To Kill a Primordial - IC

[Psychie]

Our story will start soon

 

[Psychie]

MasterDAF Random Word EbonChevalier Sherwood Red Shadow Claws Gravitational Force

Near the southern coast of the Underworld Inland Sea is the mountain fortress city of Shadar Logoth, home to two of the great Deathlords, the Deliverer of Dark Dreams and Nightmares and the Twisted Toymaker. The two make an usual pair, but it is a pact of mutual protection and it works well for the two of them, letting the Dark Lady be the spokeswoman for the pair while the Twisted Toymaker works to create a variety of undead monstrosities to put the fear of the Underworld into the hearts of men, working deep underground in his laboratory.

Shadar Logoth is home to several thousand ghosts and a handful of mortal followers that are devotees to the two Deathlords and to many Abyssal Deathknights that serve the two powerful Underworld leaders. Dug deep into the mountain, the city is as much a shelter from the heat of the day and a fortress to protect the residents from the hazards of the Underworld, including the other Deathlords that might covet what the Twisted Toymaker and the Deliverer have claimed as their own.

Right now, the residents of Shadar Logoth are all abuzz over reports that there is an invading army from somewhere outside of Creation that is moving across the South with great speed, smashing all forces that try to stand up against them. There are even reports that this strange army has a new kind of Exalt not seen in Creation before, leading the mortal forces in their invasion march. This invasion force has focused on taking land just in Creation and has avoided contact with the Underworld, so at this time there is little reason to fear, at least in the minds of the ghosts of Shadar Logoth.

But things can change with the snap of a finger.

It is currently two hours after dusk, and we find that Voice That Whispers From the Heart of Darkness and Cuckoo of the Endless Facets are returning to Shadar Logoth after making a journey from Chiaroscuro to 'acquire' an old text that had fallen into the hands of a Dragon Blooded noble, and to teach this upstart Exalt a lesson in not dabbling in things of the First Age best left alone by upstart Dragon Blooded Exalts. Voice was there to ensure that the proper tome was acquired, leaving it to Cuckoo to actually lay hands on the old book.

Scion of the House of Bone and Ash is currently elbow deep in the guts of one of her necrotech creations, trying to stitch an extra set of arms to the behemoth under the watchful eye of her mentor, the Twisted Toymaker. With a voice that sounds like the rasp of dry bone on bone, he says little but is aware of all things that Scion is doing in his workshop. Occasionally he’ll come over to where Scion and her assistants are working to see the progress of his pupil with a satisfied mood of his head, but for the most part he leaves Scion to her own projects.

Withered Deathbringer of Desicated Sands and Unholy Glories and his fellow Deathknight Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains are also just back from an assignment in Creation, having been ordered to find a newly Exalted Solar that was being an inconvenience to the Dark Lady as he was trying to show some of her mortal followers the error of their ways and to renounce the pull of the Underworld and turn back to the glory of venerating the Unconquered Sun and to show this fool the price of meddling. It was supposed to be bloody and very final as a lesson to any of her followers that may have been swayed by his silvered tongue.

At the moment, The Knight Errant in the Scarlet Cloak is standing at the shoulder of the Deliverer, acting as both bodyguard and physical intimidation as she presides over a dinner party being held to entertain a Guild envoy and his aides. It is unlikely that any of the Guild party would be so foolish as to make an attempt on her life or to offer any offense to their host, but if they do, the Knight Errant will be the instrument of their doom.

It is during this party that we see the Dark Lady seated at the head of a long table idly sipping a glass of dark red wine that was one of the many gifts to her from the Guild Proctor as the court musicians play soft music in the background while Knight Errant looms silently at her shoulder.

The dinner party has been going on for several hours when an Infallible Messenger Sprite appears in the room and zips over to the Dark Lady. This is an unusual occurrence since those of her Household know that she is to be entertaining guests and did not wish to be disturbed. She leans over to listen to the message and in response to what she hears, the Deliverer raises an eyebrow. She then stands and says, “A matter has come up that requires my immediate attention. Please, continue to eat and enjoy yourselves, and Lord Weiss we will continue our discussions at a later time.” She motions for Knight to follow as she glides out the door.

