Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
The Chronicle of Burne, and Some Others of Lesser Importance *Updated May 17th, 2009*
An Introduction to CITY: --excerpted from "Talking Shi'att : Talmad Shi'atts Simple Man's History", University of Narayan Press, Monopolis Standard Year 285.
Once upon a time, a mighty empire ruled a thousand cities across the world. Modern archeologists agree that's a tad hyperbolic. A more realistic figure would be between at the most 50 and at fewest 15. The ancient peoples of what became known as the Gate Builder Empire were masters of Gate Magic; constructing and using arcane portals as easily as contemporary man uses the wheel, fire, or sarcasm. The Great Gates connected their cities into a single, ultra-metropolitan whole. Miniature gates to the far corners of the earth lit their street lamps, making it literally true that the sun never set on the Gate Builder Empire. Gates in their lavatories allowed the wealthy to relieve themselves onto volcanoes and the capitals of foreign powers. Their powerful nobles dwelt in mansions that spanned continents, often with rooms completely inaccessible by normal means. Mansions that became luxurious tombs the day the empire fell.
Not content with ruling the race of Man -or the 'Min' as the Hannu so quaintly call us in their charming child-language-the Gate Builders, thorough some lost art, opened Gates to other worlds; importing alien races wholesale. Thus came the Hannumin, Shirac, Garahjah, and the brutish Kaza-Ghul, the forefathers of the still rather brutish present-day Ruhk-Kaza race. Along with countless others who fled the Fall or where exiled to the wastelands beyond the Empire.
Throughout the Empire's rule there existed barbarous lands outside the rule of civilization. There, rivals arose to challenge the Gate Builders as the crowning height of human achievement; such as the Lassantes Empire that briefly flowered in the West 1000 years ago, only to vanish into the ashen sands from whence it came. And the Three Islands of Ajakhan in the distant East, which yet match CITY one day. If it’s inscrutable yellow-skinned denizens can ever give up their taste for self-destructive, honor-culture carnage.
For 1000 years the Gate Builder Empire reigned supreme. They fought wars by unleashing the sea onto the land, or by dropping mountains on opposing armies, or by depositing barbarian hordes onto clouds. The armies of the Gate Builder Empire could be anywhere in the blink of an eye. But every civilization eventually falls victim to its own success. All mighty things must come to an end.
Even at its height, the Gate builder Empire never had quite enough manpower to control the vast spaces between their cities. It was a simultaneous attack by the unimaginably powerful barbarian chieftains of old, possibly aided by demons and foreigners (I often wonder if there's any point in differentiating between the two) against several key Imperial cities that brought the end of the Empire. After the Breach at Crensh, barbarians poured though the gates of Eris itself, killing (and worse, in later years intermarrying with) the proud pure-blooded people of the Imperial capital.
In a final act of desperation, the last Imperial High Gate Mage sealed the Gates, bringing to an end over 1000 years of shining, if exploitive, civilization. After that, the Dark Ages.
You might ask, "What about the period of civil war within the Empire prior to the Fall?" Don't. It’s best not to talk about that. In the end, savages poured through streets of the Empire. What else do you need to know?
You might ask, "What of the CITY Empire?" To be honest, the details are sketchy. It might refer to period directly before the sack of Eris, or it might have come after the Dark Ages, but before the Pirate Times. We do know that what it lacked in size, it made up for in atrocities. The caldera city called Gallina the Beautiful was drowned, lost Berouli was tri-cimated (1 out of 3 family members, including pets, randomly put to the sword), and eventually the ancient Gates in a dozen cities were torn down by angry mobs during the Night of Broken Arches. But these are all unsightly blemishes on the skein of history. Best forgotten by historians, and left for the bards to immortalize in their bloody doggerel.
Finally, you might ask, "What of Erebus?" Well, what of him? Or them, as is more likely the case. We know three things: firstly, the Gate Builder's knew of a being called Erebus. A celestial entity who crashed to the earth at the foot of Eris, the city which draws its name from him. He provided its citizens with countless years of debate over his nature, not to mention a seemingly endless quantity of materials from the great Pit made by his Fall which were infused with his divine essences.
