Random Word
Three Thousand Club
City of Ombrelune - Cinder Isles - 11 Ascending Fire, RY 765 - Tidesunder Day
Scene 0 - Session 0 - Story 0
Only death stands against the endless march of time. All else passes as twilight fades to night, the greatest of works are reduced to rubble and ash, and even the land itself yields as the sea erodes the shore, yet nothing passes so quickly as beauty. The cloudless morning sky of brilliant blue, marred then only by a pall of fearful anticipation, has given way to the haze of choking smoke and settling ash. The calls of seabirds, shanties of sailors, and cries of hawkers to the clash of bronze, the crackling of flames, the guttural throaty war chants of the fearsome Migdon, the war drums of a thousand ships, the screams of the dying, and the mournful wails of their lamenters. The smell of freshly caught fish on the grill, the welcome respite from the stench of the city carried on the fresh sea breeze, and the pungent aroma of incense from busy shrines to the sickly sweet smell of burning human flesh, the iron tang of blood, and the bitter acrid smell of ash. The warm caress of the early morning sun to the withering heat of towering infernos, and for many their only respite the cold kiss of bronze.
Many will join the ranks of the ancestors today, but, perhaps, if you are lucky or cunning or fierce, not you.
Scene 0 - Session 0 - Story 0
Only death stands against the endless march of time. All else passes as twilight fades to night, the greatest of works are reduced to rubble and ash, and even the land itself yields as the sea erodes the shore, yet nothing passes so quickly as beauty. The cloudless morning sky of brilliant blue, marred then only by a pall of fearful anticipation, has given way to the haze of choking smoke and settling ash. The calls of seabirds, shanties of sailors, and cries of hawkers to the clash of bronze, the crackling of flames, the guttural throaty war chants of the fearsome Migdon, the war drums of a thousand ships, the screams of the dying, and the mournful wails of their lamenters. The smell of freshly caught fish on the grill, the welcome respite from the stench of the city carried on the fresh sea breeze, and the pungent aroma of incense from busy shrines to the sickly sweet smell of burning human flesh, the iron tang of blood, and the bitter acrid smell of ash. The warm caress of the early morning sun to the withering heat of towering infernos, and for many their only respite the cold kiss of bronze.
Many will join the ranks of the ancestors today, but, perhaps, if you are lucky or cunning or fierce, not you.
At the centre of the labyrinth of bookshelves that occupies the vast dome of the Fortress of Sunkissed Petals is a freestanding spiral staircase of Orichalcum, shining as brightly as if under the noonday sun even in the gloom of the dusty hall. At the top of that staircase is a pearlescent black sphere. As a child, lost amongst the stacks, you used it as a guiding star, and wondered at its nature, but looking directly at it evoked in you a nameless dread, and you never dared climb those beautiful stairs of elaborately wrought gold.
Today you faced that fear, propelled onward by something more terrifying still. The tiny golden crabs that sort the shelves and stocked your reading desk gathered by the thousands on the inner ring of shelves, clambering over one another to watch your headlong, scrambling ascent with a mixture of awe and anticipation. At the centre of the sphere you stood on the daias, the darkness pierced only by the soft glow of the golden stairs beneath, and placed your hands into the twin spheres of liquid gold and inky living darkness, and you felt the Fortress come alive. It drank deeply of your vital essence, starved for millenia. Your insides froze and your blood boiled. You probably screamed, but rather than pull your hands free you held fast and dove deeper until your conscious experience no longer had room for your body, overflowing with information from geomancy your mortal mind could scarcely comprehend. And then, suddenly, in a single transcendent moment of epiphany, your mind was no longer mortal. You understood. You could see, as plain as day, the disrupted flows of essence deep within the earth. It became just another textbook problem. The solution was clear.