Once out in the hall, the Deliverer spends a few motes of Essence to activate Echoing in Emptiness, saying to the Abyssals in her service, “My darlings, come to the throne room in two hour’s time and be prepared to receive guests. Gault has several surprises for us.”

You all know Gault; he is one of the few Dragon Blooded that has sworn his oaths to the Dark Lady. His last directive was to go forth and try to learn more of the outland invaders and to report back. Apparently he has acquired some information and prisoners, and the Deliverer wants you there to see them.

 

[Red Shadow Claws]

Cuckoo of the Endless Facets shrugs as he gets the message, and makes his way directly to the Dark lady's throne room. The Toymaker was probably still in his lab, and won't require the tome, or even remember that he requested it, until he and Scion were done with whatever new creation they were working on. Once he got there, he found a dark corner and standing still, blended into the shadows, not to be seen until his presence was called upon.

 

[Gravitational Force]

Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains is hungrily watching as Seventh to Serve (the ghost of an assassin 'rewarded' by the Deliverer of Dark Dreams and Nightmares by being assigned to serve one of her favored Abyssals) prepares his latest meal.

He's saved the Solar Exalt's tongue for the Deathlord he serves, the rest has been butchered and lies next to an enormous grill as a huge pot of rice cooks.

With his helmet removed Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains's horrific features are on full display. His bones have overgrown his body to form a psuedo-exoskeleton and his thick tongue licks over teeth like tombstones as he decides he's too hungry to wait and begins eating from the pile of raw meat to be cooked.

Seventh to Serve notices this and speeds up her grilling. She knows her existence depends on being less appetizing than whatever the Dusk Caste she serves is focusing on. He's devoured the six servants he was assigned before her and she has no intention of being a cautionary tale for whoever is named Eighth to Serve.

Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains receives the command to assemble an hour after he's started eating. During that time he finished eating the remains of the Solar and started consuming the Solar's followers as well. Irritated at having his meal interrupted he nonetheless orders Seventh to Serve to pack up as he takes his frustration out on the survivors among the Solar's followers. By the time he's ready to leave the gauntlets of his armor are caked in gore.

Arriving at the throne room Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains walks in carrying a box containing the Solar's tongue and pulling a wagon filled with food for him to eat while he waits. Seventh to Serve excuses herself on the basis that the invitation was for him only, Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains doesn't care if she's lying or not and lets her go.

 

[Sherwood]

Voice That Whispers receives the message with interest knowing that the Deliverer would not waste their time for something routine. She hurries up to her chambers and looks in her closet for a gown that of suitable to receive guests in. Once her selection is made, she steps to the center of her bedroom and holds her arms out, directing her maids to undress her.

Moving with haste, the two servants quickly began to disrobe their mistress. Voice says nothing, preferring to stand as the two women do their work.

Finally dressed, Voice checks her ivory and bone timepiece and sees that her time is running out. Securing her twin daggers to her belt, the young necromancer summons forth her pyre flame servant and directs the blue-black flame to hover above her head. As she prepares to leave, Voice comments to the maids, “Make sure my chambers are cleaned and ready for me to retire later this evening. I expect the floors to be clean enough to eat off of.”

Sweeping out of her chambers, she adjusts her veil to keep her eyes hidden as she regally strides through the halls of Shadar Logoth to the throne room. If the Dark Lady of already there, she will drop down into a deep curtsy with her head bowed to show her subservience to her Mistress. If the Deliverer isn’t there yet, she simply takes her place at the side of the throne where she usually stands when in attendance of her Mistress receiving visitors.

With her hands primly folded up in front of her chest, Voice waits with the patience of the dead.

 

[EbonChevalier]

The Knight Errant in the Scarlet Cloak stood at his lady’s side dire Lance at the ready to kill any who would show disrespect or lay an unwanted finger on her. But while his mind was mostly on the Deliverer one small space was as all
ways occupied with the thoughts of his princess.

‘I would compare her skin to finest Ebon jade, her hair to softest fleece, and her eyes as warm as amber hearth fire.’

Her was a man devoted to two women for complete different reasons but he’d kill all of creation without a second thought in service of both. At the slightest gesture he follows her like a well trained guardian beast. He stands at his lady’s side he sees the others file in from there various ventures and duties. He felt no love or affection for them but for his ladies sake he’d stand by all of them.

