyboard leaving only a period behind.

In this deathless universe, she remains death.

Dyssia!

"No, we don't," said Dekal. "We choose to dissent. To fight for a better world."

She rolls out a combi-map upon the table. Rolls of charts and graphs and paperwork, the most advanced origami techniques the galaxy has ever produced resulting in this unfolding sheaf of paper. "The Empress has allowed me control over the Service. From here I direct the establishment of occupation garrisons, of re-education camps, of the construction of schools and the administration of biomantic uplift, establishing control over biospheres contaminated by mass reincarnation. I seed the principles of sound governance, establish layered constitutional checks and balances against resurgent militarism, organize the mass public executions of slaveholders and the distribution of their properties. My role in all of this is to ensure that something beautiful and stable flowers from the endless fields of ashes Nemesis leaves in its wake."

She looks down at the map, face illuminated by fire. "She does not care that I do this. If I were to stop, the work would go undone. The only condition is that I remain here, in the heart of Hell, as I do my work. So please... tell me more of that peace that lives out there, beyond my sight."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

You sense the approach of a swagless soul.

As someone embodying the height of fashion, style, music and the colour pink you have a nose for this kind of thing. You're blasting your perfect bloody heart out there, putting the less perfect but they're presumably trying hearts of the underworld's demons on display, and it you can feel it landing everywhere but one little joyless bubble. A zone without taste, without drip, without style - holding itself solid against all the beauty stabbing into it.

"The creation of the Kingdom of Hungary was the result of incompetent administration of the Danubian frontier, allowing endless waves of steppe nomads to establish themselves in Imperial territory. Continuously distracted Imperial administrations were unable to re-establish the sense of civil society that underpinned the steady collection of taxes -"

A consistent muttering natter - academia substituting for personality. The soul of a priest who wouldn't accept anything less than the Papal throne. They're shutting their eyes and shutting their ears and cutting away at the foundations of your legend in books and scholarship rather than engaging with what is in front of them. This is ruder than just sleeping through one of your performances - this isn't a fellow performer at all. This is a Manager. An evil Manager. And the most heart-rending performance of all time is only worth so much if nobody is in attendance because some stupid book thinks you're not worth talking about.

And urgh. The green glittery and glasses might have been a good nerdy librarian thing, but now there's a big flashy laurel wreath and plants and a demon spear and it's atrocious. Absolute clownshoes production. She's pushing through your wall of sound, shielding herself with that cryptic muttering, blind and deaf to everything around her. You've known her for maybe a minute but she's already making a strong play for the title of 'Worst Empress'.

The Namespace of the Rose

[Flirting] This is the most beautiful duel you have ever been in. Fighting your brother Wolves is all fine and well, but they are all descended from the same lineage of combat. This is an exotic mystery, a tradition founded in silence and spiral, a pattern of defensive steps unraveling all that you are while offering nothing in exchange. You could fight this warrior forever. You would lose every time. You truly understand in this moment why the Lion and the Wolf will be remembered forever.

[Art History] Everything about the Dark Angels is written in secrecy, but still it is written. What is commemorated on this armour in the glimpses you catch of it through whirling robes are not battles and military actions, but duels. Marked in emerald and silver are stories of battles with exotic champions - lords of the deathless stars, shapes of fire and terror, and of course bloody victories against champions of the Hive.

But the entire left pauldron commemorates one battle in particular: a duel against a blademaster of the Aeldari.

This conflict must have been and taken everything, a pivotal moment in an extended campaign, a triumph against every odd. In the center of this display is a radiant pink-violet gemstone, glittering with an otherworldly light, a trophy of an impossible victory. And you can see - yes, there! The Ancient One took both of Eunicornus' arms before the end. These hammer blows raining down on you are driven by cybernetics, injuries so extensive that some would be interred into a Dreadnought Sarcophagus before recovering.

I tell you now, if you were to somehow extract the full tale from this Angel then the Great Wolf would call you to recite it in the Great Hall on Fenris. As it stands, the basic fact is that this is a close combatant without peer - sword-sage, bladeguard, company champion, a thousand names to describe one of the Astartes' finest.

[Tradecraft] Yes, yes, yes. But the operative question is how do they handle a bolter?

The murder was not done with a blade, it was done with a gun. Eunicornus has a bolt pistol holstered at their side but they have shown no interest in drawing it so far. Are they deliberately hiding their skill? Do their cybernetics allow them the kind of perfect reflexes that would be required to have assassinated the Archmagos? There is no way to tell -

[Intimidate] scream

[Tradecraft] What?

[Intimidate] scream... loud

[2 point spend to make one of the Emperor's Chosen feel fear and fire their bolter in a panic.]

*

Ramona!