Your eyes snapped open. In the light of the brilliant, dazzling golden nimbus that surrounds you the hexagonal black tiles on the inner surface of the sphere flip as one into a riot of meaningless colour, and the crab servitors begin a frenzied rush to rearrange the coloured tiles into an image of the outside world. Your home, burning. The harbour full of enemy ships. Blood in the streets. Far beneath you, you can see the enemy has breached the outer door. You will the Fortress to smite your enemies, and it eagerly, hungrily, viciously responds. The hill unfolds, manors tumbling aside like sandcastles kicked aside in a landslide of detritus, golden petals unfurling. From the centre of the immense lotus a crystal rises. The city darkens, cast in sudden shadow as the lotus drinks in the light hungrily. The light, reflected by the petals onto the crystal, is focused, amplified, refracted, and, by your will, unleashed upon a single point.
At its touch the waters of the bay erupt into a geyser of steam. As it sweeps across the bay triremes are cleaved into flaming fragments, crews boiled alive in an instant in geysers of steam. The crabs scramble to rearrange the tiles to paint the rapidly changing picture of destruction. Moments pass as you breathe heavily. Panic sweeps through the fleet like wildfire. Sails unfurl, oars are readied, and a chaotic retreat begins. You fire again, and again before you notice. The Fortress senses your flicker of hesitation and reluctantly aborts the firing sequence moments before disaster. The delicate balance of animating Fire, cooling Air, and stabilizing Earth essence that keeps the petals and focusing crystal from melting is out of alignment, and you feel the earth shudder violently, throwing you hard to the metallic floor of the daias as an explosion rocks the fortress from deep underground.
You will not be able to fire again until the damage is repaired without causing serious damage to the Manse. Thank Gavrin [An honoured Ancestor, patron of artisans, engineers, craftswomen, and labourers. Known for ingenuity and craftsmanship] the enemy doesn't know that.
Today you faced that fear, propelled onward by something more terrifying still. The tiny golden crabs that sort the shelves and stocked your reading desk gathered by the thousands on the inner ring of shelves, clambering over one another to watch your headlong, scrambling ascent with a mixture of awe and anticipation. At the centre of the sphere you stood on the daias, the darkness pierced only by the soft glow of the golden stairs beneath, and placed your hands into the twin spheres of liquid gold and inky living darkness, and you felt the Fortress come alive. It drank deeply of your vital essence, starved for millenia. Your insides froze and your blood boiled. You probably screamed, but rather than pull your hands free you held fast and dove deeper until your conscious experience no longer had room for your body, overflowing with information from geomancy your mortal mind could scarcely comprehend. And then, suddenly, in a single transcendent moment of epiphany, your mind was no longer mortal. You understood. You could see, as plain as day, the disrupted flows of essence deep within the earth. It became just another textbook problem. The solution was clear.
Your eyes snapped open. In the light of the brilliant, dazzling golden nimbus that surrounds you the hexagonal black tiles on the inner surface of the sphere flip as one into a riot of meaningless colour, and the crab servitors begin a frenzied rush to rearrange the coloured tiles into an image of the outside world. Your home, burning. The harbour full of enemy ships. Blood in the streets. Far beneath you, you can see the enemy has breached the outer door. You will the Fortress to smite your enemies, and it eagerly, hungrily, viciously responds. The hill unfolds, manors tumbling aside like sandcastles kicked aside in a landslide of detritus, golden petals unfurling. From the centre of the immense lotus a crystal rises. The city darkens, cast in sudden shadow as the lotus drinks in the light hungrily. The light, reflected by the petals onto the crystal, is focused, amplified, refracted, and, by your will, unleashed upon a single point.
At its touch the waters of the bay erupt into a geyser of steam. As it sweeps across the bay triremes are cleaved into flaming fragments, crews boiled alive in an instant in geysers of steam. The crabs scramble to rearrange the tiles to paint the rapidly changing picture of destruction. Moments pass as you breathe heavily. Panic sweeps through the fleet like wildfire. Sails unfurl, oars are readied, and a chaotic retreat begins. You fire again, and again before you notice. The Fortress senses your flicker of hesitation and reluctantly aborts the firing sequence moments before disaster. The delicate balance of animating Fire, cooling Air, and stabilizing Earth essence that keeps the petals and focusing crystal from melting is out of alignment, and you feel the earth shudder violently, throwing you hard to the metallic floor of the daias as an explosion rocks the fortress from deep underground.