 

[Random Word]

For the Scion of the House of Bone and Ash there is a certain elegant pristine beauty to bone freed of the dead weight of needless flesh. The dead no are no more constrained by the limits of the flesh than gods and ghosts. They have ascended to the rarefied realm of spirit, where carefully calibrated essence flows manipulate the raw conceptual fabric of Creation directly, without the crude intermediary of muscle and sinew. Her creations might as well be made of fine Juche porcelain and be just as mighty but for the necrotic resonance innervating soul has with bone. Even aesthetics, as with all things, must necessarily bow to the pursuit of power.

This day - for whatever the term is worth in this sunless land - is a good one. As with all good days, she is convinced this time it will last forever. She works with feverish frenzy, a manic intensity to her gaze, her long distended fingerbones a blur as they transform from tool to tool faster than the eye can follow. Flesh sloughs away, bone is polished, metals are cast or forged, bolts are fastened, runes are carved. Parts swirl around her or leap into her outstretched palm from across the room, seemingly motivated simply by the sheer magnitude of her indignant fury at their absence. At a glance she devours the contents of scrolls that furl and unfurl from levitating servitor skulls, shuttling continuously between nearby shelves.

She notices, of course, distantly, when her Liege makes time to personally inspect her work. Much as she despises his cowardice in not striking out to conquer the nearby afterlives, her respect for his craft runs deep. Each almost imperceptible nod of approval is one step closer to the day she surpasses him entirely. Each pointed question and scowl of disappointment humiliating fuel for the furious engine that drives her ever onward. Such is the depth of his knowledge of Necromancy she suspects even in her current heightened state of brilliance it may take her days to master everything he's learned. Possibly weeks.

She is so close to perfection this time, she can taste it. Like sweet blood on her tongue. She's biting her tongue again. She needs to stop doing that, but later, once the work is done, it's not important right now. She's cutting corners, dancing on the precipice, relying on supreme skill and unrivalled genius to flense any superfluous and unnecessary step from the procedure like so much rotting flesh. She'll get there faster this way.

The psychic scream of the Deliverer comes crashing through her chaotic racing thoughts. She tenses. Her finger slips. The bone chips. The rune is malformed. The binding fails, a hundred furious howling ghosts exploding forth in all directions in a violent maelstrom, upending workbenches, buffeting servants, and sending tools flying. With a snap of his fingers her Liege activates the runes carved into the walls of the workshop, sucking the hungry ghosts into a vessel and binding them for later. The silence that follows is shattered by her scream, violent in its fury, her face contorted in rage, blood running from her lips. In her fury the bone construct before her shatters into a million jagged pieces that explode outward, shredding the corpus of any ghostly servants unlucky to be caught in the way, cutting deep into the wall on impact. The wall of bone she erected around her part of the workshop in one of her more sober, lucid, responsible moments, lest she get her workshop privileges revoked. Again.

The disappointed glance from her Liege barely registers - but oh how it will, later, when she recalls this moment with vivid clarity, joining the list of failures burnt indelibly into her eidetic memory - as she collapses to her knees, body wracked with sobs, fingers tearing at her lustrous scarlet hair, that proud banner of her fine breeding, of destiny denied. Already the bone servitors, many limbed and sinuous, are moving silently to sweep away the detritus, right the upturned workshop, and prise razor shards of bone from every exposed surface.

By the time she is spent, too exhausted for tears, suffused with that cold detachment that seeps up from the yawning pit of her soul when she most needs it, the workshop has almost been restored to some semblance of normality. Her eyes snap open and her body rises smoothly on puppet strings to her feet. There is no sign of her grief in her expression, only the smeared kohl around her emerald eyes, an affectation from her tour in the south, and the prominent veins in her eyes betray her. She does not spare a glance for the ruined remnants of her work. She is already working on an improved design, free of the flaws that made this one unfit to exist. As she stalks out of the workshop she pulls a terrified mortal, some distant kin from a Southern Cadet House now caged, towards her and with one savage motion tears his throat out with her teeth, snuffing out that single guttering candle of life in a great hall of death. She drinks deeply of his sweet lifeblood, rich with with all the bitter flavours of her lost birthright, until sated - she dimly recalls she hasn't eaten since... well probably since before she last slept - then tosses aside the dessicated corpse and sets off for the audience chamber.

