['Neath Shattered Skies and Scattered Stars] No Water For You!

[Tepet Doneno]

Before they conquered Chiaroscuro, the Delzahn con- sisted of three tribes living on the Plain of Wind-Scattered Bones. They warred against each other as often as they raided outsiders. Their legendary hero-king Tamas Khan united the Delzahn into one people. After the conquest, the newly unified Delzahn divided in two, with one portion ruling and living in Chiaroscuro, and the rest returning to their nomadic ways. To preserve the unity of the Delzahn people, Tamas Khan divided the Delzahn into urban and nomadic cohorts within tribes, rather than between tribes.


Some nomadic Delzahn resent their urban cousins for their softer life. A few nobles openly defy the Tri-Khan and refuse to honor the ancient, hereditary oaths that bind the tribes together. Yet, many appreciate having Chiaroscuro as a market for their livestock and a place to buy luxuries unavailable on the plains. For the Reclamation, this presents a few interesting possibilities. To ferment an internal war between the nomadic and urban Delzahn would greatly weaken the South, and turning the Delsahn back ingot he Delzahn Horde would do an equally effective -if not more bloody- job.


The sun is setting as Connie enters the outskirts of Chiaroscuro, the final rays of light flying in rainbow arcs as they pass through the glass towers at the center of the city. Workers flood the streets as the day ends, flowing to homes and pubs in equal measure. Most pay the woman little notice, a few of the more intoxicated calling out invitations to the outlander. None of them are the contact Connie has been informed of, a member of the Salamalin cult who is to find her lodgings and a place to begin her insurgency.


A low whistle suddenly pierces the muggy evening air. Near the mouth of an alleyway stand a young man wearing in the traditional garb of a nomad. He waves to the Ring-Bearer, beckoning in the jovial manner of an old friend. Oddly, he does not call out, simply smiles and gestures for her to approach.

 

[Cirno]

Concord gives him a more weary smile in return. Travelling through two deserts had gotten boring terribly quickly, although she nearly had her bark skin sandblasted smooth. Her lichen hair has yet to recover, still in tiny rosette buds. Still, she moves with confidence, standing a head above most, and easily strides through the evening crowd to the alleyway.

 

[Tepet Doneno]

As Concord draws near the nomad draws a bit further back into the alley, still unspeaking. He gestures for her to come closer, his smile oddly vacant. The grey eyes seem almost unfocused, gazing dreamily just above Concord's shoulder as he waves her closer. The nearer she come the less comely the boy seems, shifting from handsome to bizarrely faded. His skin seems awfully pale, his hair thin and lackluster. Clothes that seemed simple yet rich now appear ragged and motley, a jester's garb stained by time. One hand hangs stiffly by his side, shielded slightly from Concord's vision.


Finally, when Concord is but feet away, his mouth opens - yet instead of sound, Concord feels a tremor strike at the fabric of her mind. As an alien voice that abuses all concepts of pitch and harmony murmurs in the back of her mind, the nomad's limbs lengthen into unnatural poles of bone and flesh and his jaw unhinges.


Hail ServanT oF tHE GREen SUN. I WOUld ParLEy WitH YoU, If YOu wouLD BuT SPAre A MomenT.

 

[Cirno]

The corner of her lips twitches, and Teo's presence grows in her mind. "Parley away," she rasps, showing off her teeth. It seems boredom has no place in Chiaroscuro.

 

[Tepet Doneno]

The twisted creature's slackened maw curls in some poor imitation of a smile, gesticulating comically with one elongated hand.


MY NAmE Is the YellOW JeSteR. I ServE IN ThE CoUrt of tHe Crimson King, whERe LulliBies In AncIent TonguES ArE SuNG. My LoRD WOulD HaVE AN auDienCE WiTh oNe SuCH as YoU, AN EmissAry Of HeLl...


The alleyway seems to be growing indistinct, as if something is drawing the color and substance from the rough walls and dusty floor. It is not the dark of sunset, but rather a fading of the world. If anything, the Yellow Jester seems to be illuminated in all his plaid glory.

 

[Cirno]

Teo's already rumbling. Concord locks her outward expression in place as she mentally cuts him off. My plans did not consider any Court but the Tri-Khan. I require more information.


She stops baring her fangs, sealing her lips in a cruel smile. She tilts her head back and looks down at the Yellow Jester. "This Emissary would be pleased to accept." She steps into the graying alleyway-that-was.