You will not be able to fire again until the damage is repaired without causing serious damage to the Manse. Thank Gavrin [An honoured Ancestor, patron of artisans, engineers, craftswomen, and labourers. Known for ingenuity and craftsmanship] the enemy doesn't know that.
What power holds a name? If the Muses and the Fates can sing of you no longer, do you exist? Perhaps we will find out with the tale of an old women we shall not, cannot, name. Her old bones ache and her lungs heave, for the sealing of the great stone door took all her might and then some. She stands in darkness, leaning heavily on her improvised staff, and prays to ancestors who forgot her name long before the Muses that she remains undiscovered.
Suddenly, horrifyingly, the door shifts. It should be immovable, barred to all but her brave daughter Sjet who even now labours to activate the fortress and save the city. She can hear strange chanting from outside the door. It sets her teeth on edge and her hair on end. It makes her bones itch. It pleases the door, and it yields to the mighty thews of the dread warlord Lukha Palash, and the winsome smile of victory on his features of heroic cast. He stands in the sudden blinding light of day, moonsilver breastplate and bronze spear shining, long hair in the wind, surrounded by his honour guard and the gaudy-robed Sorcerer who unbarred the gate.
She raises her staff, resolute. She is not the hunter she was in her prime, feeding her daughter alone in the wilderness, but she holds firm to that desperate willingness to do anything to give her a better life, even for only a few fleeting minutes. She gives Lukha and his warriors pause. The Fortress likely his powerful defenses, and perhaps this old woman is not what she seems. Is she some dread Spirit? A distracting illusion? Lukha is impetuous and brave. His hesitation is momentary. He lunges forward, and while she is slowed with age he is more than at his prime, gifted with the supernatural might of Luna herself. Her staff clatters to the floor, his spear shines bright with her heart's blood, and he hauls her out of the Manse and tosses her limp body aside contemptuously, where it tumbles down the hillside to rest by the side of a winding river.
We might, then, expect this story to end here. With a brave but ignoble end, the heroic if futile last stand of a mother protecting her child. Fate, though, had no hand in what comes next. Like a dream she found herself on a balcony over a wide street filled with cavorting celebrants. A hundred swirling dancers in great diaphanous veils, pipers and drummers and flutists marching, acrobats and jugglers in ornate masks, varicoloured confetti and dancing ethereal flames, the scents of frankincense and myrrh, all these overwhelmed her senses. Then she turned to her companion, and they were eclipsed by those perfect coral lips, those haunting, soul-piercing eyes of all-consuming emerald behind a silver and ivory Colombina mask. With such sweet and honeyed words those coral lips spoke of the end of all things, but not now, not today, and most of all not her daughter. The smile that graced those lips when the old woman agreed to serve and cast her name into Oblivion forevermore could set even a spear-pierced heart racing.
If this turn of events took you by surprise, imagine then Lukha of the Bronze Tide and his honour guard as the body of the old woman rose like a marionette, strangling an Ichneumon Wasp that was about to lay its eggs in her appetizing corpse and binding it to her will, eyes black, brow bleeding, surrounded by an anima like a burning bruise upon reality, and Droplets of Blood in the Chill Wind began to chant in the baleful glossolalia of the Neverborn, the corpse-tombs of the titans that built the world. She spoke of things anathema to life, and from eyes, nose, and mouth the assembled warriors began to bleed. The quick-witted Sorcerer began a counterchant through bloody lips, finishing a defense moments before he would have perished. Those warriors too far from him were not so lucky. Lukha himself leapt down the hill to meet her as she began an unhurried ascent, lunging for her despite his agony and wrapping his hands around her neck, attempting to end her chanting, save his men, and wring from her this wretched unlife. He ignores the strings of the Ichneumon Hunter defending its mistress, batting it aside. She no longer needed anything so trite as breath to communicate the will of her new masters.