-----

A hundred limbs of serpentine agglomerations of bone that end variously in wickedly sharp blades or ancient skulls of dread beasts, maws filled with serrated teeth, strides through the great doors of the audience chamber to bow low and gently deposit her throne, unfurling a carpet of scarlet cloth-of-jade chased with white for her to alight onto. She is trailed by a levitating black skull with luminous eyes, inlaid with intricate enchantments in soulsteel. Four more hang from her waist, each whispering an endless susurrus of blasphemous truths. Her features have an aristocratic imperious cast of one born to greatness. I'm death her skin is pale as moonlight, as it never was in life, her lips blood red, her figure wrapped in the loose silks popular in Prasad this season dyed in regal purples, sumptuous reds, and deep blacks. She drips with intricately carved jewellery of bone and black jade that clatters softly as she walks with a poise and posture fit for the daughter - no matter how distant - of the Scarlet Empress.

She looks over the assembled deathknights. The Cuckoo doesn't even register. She barely spares a glance for the lovelorn prettyboy. For the Voice she reserves the haughty appraising look of that rarest and most precious of things: a true rival. Not the ignorant pretenders who never stood a chance, but a worthy instrument by which to measure herself. One who, on the inevtiable day she eclipses them in power completely, will for a moment soothe the ravenous hunger for power within her. She must grudgingly admit the Voice may, perhaps, be almost as intelligent and capable a necromancer as herself, for now, though with a lamentably rudimentary knowledge of the classics and a dreadful fashion sense, but what could one expect from a daughter of that deluded wayward army camp calling itself a city state. She favours Hunger with a small nod. He may have all the restraint of a Cynis on a bender, but it is right and proper to indulge in the finer things in life when one has amassed the power to seize them, and Dragons' know there isn't anyone else in this backwater who seems to appreciate that. Her expression, already furious, darkens further as her mind treads paths worn deep with bitterness and resentment. Why could her Liege not have seized by force or guile somewhere civilized for his workshop? A quarter of Stygia, or Acheron perhaps. Anything but this empty wasteland devoid of all culture and refinement. Whatever this is about had best at least be a worthy diversion if it must interrupt her work.

 

[Red Shadow Claws]

Cuckoo makes his presence known as the others have assembled. The Dark Lady can well see in the shadows, but he has been told that it fosters some mistrust from his fellow deathknights. He grins a little from this.

He looks over them, most of them reliant on their tools and items to be able to really to their work. Tools they lay claim to, but are forever just a single snatch away, and he knew just how to do it, should any of them ever turn on him. He knew well that his combat skill isn't impressive, and his social skills lacking, and he has not shown any skill in Sorcery or Necromancy, though the Toymaker has began to drill it into him that he should look into it, to get an extra set of tools to do his job.

There was only one thing neither of those fools had, the ability to deprive their enemies of the tools of their trade. What good is a knight if his weapon is suddenly gone? And the Scion, for all her haughty demeanor would find it humbling should her skulls go missing.

They were never close, so he kept to himself. Keeping a tally of what of their possessions was important, and how best to part them with it, to weaken them. He was no fool, and if an dared to cross him, he will take his revenge.

 

[MasterDAF]

Withered Deathbringer of Desicated Sands and Unholy Glories made his way briskly past the worshipers taking part in the evening prayers in the great hall. He wordlessly brushed off their appeals, redirecting their requests to the cadre of ghostly priests attending him. Typically, Deathbringer would set aside time while present at Ahm Bayîs to receive the prayers of his faithful, to espouse his philosophy on the chivalry of death, and to reinforce the following of the Old Laws. But this was not a typical day.

The Abyssal Exalt and his fellow deathknight, Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains, had just recently returned from a mission to Creation in service of their mutual Deathlord, the Deliverer of Dark Dreams and Nightmares. The Deliverer had tasked them with publicly punishing an upstart Solar Exalt who had begun turning the local ancestor cults against their liege. She had approved their use of extreme prejudice in 'solving the Solar problem' and reprimanding the locals who had betrayed their oaths to the dead.

As was to be expected, Eight Chains reveled in the battle with the Solar and made sure to bring back trophies after he had broken the Chosen of the Sun. Deathbringer had a strong idea of what would become of these trophies but chose not to inquire further. He had no interest in having the disturbing implications confirmed.