"I wish I could say this was due to my training," said ZBD_ZEN, descending the staircase on a grav-palenquin. It was crawling with eerie cherubum - lobotomized and winged fish, monkeys, flute-playing servitors, a cacophany of flesh and steel bought together into an eerie symphony. ZBD herself wears a sleek and clean biomechanical body, with divinely structured muscles and an eerie beauty that stops at the impassive facless mask. "But Eunicornus has always been very talented. How may we assist the Dynasty?"

[Negotiation] Listen to how close they're playing it. They're afraid they'll let slip some precious wisdom if they speak freely. Some of the cogheads are like this - afraid that an offhand comment will let valuable knowledge fall into profane hands. Your best course of action is being extremely specific about the information you require, and being prepared to pay for it if they put their hand out.

Return to Thellamie

Tsane!

"I do not," said Tsane airily, swishing around the teapot "negotiate with the help. No, I'm going to speak directly with the dragon one way or another, and the only question for you is what condition the house is going to be in when I do."

"I'm sorry," said Kalentia. "She gets like this - um, Tsane?"
"Mm," said Tsane, holding up one finger. She's drinking the schnapps out of the teapot's spout directly. "What?"
"Do you think we could -"
"They've given us an ultimatum, Kal," said Tsane. "Following on from an ambush. Following on from having one of their knights kickflip a skateboard off my head when I was about to single-handedly defeat Aria Thendragon. They are the aggressors here and I won't hesitate for a second to burn this entire house down."
"Oh -"
"As far as I'm concerned, I've displayed a saintly level of self restraint already."
"Okay -"
"Have some schnapps," said Tsane, offering the teapot.
"Um, thank you. Uh, before we burn your house down, do you mind telling us about why Eclair attacked Civelia?"

The Namespace of the Rose

[Art History]
Lion green
Wolf blue
Fangs, jaws
Loyal two
Forest black
Burning sky
Fool's glory
Eye's eye

In the days of the Great Crusade, when the Dark Angels and Space Wolves were both Legions, there was a terrible argument between Lion'el Johnson and Leman Russ that escalated to a duel to the death. Lion'el, Primarch of the Dark Angels, won the fight - but at the last moment turned aside his blade and spared the life of Leman Russ. A glorious battle, one of the first sagas that every Space Wolf learns - and the beginning of a ten thousand year tradition that whenever the Angels and the Wolves meet again then a formal duel should be conducted between their champions to recreate the great battle of their Primarchs.

Eunicornus knows this too. They do not waste a single word. As you reach the bottom of the stairs, they stand. Robed in ashen white, helmet bearing magnificent wings, golden pauldrons glittering with displays of ancient battles. Get closer, give me a good look, and I will unravel the secrets engraved into their armour [1-point spend].

Ramonia!

You don't get any of that. You just see a transhuman killer in full plate draw a sword the size of your entire body and start coming down the stairs towards you with what is clearly murderous intent. Whatever else you have become in your life, your ancient monkey brain is letting you know that this is the largest, scariest monkey you have ever seen and it means to inflict harm. You're up for a Stability check - you won't embarrass yourself on a failure, but you might miss some things that you otherwise would have picked up on.

Breathless Dead

You have been here before, in a dream.

Not the dream of Tellus. That was a world of steel and ferrocrete, of crimson carpets and crimson banners and the awesome power of a united humanity crammed into a single ball. Once humanity's empire had spread as far and wide as the Endless Azure Skies before being crushed into a single point, all of its joys and cruelties stacked cheek to jowl until they all blended together. You would remember the dream of Tellus, but this dream slips through your fingers. Where have you seen it before...?

The room is small, built for no more than twenty seated. The floor is wood, poorly laid - each step creaks, and walking is almost musical, no matter how softly your feet fall. The walls are paper, beautifully painted, but not fully blocking out the fire and noise of the war outside. Three quarters across the room there is an open channel, filled with ever-burning fires, forming a veil to separate you from the Empress. It is not there for her protection - it is there for yours, for the Empress that sits upon the Throne of Regret is a ghost.

Her hair is long and lank, rotting through its elaborate bindings. Her fingers are withered into claws. Her eyes are sunken into a beautiful face, shining with the metal pins where it has been stitched together. Her robe is the palest white. The morticians of Ceron have done the best they could, but this is still the face of death - the twisted projection of a soul trapped in the Underworld.

Above you sits the Dead God.

"Re... da... na..." the words come from breathless lips. "I knew this burden was not too heavy for you."

Dolce!

"Hm, hm, hm~" Artemis hums with every step across the floor. She brings out the music of it; the nightingale melody of footsteps. She twirls on one toe, then steps down hard. There is joy here, in the sounds footsteps make in this haunted place. Even you, trained for stealthy service, cannot avoid the music of these floorboards - but you knew before you entered that the mistress of this house has no fear of assassins.