Lukha spit blood and declared through blood-soaked fangs gritted against the pain, "You are an abomination before the gods. If you survive me, Bhadri take you. It will be the one good act she does." Then he gathered those corpses he could carry over his shoulder and fled to the waiting cloud summoned by his Sorcerer, alighting into the sky. Those he does not take rise wordlessly into shambling zombies and stare at you in mute deference, blood running from slack jaws and empty sockets.
In the silence that followed she watched the sky darken and the ships of her enemies sundered in steam and fire as death swept across the bay again and again. Finally the Fortress shook from a terrible wound beneath the earth and fell silent.
Her bones no longer ache, possessed of a dread vitality, but though her mind is filled with thoughts of the fate of her daughter, her heart aches to see those perfect coral lips smile again.
Suddenly, horrifyingly, the door shifts. It should be immovable, barred to all but her brave daughter Sjet who even now labours to activate the fortress and save the city. She can hear strange chanting from outside the door. It sets her teeth on edge and her hair on end. It makes her bones itch. It pleases the door, and it yields to the mighty thews of the dread warlord Lukha Palash, and the winsome smile of victory on his features of heroic cast. He stands in the sudden blinding light of day, moonsilver breastplate and bronze spear shining, long hair in the wind, surrounded by his honour guard and the gaudy-robed Sorcerer who unbarred the gate.
She raises her staff, resolute. She is not the hunter she was in her prime, feeding her daughter alone in the wilderness, but she holds firm to that desperate willingness to do anything to give her a better life, even for only a few fleeting minutes. She gives Lukha and his warriors pause. The Fortress likely his powerful defenses, and perhaps this old woman is not what she seems. Is she some dread Spirit? A distracting illusion? Lukha is impetuous and brave. His hesitation is momentary. He lunges forward, and while she is slowed with age he is more than at his prime, gifted with the supernatural might of Luna herself. Her staff clatters to the floor, his spear shines bright with her heart's blood, and he hauls her out of the Manse and tosses her limp body aside contemptuously, where it tumbles down the hillside to rest by the side of a winding river.
We might, then, expect this story to end here. With a brave but ignoble end, the heroic if futile last stand of a mother protecting her child. Fate, though, had no hand in what comes next. Like a dream she found herself on a balcony over a wide street filled with cavorting celebrants. A hundred swirling dancers in great diaphanous veils, pipers and drummers and flutists marching, acrobats and jugglers in ornate masks, varicoloured confetti and dancing ethereal flames, the scents of frankincense and myrrh, all these overwhelmed her senses. Then she turned to her companion, and they were eclipsed by those perfect coral lips, those haunting, soul-piercing eyes of all-consuming emerald behind a silver and ivory Colombina mask. With such sweet and honeyed words those coral lips spoke of the end of all things, but not now, not today, and most of all not her daughter. The smile that graced those lips when the old woman agreed to serve and cast her name into Oblivion forevermore could set even a spear-pierced heart racing.
If this turn of events took you by surprise, imagine then Lukha of the Bronze Tide and his honour guard as the body of the old woman rose like a marionette, strangling an Ichneumon Wasp that was about to lay its eggs in her appetizing corpse and binding it to her will, eyes black, brow bleeding, surrounded by an anima like a burning bruise upon reality, and Droplets of Blood in the Chill Wind began to chant in the baleful glossolalia of the Neverborn, the corpse-tombs of the titans that built the world. She spoke of things anathema to life, and from eyes, nose, and mouth the assembled warriors began to bleed. The quick-witted Sorcerer began a counterchant through bloody lips, finishing a defense moments before he would have perished. Those warriors too far from him were not so lucky. Lukha himself leapt down the hill to meet her as she began an unhurried ascent, lunging for her despite his agony and wrapping his hands around her neck, attempting to end her chanting, save his men, and wring from her this wretched unlife. He ignores the strings of the Ichneumon Hunter defending its mistress, batting it aside. She no longer needed anything so trite as breath to communicate the will of her new masters.