While his fellow deathknight had been in the midst of battle, Deathbringer had himself selected and secured his own "prize" to be spirited back to his manse after their mission was completed. A young woman named Black Feathers of Night, she had been a respectable junior leader in the local ancestor cult and an accomplished ghost-caller. However, she had chosen to lie with one of the Sun's chosen and worship in his name. By turning her back on the Old Laws and defecting her faith to the usurper gods, she had committed the cardinal sin of apostasy. Deathbringer would not suffer that an apostate should die only once for such a heinous act, made all the worse by her prior status and influence within the cult. He would need to debase her himself and set her punishment as an example of the wages of apostasy. Perhaps he would even gift her corpus to the Scion of the House of Bone and Ash to bind within a tool of soulsteel in exchange for one of those skulls she kept draped from her belt...but he was getting ahead of himself.

The Abyssal traveled down into the maze-like catacombs beneath Ahm Bayîs, leaving behind the open bustle of activity and the well lit sandstone hallways in favor of smaller stooped passages of stone and flickering torchlight. A singular ghost, the jailer of the catacombs, escorted his master in silence as they continued deeper towards the prisoner. There was little the deathknight did for pleasure, viewing the majority of his tasks as a duty to be served rather than actions to be enjoyed. Against his own expectations, as the air grew stale and they neared the hidden cells, he did feel a small spark of excitement at the prospect of punishing this wayward traitor. It wouldn't be long now.
——————————

Her eyes blinked furtively as she awoke, struggling to make out any semblance of her surroundings. If memory served correct she thought it to be a spacious room, but enclosed by the assailing darkness it felt as though she were bound in a stifling box. The light was non-existent at this depth, deep down in the belly of Ahm Bayîs. How many steps had they descended to get here? Five hundred? Eight hundred? A thousand or more? It made no difference. The darkness was impenetrable all the same. If she were to wave her hand in front her nose, Black Feather of Night was not sure she would see it even then.

She couldn't, of course. The rough iron manacles and their thick chains ensured her arms remained uncomfortably taut, too high above her head to attempt such a simple feat. The sandstone wall was painfully abrasive against her naked back, and her legs had begun to ache from being forced to stand for — how long had it been, again?

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind, but the constant darkness had become horribly disorienting. When one factored in the fatigue as well, it became an almost impossible task.

A sudden noise cut through her mental haze, the grind of metal scraping across worked stone. It pulled her attention into focus and set her heart racing, her pulse pounding in her ears. The door, perhaps? A second sound followed the first. A loud rhythmic echo of footfalls as someone, or perhaps something, heavy collided with the stone floor repeatedly. She struggled to clear the fog in her mind to form a plan, any plan. Meanwhile, the rhythmic echo continued to increase in volume as it drew ever closer.

Black Feather of Night tugged feebly at her restraints, trying in vain to escape her incarceration. Even with her thoughts muddled, she remembered enough to know she did not want to see what followed those fast approaching noises. She began to throw her body weight forward in an effort to pull the chains loose. Either she was too weakened, or the restraints were secured too well. Regardless, all she managed to do was lose her footing and forcefully dislocate her shoulder.

She yelped out in surprise, an unexpectedly soft and worn-out expression of pain that betrayed just how weak she had become during her captivity. Desperation caused her chest to tighten, and her breathing became rapid and shallow. "Please Sol," she begged aloud to the oppressive darkness. "Free your pitiable servant from this terrible lair. Let this not be the end of me, that I might serve you further."

The silence was damning.

Tears began to form at the corners of her eyes as her last scraps of reason gave way to panic. Persistent whimpers escaped her throat while a cascade of tears fell from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. They left wet streaking troughs along her dirty face before dropping to the stone floor beside her bare feet. Silently, she resigned herself to the blind dread of anticipation.
——————————

Withered Deathbringer of Desicated Sands and Unholy Glories stooped as he stepped out of the cell, ducking under the low entryway and joining the jailer in the tight external hall. The ghost stood a small distance away, avoiding eye contact with his master's ghastly visage until the Abyssal had replaced his dark leaden mask. As it fit over his hooded face, it slightly muted the cacophony of horrified screams and pained whimpering that followed him out of the cell.