Then this is not a weapon in a game of murder. This is a toy. A thing of happiness, amidst the fire and darkness. As you step across the floor something of that mysterious dream comes into your head: the memories of the Starsong, and what it means to turn battle into music.

A precariously permitted toy. Were a single one of those great urns of coals to be kicked over this entire building and its paper walls would go up in a conflagration. Indeed, it feels like this entire place is intended to be flammable. Easy to destroy. An impulse that exists in tension with this beat of playful indulgence, so...

"It'll be easier for her to leave one day, if there's nothing here to return to," said Artemis. "It'll be easier to ensure that there is nothing to return to if the smallest spark might burn it all."

Dyssia!

You know the glyph-crest of Dekal Lawgiver, Knight of the Publica. One of the Publica's legendary warriors, liberator of a dozen worlds and author of some of the most insightful legal codes in the Order's library. A renowned champion of the Grav-Rail and eternal enemy of the Endless Azure Skies, she has not been seen for a hundred years after resolving to launch a strike on Capitas itself. Of all the places her legend might have taken her, serving in the Imperial Court was always more likely than dead and unremembered.

She is unchained. Proud. Strong. But she has given all of her Publica's red for the ghostly white of her corpse empress.

"You look as tired of this as I am," she said in a voice like tarnished copper. "Come, sit with me, young Knight. Tell me of the worlds outside this eternal war. Remind me that there is peace out there, somewhere."

The Namespace of the Rose

Not all technology is mechanical.

The Adeptus Mechanicus are most renowned for their engines - cogitators, plasma turbines, cybernetics - but all forgotten human technology falls within the remit of the Quest for Knowledge. In order to upgrade Skitarii troops, better cogitation implants or more flexible limbs are worthwhile, but so is study into the ancient and forgotten martial arts of bygone eras. While the deep nuances may be lost, enough remains of the trappings to form a foundation.

Inside the massive metal Cube 05 is the dojo of ZBD_ZEN. It is the far future's best guess as to how to recreate an ancient Zen garden, contaminated by a certain Willy-Wonka influence - bioengineered miniature trees, open ferrocrete battlegrounds, waterfalls of liquid fertilizer channeling from one part of the industrial-chemical complex to another. Everywhere are combat servitors, airbrushed entirely black, heads replaced with large cone shapes. This is also the home to the Electro-Priests, sorcerers of lightning who obey the Omnissiah in His aspect of the Motive Force.

Everywhere you can hear them intone the sacred chant: [Techna-linguia] Ka (force) Meh (riding) Ha (peace). The last two tones are repeated over and over, distorting and intensifying, until finally spectacular electrical discharges roar across the open field, blasting apart the combat dummies in fountains of sparks.

This is where the Dark Angel Eunicornius is said to practice her craft, apprenticed to the great Magos. You can see the two of them in the distance, meditating atop a tall pagoda that overlooks the entire dojo. It also looks like a frankly uncomfortable number of stairs to get up there.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Who else?" said Assassin. "The ones left to guard the tomb were the dragons."

Super Magical Idol-Class Dragon Servant, Elizabeth Bathory!

You have been guarding this stupid tomb for like a hundred years and you are doing GREAT at it. Your hair is SO silky smooth and pinker than Pink Dye #8. Your fingernails are razor sharp and pinker than Pink Dye #5. You maintain the kind of performance schedule suitable for a dragon: That is, every waking moment is spent bringing the demons of the underworld to their knees, tears pouring from their eyes and blood pouring from their ears. And whenever you're in between shows, you take a little nap and let that stupid jerk Oroboros handle things for a bit. Oroboring more like.

Two dragons is overkill. You've always said! You've told her at length that she can take a hike because one average dragon is frankly overkill for this kind of work, underworld of demons be damned. It does help being able to take long naps or time out to compose new songs without compromising perimeter defense, but even so it's embarrassing for the both of you. But mostly her. And mostly because of her dumb hair and her cutesy-wutesy tail-biting and her failure to acknowledge how much better she'd look on her knees softly biting your tail - oh! That jerk! You hate her so much! Also she sleeps through all of your performances which is totally unacceptable.

That is to say: you've got a lot of pent up frustrations. And for all the "danger" these demons of the underworld allegedly pose, fewer and fewer of them even make the attempt to come near you. So when you feel the oncoming storm of what can only be a Lancer-class servant coming towards you (honestly what kind of failure would get summoned as a Lancer, the worst class?) it's time to put on a performance so sharp that'll drive your pinker-than-Pink-Dye-#6 heel through her stupid heart. And maybe you'll crank it so loud that even Uwuboring wakes up and pays attention.

Alright, Liz! Show us what you've got~~~!