Lukha spit blood and declared through blood-soaked fangs gritted against the pain, "You are an abomination before the gods. If you survive me, Bhadri take you. It will be the one good act she does." Then he gathered those corpses he could carry over his shoulder and fled to the waiting cloud summoned by his Sorcerer, alighting into the sky. Those he does not take rise wordlessly into shambling zombies and stare at you in mute deference, blood running from slack jaws and empty sockets.
In the silence that followed she watched the sky darken and the ships of her enemies sundered in steam and fire as death swept across the bay again and again. Finally the Fortress shook from a terrible wound beneath the earth and fell silent.
Her bones no longer ache, possessed of a dread vitality, but though her mind is filled with thoughts of the fate of her daughter, her heart aches to see those perfect coral lips smile again.
You got more than you bargained for, but this job was never going to be easy. Being bait is a fool's errand, but the price was right and there are few vessels swifter in the Southwest than the Gossamer Blade. Be enough of a nuisance to provoke the Bronze TIde into subtly altering course, enough to make some unfortunate neighbour of Ombrelune a more tempting target. You didn't count on the cunning or vindictiveness of their admirals. They didn't catch you, and you handed them some embarassing defeats, but Leja baited you with tempting prizes into a massive envelopment so large you couldn't see it, and then no matter the losses refused to let you escape it. Over the last two weeks she's herded you into Ombrelune, and though you bought the defenders a few days to prepare, now your fate is uncomfortably tied to theirs.
The Saint of Venture commanded the fleet, the Acclaimed were unmoving on that point assuming you even wanted overall command, and the fleet gave a good showing, but was eventually overcome by sheer force of numbers and preponderance of supernatural might. The Saint of Venture is dead - well, the cultist they were possessing is dead, the ancient ghost is indisposed - and the Gossamer Blade led a few allied vessels in a well executed retreat back to the fortified Cothon to attempt to weather the storm. Things aren't looking good, and some quick thinking will be necessary to get your crew, let alone your ship, out of this mess.
The Saint of Venture commanded the fleet, the Acclaimed were unmoving on that point assuming you even wanted overall command, and the fleet gave a good showing, but was eventually overcome by sheer force of numbers and preponderance of supernatural might. The Saint of Venture is dead - well, the cultist they were possessing is dead, the ancient ghost is indisposed - and the Gossamer Blade led a few allied vessels in a well executed retreat back to the fortified Cothon to attempt to weather the storm. Things aren't looking good, and some quick thinking will be necessary to get your crew, let alone your ship, out of this mess.
Behind every legion there is an army of caravaneers, behind every fleet an armada of dockhands. The mahouts led elephants laden with shining bronze spears, black arrows of dark obsidian, and frightening bone effigies to the docks in early morning darkness, passed the hulking merchant junks low in the water with treasure to the sleek House triremes fit for war. Pale green pyreflame sconces flickered along the basalt walls embossed with gold leaf extolling the virtues of the ancestor Lorithia, famous explorer and trader. You and the boys hauled the weapons up ramps onto the great ships of war faster than the shift had ever moved, all tense and furious silence punctuated with periodic calls of 'Heave! Ho!'. You clasped hands one final time with those House sailors you knew well as they boarded. You watched the Necromancer board, black cloak swirling, skull-painted face, frightened sailors giving his bone horrors a wide berth. You watched the sails in all four colours of the great Merchant Houses unfurl and the rows dip beneath the waves as the drums started.
From the upper tier of the Cothon you watched the sea of enemy sails appear on the horizon with the dawn. The harbour chain was raised, and hulking Bronze Tide forge-ships pulled by jewelled turtles spit white hot flames that cleaved through it. An orca the size of a trireme wrestled one of the bone horrors beneath the waves. The surface of the water burned with a wall of pale green pyreflame, before a great wave scattered it and the enemy ships poured through. There were thunderous cracks as rams hit home, and the cries of battle as bronze flashed and crews clashed. Over three hours that stretched for eternity you watched your fleet burn. A handful of vessels escaped the conflagration, the closest commanded by the mercenary Captain limned in golden light. They made it inside the Cothon, and your crew helped the elephants haul the massive stone gates shut with a crushing finality.