"We are leaving," Deathbringer announced, unable to keep the disappointment from seeping into his voice.

"But master, we've only just started to —" a quick turn of the head from the Chosen of the Void silenced his ghostly servant. Questioning orders was rarely rewarded. "Yes master," the ghost replied apologetically, then swiftly pulled the torch from the cell and began to light their way back up the twisted passageways.
Behind them, the terrified voice of their captive drifted weakly and forlorn, "please no, not the dark again..."

The low orange tongues of flame crackled and popped as they danced atop the jailer's torch, the only sound audible on the somber walk until the deathknight returned to the main floor of the manse.

Upon returning topside, he retrieved his blackened skull familiar Anu-Fahim and then made his way to the ornate and well stocked library to do some quick research concerning the Chosen of the Sun. The Abyssal had previously flipped through an ancient compendium addressing the lords of the First Age, and he quickly found it using the deathly decimal system. Taking the book to a nearby table to study, he could practically feel the eyes of the other library visitors as they watched him sit alone under a dimly lit wall sconce.

"Tell me again why we aren't taking this back to your quarters? What do we need this old tome for anyways?" Anu-Fahim remarked dryly. The skull floated a foot off the table and swiveled to cast its unearthly glowing gaze across the rest of the room. "T'would be a smidge less uncomfortable. Feeling like a fish in a bowl here."

The varied library guests caught on to the underlying message, quickly turning away from their dark liege and his pet to get back to their own studies.

The Abyssal briefly smirked under his mask. Though he would never tell Anu-Fahim, the ancient skull's dry wit had a way of humoring the undead exalt. "I shall explain it on the way." He turned to address one of his mortal acolytes, and noticed they were studying a thick tome written on the subject of astrological signs and portents derived from the Calendar of Setesh. "See to it the Entropic Priests join me at the gate within the hour. We have been called to Shandar Logoth." The acolyte immediately closed his study materials and rose to do as he was bid.

"And Garel," the undead exalt addressed his young charge. "Ye-yes, my lord?" the young man nervously stammered. "After you have finished with that book, meditate for a week on Stygia and their historic use of that impressive artifact. Then find me in my quarters and we shall discuss your conclusions." The young man swallowed, nodded his head, and hurried off.

Deathbringer returned his attention to the book in front of him, but his focus instead continually drifted to the impending meeting. From his master's missive, it sounded as though Gault may have new information concerning the Wyld-landers. Though he did not fear their interference here at Ahm Bayîs, as that would be the folly of any who tried, he was curious to hear his mistress' perspective on the situation.

Before long, the Abyssal and his floating familiar were meeting the ghostly priests at the gate. The five ghosts assembled wore highly decorative garb that caused them to stand out amongst the more plainly dressed worshipers in their black cotton sashes and the soldiers on guard. He wouldn't dream of attending his dark mistress without his empowered servants in tow. He made a point whenever possible to present an appearance of deathly command and authority before his master to reinforce that her trust had been well placed in him.

Deathbringer and his entourage each stepped into charcoal black chariots drawn by a ghostly driver wearing a sash of dark silk. "Let us be off." The chariots began to race across the moonbathed desert sands towards Shandar Logoth, and the Abyssal took another small pleasure in the feeling of a stiff wind whipping across his robes.

Soon enough, he would return and finish what he had started. He pictured the broken and pathetic mortal still whimpering in her cell, the iron maiden hanging from the stone ceiling dripping blood as it held her in a steel-encased grip. Death, as he had gravenly warned her, was only the beginning.
——————————

Upon arriving in Shandar Logoth, Deathbringer and his priests hurriedly made their way into the city and to the Deliverer's throne room. He reminded them that under no circumstances were they to speak in the Deathlord's presence, unless she addressed them specifically. He led his small cadre in through the main doors, the priests dutifully following behind their master, and stopped them soon after entering so that they stood a respectful distance from the throne towards the back of the room.

He then continued forward and took his place near his fellows, recognizing unfortunately that each of the other summoned deathknights had managed to arrive before him. His gaze crossed each of the Abyssals arrayed before him, recounting different missions he had served on with them. It stopped to linger hungrily upon Scion and her blackened skulls. Once again he found himself wondering what it would take to bargain away one of them. This was not the time for such thoughts however, and he quickly shifted his focus back to the throne.