 

[Tepet Doneno]

ThEN PLeaSE, SteP ThIS WAy! The Jester exclaims, sweeping his one mobile arm theatrically down the alley. The gesture seems to disrupt a veil of infinitesimally fine threads, the greyed image of reality fluttering superimposed atop an image of a blood-red throne room. As the shreds of Chiaroscuro fall away, a sensation of deja vu creates a momentary blank in Concord's mind.


The room the Yellow Jester has brought them to alternates between alien and familiar, between the wild creativity of a child and the utilitarian aesthetics of a Monarch. To begin with, everything is a shade of red. From the gilded oak tables to the etching-laden cobblestones, from the lavish confections to the pious blossom arrangements. The Sweeping arches that line the walls stretch high to infinity to brace a ceiling vaster than the scope of vision can perceive, their columns decorated with murals of dragons, wings, eyes, and sets of sevens. Tapestries of battles that never were, fought between unreal armies and kingdoms, dominate the walls. They are woven from something that could be Gossamer, or possibly even lost strands of Fate itself. Many things were lost in the Great Contagion, and in the Dawn War. Not even heaven knows all of what they no longer have.


Each cobblestone is etched with a story, the length of which seems to dictate the size of the stone. Some are grandiose, detailing the triumph or glory of some lauded hero. Yet such tiles seem delicate and surreal beside the more modest, moral-laden tales of pig-farmers and monks. Yet all the stories seem to end in much the same way; as the last blow is struck, as the last grain of wheat is accounted for, a masked figure approaches and spirits the hero away. These stones become more aged -more indelible- the further along the hall they are placed, becoming a virtual omphalous at the far end. It is there that the eye is drawn.


At the head of the room an impossibly smooth structure rises from the intricate tile mosaic, a cone with it's peak neatly removed. One side of the cone is open to the hall, revealing a small flight of steps that lead to an imposing, graven throne. The throne sits nestled within the cone, framing the seat's occupant. Upon the grim dais is seated a simulacrum of the human form, indistinct in it's gender and void of details. It's skin is a dull, coppery bronze, shot through with shifting fissures of incomprehensible emptiness. About the mannequin's shoulders is draped a cape of billowing red fluid, and it's blank brow is crowned with a wreath of crimson fire. In place of a face there are but two eye slits, opening into deep pools of unfathomable unreality. the being lounges upon his seat, fingering the pommel of a strange weapon that leans against his throne. The long, thin weapon appears to be a daiklave stylized to resemble one half of a pair of scissors. Like everything else in the room, the weapon is painted a bloody vermilion.


Before the throne there stand five pedestals, atop which stand five very different individuals. They are the sole inhabitants of this sweeping hall, each arranged in exceedingly dramatic poses. Two move, but their erratic motions are restricted to a very specific range of motions. The rest stand as still as statues, yet radiate an aura of vitality and power that mark them as more than decorations.


At the far left of the throne, a male figure stands juggling a set of balls in a Mills Mess pattern. The balls cover the complete spectrum of color, from emerald radiance to abyssal black to glorious gold. His attire is a well-groomed jester's motley, albeit eschewing the bell-tipped cap for a simple cowl. The colors of his garb are a deep sea green and a soothing sky azure, gilded with threads of the same bronzed crimson that forms the king upon the throne. The Juggler's face is equally like his lord's, a blank blue-green slate but for a pair of eye silts. The only discernible difference is that beyond the Juggler's eyes lies the churning madness of the Wyld.


Beside the Juggler gyrates a merry figure veiled in the simple attire of a court musician, her garments dyed a deep shade of regal violet and embellished with whorls of ebony and sanguine threads. In her delicate gloved hands dances a panpipe of Starmetal, the designs chiseled into it's diaphanous tubes performing their own jig in time to the sweet melody the Piper plays. The eye slits that compose her purple face open to an endless gulf of stars, innumerable constellations repeated again and again within her gaze.


The pedestal upon the far left of the throne contains a still woman wreathed in silver flames, her argent-threaded garb that of a primitive forest mystic. Skulls forged of quicksilver and crystal hang artfully from the rough wraps of cloth that cling to her crystalline flesh, their previous owners beasts born in a time beyond memory. Unlike the Pattern Juggler and the Purple Piper, cloth covers very little of the Silver Fire Witch, revealing her to be as much a simulacrum as the Crimson King. She stands much as a mannequin displaying clothes would, hands clasped before her in prayer and gazing towards the ground. Within her eyes, all that can be distinguished is a flicker of brass and shadows.