Captain Xalax took command from terrified House captains, and you prepared for a siege. At the command of the golden Captain, you, the remaining House guard, and the crews of the surviving vessels hauled crates and debris to barricade the landward gates, doused fire that rained from the sky, burned out arrows that sprouted into ravenous man-eating vines, and fought off the green-cloaked Windriders when they scaled the walls. When the great bronze Aurochs the size of a house smashed through the main gate, and the enemy poured through, their round shields, bright spears, and ferocious axes glittering in the golden light of the Captain's anima, you raised your hammer and charged.
In that moment time seemed to slow to a crawl, and a pregnant man with skin like the night sky and eyes like the full moon stepped out of your shadow to appraise you. They spoke with a voice like cicadas and the flutter of moth wings yearning for the moon, "Brave one. Beloved child. I add to your burden one more soul to protect, because you are strong enough to bear it. You will endure, your compassion unbowed. She is not what she once was, those many nights ago, that dark night star dear to my heart, and you must I fear from her protect herself as much as anyone." They peered deep inside you to address something there, "You may consider my favour discharged. Go forth with my love and be great, and terrible, and never cease becoming what you are. Not for a moment. Not for anyone."
Having completed a circuit around you they vanished into your shadow and for the second time in your life you drew your first gasping breath, essence singing in your veins, and your silver light joined the Captain's gold. You cut through the warriors, wrestled the Aurochs out the gate, and hurled it into the ranks of the scattering enemy with a fearsome roar that shook the earth, then slammed the gates shut again.
It took them time to recover, but now you find yourself straining with all your terrible might to hold the gate shut as the Aurochs charges it again and again, shaking the earth and raining dust down upon you and the surviving dockhands, their fear palpable in the stark shadows their features cast in the light of your anima.
A woman's voice calls out from beyond the gate, magically amplified. "Surrender, Moon-child! Surrender, join us, and you and your kin will be spared. The Blackscale swears it, and I speak for the Bronze Tide. Your kind belong with us. Surrender and your ship and crew will be granted safe passage, Captain Xalax. We want the prize ships, let Leja kill you another day," She laughs. Images of a woman, her long green hair in elaborate bronze-clasped braids, whipping in the wind as she fires arrows from her Siege Powerbow in the shade of the great tree growing arrows near the prow of her ship flash through Pandemos' mind. A fine admiral and a fearsome foe. Those arrows could sprout into carnivorous vines that would, if left unchecked, spread from victim to victim until they grew large enough to entangle and crush a ship to splinters.
Minh Firewing, Pandemos' first mate, gives him an appraising look and a grunt that suggests this deal sounds considerably more appealing to her than dying with this city. Skinny Thuy and a few of the other dockhands look up at Garret with sudden hope. "Name us and ours your kin, and we'll never forget it, boss!" he hisses. The House Guard holding the inner door and keeping an eye on the Wind-dancers on the rooftops turn abruptly to look at you, and Sergeant Fidelity hisses just loud enough to carry over the chamber, "Oy, don't forget us! I know where they keep the good stuff."
Then, suddenly, the day goes dark, like a shadow has fallen over the city. There's the sound of rushing water, billowing steam, splintering wood, and new screams of the dying join the chorus. The enemy fleet's drums and war chants fall silent. Then, after a moment of horrified silence, they abruptly resume as horns ring out, sounding the retreat. Many enemy warbands will scramble to their ships; many more will be left stranded ashore, fighting for their lives.
Pandemos, you guess the fleet will retreat out of line of sight of whatever weapon is causing this damage, and attempt to salvage the invasion from there.