 

[Gravitational Force]

Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains rips a huge hunk of meat from an unidentifiable limb with his teeth, savoring the taste as he surveys his fellow Abyssals.

They thought they could regain what they'd lost or create something that would last.

What a joke!

There was only the inevitable decay and ruin of all things as they spiraled into Oblivion. Empires fell apart, people died, monuments crumbled, relationships faded or turned to hate. The only real path to happiness was to accept that existence was meaningless and the only question was how much fun you could have before the end came. They mistook him not caring about anything except indulging himself for not knowing and that suited him fine.

Reaching into the wagon he'd brought the Abyssal pulls out a sack and rattles the contents at the Scion of the House of Bone and Ash.

"Can you make me anything useful out of a Solar's bones?"

His voice was as monstrous as his body, deeper than humanly possible and so saturated with malice that commenting on the weather would sound like a death threat.

 

[Psychie]

As everyone arrives in the throne room, the Deliverer gives each of you a slight nod and a faint smile as you take up your usual places around the chamber. There are not the usual ghostly audience in attendance, with only two of the Dark Lady’s most trusted servants. With a glance to Deathbringer and a slight twitch of her hand you can tell that this is not the time to have your other servants with you, and without a word they quickly leave the throne room to wait for their master.

It is not long after that that Gault’s arrival is announced by the major domo. The Dragon Blooded enters with a dozen soldiers trailing behind him, hauling two living prisoners on heavy chains and shackles. Gault stops a distance away from the throne and kneels down and bows his head low and waits for permission to rise.

Looking down at the Exalt and the prisoners that have been drug in, the Deliverer finally says, “Rise and tell me why I should be interested in these presents you have brought to me.”

Gault rises and for the first time, you can see that his armor is bloody from a recent chest wound. He says, “Dread Lady, while traveling through the Underworld we came across a platoon of these outlanders led by one of their strange Exalted. When we encountered them, they immediately attacked us. While their Essence powered weapons were very effective, most of their number were obviously sick and not at their full strength and the ones that didn’t surrender were quickly put to the sword. Their leader, the strange Exalt, was more of a challenge. He was armed with some kind of flaming sword that did grievous damage to all it struck, and he was able to destroy one of the Toymakers’ creations before I could get into combat with him. As we fought, his burning blade sliced me and destroyed my own armor before I could finish him off. As the Exalt died, it dissolved, leaving a pile of goo and filaments of Starmetal. It left only it’s weapons, which I present to you.”

He pulls out from his satchel two items, one is a disk the size of a dinner plate with hand holes in the middle, obviously designed to be thrown like a chakram. The second item appears to be just the hilt of a sword, and both items appear to be made of starmetal. Gault places them both on the ground at the base of the Deliverer’s throne and steps back away from her. She’s then holds her hand out and the hilt flies into her grip and with curiosity she examines it. “Toymaker, I know you are here. What do you make of this? It is a weapon unlike any I have seen before.”

From the darkness to the side of the throne, the sound of dry bones rubbing against one another can be heard as the Toymaker steps into view. With a clawed hand he takes the weapon and looks it over. He lets out a grunt. “It appears to be some kind of energy blade version of a Daiklave. A weapon like this was theorized in the very beginning of the First Age, but at the time, the old Solars were still rising in their power and did not have the skill to master the creation of such things. Only a few were ever made by Autochthon before he vanished into Elsewhere.”

The Dark Lady raises an eyebrow, then looks at Gault again. “What of these prisoners? You were only able to capture two?”

Gault shakes his head. “No, my Lady. We apprehended fifteen, but the disease that they had consumed them rapidly. I am not a scholar in such things, but if I am not mistaken, it matched all signs of being the Great Contagion. Other than stories I have read, no other disease had the same virulence as the Contagion does, but i have not heard of any cases of it in centuries.”

The Deliverer leans in closer and asks, “What of your prisoners? I presume you have questioned them? What do they say of this?”

“Not much, my liege. They only speak a strange dialect of Old Realm, and I am not fluent enough in that language to successfully question them. My skill is with a blade, not in interrogation. That is why I brought them here so they could be plied for information by those skilled in that area.”