The Witch's neighbor is another motley-garbed man, this time retaining the traditional three-pointed hat associated with court fools. The checkered pattern of his garb alternates between void black and radiant gold, outlined with thin bloody strands. His hands spread wide, as if delivering the punchline of a joke or welcoming an old friend with open arms. Unlike his neighbors, the Yellow Jester's face is slightly stylized, the golden mask wrought with protrusions resembling the flames of the sun. Within each of his eye slits winks five whirling sparks - red, blue, white, black and green whirling in a diamond.


The final figure stands directly before the King, her back turned towards the red-obsessed despot. Garbed entirely in black from raven ponytail to ebony mask to gothic dress, the woman-figure that stands before the Red Throne can only be described as the Black Queen. Upon her brow rests a artfully spined crown forged of deepest midnight, born of night skies that had never known the taint of stars or moons. Her dress is simple yet voluminous, clinging slinkily to her slim, toned form until it widens into a swirling hoop-skirt. Strange embroideries of spirals and swirls dance across the surface of the dress, shifting with every glance at the design. The only color upon her form comes from the argent silver maelstrom that courses within her eyes, and the single red rose that weaves its way up her svelte arm and through her straight black hair. The blossoms nestle among the spines of her crown, the emerald umbilical of the stem coiling about her neck and descending to the base of her palm, where it disappears into the void-painted flesh of her wrist. Not a thorn extends from the stem, no errant spine foolhardy enough to attempt marring her perfection. And the The Black Queen does indeed radiate a sense of perfection, her fists raised high in a gesture of triumphant dominance.


The gaunt creature that called itself the Yellow Jester no longer exists, leaving only Connie to stand before the Five and the Throne. The first to speak is the true Yellow Jester, springing into motion atop his pillar like a wind-up toy given new life.


Welcome! Welcome, most honored guest! I do hope my puppet did not disturb you too greatly, he and his fellow Hollowed are the extent of my manifestation in the world at large at the moment. They are inconvenient, but when one has been severed from one's greater self, what can one do?


The Jester sighs comically, his body slumping dejectedly.


Such a sad world, that cannot allow their dreaming fairyland kingdom to return to them. Of course, that is where you come in, my dear girl.


The Jester suddenly leans forward, seeming to press his gilded face against some invisible barrier.


You are female, yes? It's so hard to tell with the products of the Broken.


Yellow. You're bing rude. Shut up.


The voice that reprimands the Jester is cold, direct, yet oddly comforting. It is a voice that will speak the truth, no matter how harsh, and will never lie. The Yellow Jester seems to grin, despite not having a mouth, and bows theatrically to the Black Queen beside him. She too has shifted, now standing as one might expect a severe schoolmistress with arms crossed and one foot tapping in annoyance.


Ah, how rude of me! Allow me to introduce the Lady of the Court, the Ebony Rose of the Crimson Palace, The Black Queen.


His voice drops conspiratorially, one hand cupped to the side of where his mouth would be, as if trying to prevent the Queen from reading his nonexistent lips.


It may not be apparent, but we have no talent for naming things. No creativity whatsoever for the five of us, and the King only avoids being the sixth because he was the first of us and had to name himself!

 

[Cirno]

In a Pyrian sense, there is something pleasing about the unity of red, yet it wars with the otherness that has Teo bristling before she passes under the first crimson arch.


After further examination of the etchings, Concord steps on the cobblestones without reservation, stepping on beggars and kings alike. The masked spirit surreptitiously gets a ground heel. Teo snarls and she snaps to attention, eyes darting up the stairs to the towering dais.


She feels the jester guide vanish. At that moment, the vastness of the hall, the height from which the Crimson King looks down at her, how easy a target she is in her off-white garb--everything jolts into her mind. <<Pageantry,>> Teo growls. She plants her feet squarely on the tiles and stares up at the King and his five fools, glowering at their disharmonious choice of colour and the strange array of magical materials they wield. Why does the Black Queen stand before King himself?


Concord does not bat an eyelash at the Yellow Jester's comment, as it is rightly so, and she prides herself on her ambiguous form.


"If is not untoward to say, Jester in Yellow, your names seem creative enough in granting each a purpose." There is a bitter edge to her smile. "Something this Emissary could appreciate. For what purpose does His Crimson King grant an audience with this wayward Shard?"