"Fucking cowards!" roars the Blackscale. "Find out where that's coming from and kill whoever's doing it! Is that the Manse? Where's Palash? Fuck!"
Again the sky darkens and the sea surges, the spray from the geysers visible even above the basalt walls of the Cothon.
"My offer still stands! We hold the city. We'll take the Manse. Surrender, or hide in there and starve, this changes nothing!"
[The Blackscale will attempt to Inspire Fear with 8 dice.]
From the upper tier of the Cothon you watched the sea of enemy sails appear on the horizon with the dawn. The harbour chain was raised, and hulking Bronze Tide forge-ships pulled by jewelled turtles spit white hot flames that cleaved through it. An orca the size of a trireme wrestled one of the bone horrors beneath the waves. The surface of the water burned with a wall of pale green pyreflame, before a great wave scattered it and the enemy ships poured through. There were thunderous cracks as rams hit home, and the cries of battle as bronze flashed and crews clashed. Over three hours that stretched for eternity you watched your fleet burn. A handful of vessels escaped the conflagration, the closest commanded by the mercenary Captain limned in golden light. They made it inside the Cothon, and your crew helped the elephants haul the massive stone gates shut with a crushing finality.
Captain Xalax took command from terrified House captains, and you prepared for a siege. At the command of the golden Captain, you, the remaining House guard, and the crews of the surviving vessels hauled crates and debris to barricade the landward gates, doused fire that rained from the sky, burned out arrows that sprouted into ravenous man-eating vines, and fought off the green-cloaked Windriders when they scaled the walls. When the great bronze Aurochs the size of a house smashed through the main gate, and the enemy poured through, their round shields, bright spears, and ferocious axes glittering in the golden light of the Captain's anima, you raised your hammer and charged.
In that moment time seemed to slow to a crawl, and a pregnant man with skin like the night sky and eyes like the full moon stepped out of your shadow to appraise you. They spoke with a voice like cicadas and the flutter of moth wings yearning for the moon, "Brave one. Beloved child. I add to your burden one more soul to protect, because you are strong enough to bear it. You will endure, your compassion unbowed. She is not what she once was, those many nights ago, that dark night star dear to my heart, and you must I fear from her protect herself as much as anyone." They peered deep inside you to address something there, "You may consider my favour discharged. Go forth with my love and be great, and terrible, and never cease becoming what you are. Not for a moment. Not for anyone."
Having completed a circuit around you they vanished into your shadow and for the second time in your life you drew your first gasping breath, essence singing in your veins, and your silver light joined the Captain's gold. You cut through the warriors, wrestled the Aurochs out the gate, and hurled it into the ranks of the scattering enemy with a fearsome roar that shook the earth, then slammed the gates shut again.
It took them time to recover, but now you find yourself straining with all your terrible might to hold the gate shut as the Aurochs charges it again and again, shaking the earth and raining dust down upon you and the surviving dockhands, their fear palpable in the stark shadows their features cast in the light of your anima.
A woman's voice calls out from beyond the gate, magically amplified. "Surrender, Moon-child! Surrender, join us, and you and your kin will be spared. The Blackscale swears it, and I speak for the Bronze Tide. Your kind belong with us. Surrender and your ship and crew will be granted safe passage, Captain Xalax. We want the prize ships, let Leja kill you another day," She laughs. Images of a woman, her long green hair in elaborate bronze-clasped braids, whipping in the wind as she fires arrows from her Siege Powerbow in the shade of the great tree growing arrows near the prow of her ship flash through Pandemos' mind. A fine admiral and a fearsome foe. Those arrows could sprout into carnivorous vines that would, if left unchecked, spread from victim to victim until they grew large enough to entangle and crush a ship to splinters.
Minh Firewing, Pandemos' first mate, gives him an appraising look and a grunt that suggests this deal sounds considerably more appealing to her than dying with this city. Skinny Thuy and a few of the other dockhands look up at Garret with sudden hope. "Name us and ours your kin, and we'll never forget it, boss!" he hisses. The House Guard holding the inner door and keeping an eye on the Wind-dancers on the rooftops turn abruptly to look at you, and Sergeant Fidelity hisses just loud enough to carry over the chamber, "Oy, don't forget us! I know where they keep the good stuff."