 

[Sherwood]

Voice That Whispers is intrigued by the story being told by Gault about the outlanders and the strange weapons that they use. Perhaps the Toymaker and Scion can divine something about these devices. After all, they are the crafty ones. The fact that even the Solars of the First Age couldn’t build these energy blade weapons fills her with curiosity as to how these people could construct such items.

She clears her throat and asks, “Gault, you said that the mortal troops were using Essence powered weapons. What kind of weapons were they using? Did you recover any of these to examine also?”

 

[Gravitational Force]

Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains is waiting to hear what his part will be in whatever The Deliverer of Dark Dreams and Nightmares's plan is.

The Great Contagion it almost wiped out all life the first time and it will probably at least rack up the same bodycount this time. But what does this have to do with him?

He can't figure out what part of what's been said includes something for him to kill or destroy, so there must be more to this.

Hunger Clad in Eight Broken Chains holds his tongue. And the tongue of the Solar Exalted he murdered which he's waiting to present to The Deliverer of Dark Dreams and Nightmares. If she doesn't want it he'll eat it. Too bad Exalted are so rare, if there were enough of them he could get enough tongues for a soup.

Thinking of meals to come the Abyssal stays silent for now.

 

[Psychie]

Voice That Whispers is intrigued by the story being told by Gault about the outlanders and the strange weapons that they use. Perhaps the Toymaker and Scion can divine something about these devices. After all, they are the crafty ones. The fact that even the Solars of the First Age couldn’t build these energy blade weapons fills her with curiosity as to how these people could construct such items.

She clears her throat and asks, “Gault, you said that the mortal troops were using Essence powered weapons. What kind of weapons were they using? Did you recover any of these to examine also?”

The Dragon Blooded nods. "Yes, Noble Exalt, we did." He motions for one of his men to step forward and remove a long spear-looking device off of his back. "We were able to recover a total of twenty of these. The construction of all are identical."

The Toymaker motions for the soldier to step forward and bring the weapon to him. With a nod, he says, "This is a Shock Lance. It has a rechargeable battery that holds up to twenty blasts of Essence, and when it is empty, it can be used as a standard melee weapon. A fairly common design, massed produced for infantry to use in combat from back in the First Age."

She looks down at the two prisoners and says, "Unshackle them. I don't believe that they pose a threat in these conditions."

Quickly, the guards move to obey. As the chains drop away, the two captives rub their wrists as they glare about the room with suspicion.

Switching to Old Realm, the Dark Lady says to the two, "So long as you behave yourselves, I don't see a need for the chains. Your future treatment is now up to you. The more that you cooperate with answering questions, the better off you'll be. I do believe that this is the result of a great misunderstanding. Do you understand?"

The two men shoot a look at each other and they slowly nod, obviously uncomfortable at the whole situation.

She then asks, "So, where are you from? I would like to know so we can start to make arrangements to return you to your home." As she speaks, you can feel the power of her will bearing down on the two morals. It seems that she is using her Charms to enhance her own persuasive abilities.

One of the men manages to stutter out, "W-we are f-from Roza, in the nation of Estasia."

"Hmm. I haven't heard of this nation before. Where is it? Is it located in the Wyld?"

"No, ma'am. It is one of the Eight Nations of Great Autochthon."

At that revelation, the Twisted Toymaker lets out a startled hiss, and the Deliverer's eyes open wide in shock. She says in Firespeak, "The Great Maker? How is that possible"

The Toymaker lets out a horrid sound that you recognize as laughter. "It certainly does explain a great many things. The level of technical expertise needed to mass produce the Shock Pikes, the energy blade Daiklave, the war machines we've heard of, all of which could only be possible with guidance from the Primordial."

 

[Red Shadow Claws]

Cuckoo's first instinct when Gault presents the weapons was to snatch and examine them, but he knew this wouldn't go well, so, his hands itching, he gave it up. But the prospect of new technology to steal was building in him.
He listened carefully to all that was being said, and when he felt comfortable enough with his understanding, did he dare send a message to his master the Twisted Toymaker "Forgive my haste, Toymaker, but others might well have heard of this army, and if they find out about this new weapons, there will be an arms race to unlock their secrets. I am willing to go forth and collect samples of these new technologies, so that we may have a head start, and to find out their plans, and who's behind this."