Then, suddenly, the day goes dark, like a shadow has fallen over the city. There's the sound of rushing water, billowing steam, splintering wood, and new screams of the dying join the chorus. The enemy fleet's drums and war chants fall silent. Then, after a moment of horrified silence, they abruptly resume as horns ring out, sounding the retreat. Many enemy warbands will scramble to their ships; many more will be left stranded ashore, fighting for their lives.
Pandemos, you guess the fleet will retreat out of line of sight of whatever weapon is causing this damage, and attempt to salvage the invasion from there.
"Fucking cowards!" roars the Blackscale. "Find out where that's coming from and kill whoever's doing it! Is that the Manse? Where's Palash? Fuck!"
Again the sky darkens and the sea surges, the spray from the geysers visible even above the basalt walls of the Cothon.
"My offer still stands! We hold the city. We'll take the Manse. Surrender, or hide in there and starve, this changes nothing!"
[The Blackscale will attempt to Inspire Fear with 8 dice.]
Today has been surprisingly eventful. You warned them about the Fortress, but did they listen? No. You watched it tear into the fleet from your perch atop the Cothon, a thing of dread beauty as it blossomed in shining Orichalcum from beneath the hill. Shame about the manors demolished when the hill split open to make way, but the urchins will pick the wreckage clean by morning if the guard doesn't string them all up. You warned them about the chain, and the Necromancer, and the Saints, but not the children who shared their shaved ice-fruit with you in the market, or the old widowed beekeeper who lent you her spare room and let you taste that strange underworld honey made from her grief and her grandchildren's joy, or the raucous tavern by the docks where they sing such lively sea shanties and batter their fish. Maybe you should have. Bhadri is terrible, and someone must fight her, and these people certainly can't, but maybe this is one of the places you have to fight her for. And now it's on fire.
You look down at the Captain, your soul at war with itself. So brave of him to kill your mentor when he was poisoned, his ship crippled, adrift and out of position. So brave of him to throw himself into the teeth of the Bronze Tide again and again, laughing, only to escape at the last moment. Gods but Leja was furious, and she's an angry drunk on a good day. You feel drawn to him, and it unnerves you. Here's Lily. Sorry, the Blackscale. She wants those fat treasure ships riding low in the water, but she wasn't counting on the handsome dockhand Exalting. Neither were you. You wonder what Luna whispered to him when he joined your august ranks. Could it be more confusing than what she gave you? You thought, maybe, for a moment, you saw them again, that they winked at you. You watch in awe as the newly Exalted dockhand bodily hurls the Aurochs out the gate. The Bronze-singers will be telling that story over drinks for months.
The Blackscale trusts you, but she's a mean axe-hand in a fight, and she's not leaving without her spoils. The success of the invasion hangs in the balance. Now what?
You look down at the Captain, your soul at war with itself. So brave of him to kill your mentor when he was poisoned, his ship crippled, adrift and out of position. So brave of him to throw himself into the teeth of the Bronze Tide again and again, laughing, only to escape at the last moment. Gods but Leja was furious, and she's an angry drunk on a good day. You feel drawn to him, and it unnerves you. Here's Lily. Sorry, the Blackscale. She wants those fat treasure ships riding low in the water, but she wasn't counting on the handsome dockhand Exalting. Neither were you. You wonder what Luna whispered to him when he joined your august ranks. Could it be more confusing than what she gave you? You thought, maybe, for a moment, you saw them again, that they winked at you. You watch in awe as the newly Exalted dockhand bodily hurls the Aurochs out the gate. The Bronze-singers will be telling that story over drinks for months.
The Blackscale trusts you, but she's a mean axe-hand in a fight, and she's not leaving without her spoils. The success of the invasion hangs in the balance. Now what?
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