Secondly, history is littered with accounts of an Erebus who is said to have shaped the course of history, been the patron of half the worlds artists, created armies of undead, sailed around the world seven times, fathering no less than 1,000 children en route, and, on five separate occasions, is said to have 'eaten the sun'. Make of that what you will.
And lastly, there are a rich body of folk tales from Narayan:CITY concerning the exploits of an immortal sorcerer by that name who live there and favors mischief, food with much garlic and the drinking of gin. It is said that he makes gods, as a hobby.
But enough about him. Now we stand at the dawn of a new era. No Gate Builders, no Empire, just the ten strongest of the ancient Gate cities reunited as CITY. All that remains, all that is most pure, the gold risen above the dross.
Last edited by Rolzup; 18th May 2009 at 04:14 AM..
The Tale of Burne, and Some Others of Lesser Importance:
Abraxis, for whatever reason, has been encouraging me to begin a journal. "Stuff and nonsense," was my first thought. "I've no time for such fripperies!" But then I realized that I was denying posterity a chance to know the true thoughts of Burne.
This would be very nearly a crime, and I shall not have it upon my conscience.
And so. I begin.
I am dictating this memoir to my famulus Abraxis, a clockwork feline of cunning design. A little unbalanced, and not quite as intelligent as I had hoped, but it was my journeyman project as an Alchemist. And, despite its many flaws, Abraxis serves as an unquestioned harbinger of my later brilliance. His handwriting -- paw-writing, ha! -- is sadly lacking, but it shall have to do.
BURNE IS AN UNMITIGATED JACKASS. AND MY HANDWRITING IS BETTER THAN HIS. PLUS, HE NEVER BOTHERED TO LEARN ERISIAN SHORTHAND.
We must start, I suppose, with my companions, those brave men who have so wisely accepted my leadership in these troubled times.
I first saw them upon Opium Way, as I was shopping for reagents, and I was instantly suspicious of their motives. A pair of Ajakhani savages, along with an obvious madman, walking boldly along the CITY streets! What possible business could they have here, on the borders of the Narayan’s Little Ajakhan district? They pretended not to know each other, but the truth was all too clear to me....they were almost certainly spies, and probably saboteurs to boot. I took it upon myself to follow them, remaining cleverly hidden within the crowds, to ensure that they did no harm to this great CITY.
HE WAS CARRYING AN 8 FOOT TALL HALBERD, AND ALREADY STOOD TALLER THAN ANYONE IN THE CROWD. HE WASN'T FOOLING ANYBODY.
My suspicions were confirmed when they assaulted three young men who were preparing to beat a cat that they had hung from a sign-post. They took offense, for some reason, at these children and their innocent game. Foreigners! Who can fathom their motives?
I stepped forward to remonstrate with them, but matters resolved themselves with remarkable speed. They had seemingly mistaken the creature for a "pinyates", a lesser sort of household god, believed by the superstitious to break open and release minor miracles when beaten with a stick. In my experience, they're more likely to release various internal organs, but hope springs eternal.
Ah! The wholesome pursuits of youth!
In truth, it was merely a mundane cat, dyed green by some unknown agency. Who had dyed it, however? And for what purpose? My brief examination of the beast revealed a dye of unusual qualities had been used, a chemical that I was entirely unfamiliar with. And this, this was virtually unheard of!
I must confess that my memories of what follows are a little blurred. The children were run off, a shop-keeper interrogated, and (very) brief introductions made. The foreigners were revealed to be a sword-wielding transvestite of some apparent import, hight "Kenji", and a scarlet-clad archer of grim demeanor who styled himself "Rackhir".
NO, NO, HE CAN'T SAY "NAMED". HAS TO BE "HIGHT", BECAUSE THAT'S FANCY-TALK.
HE WRITES POETRY SOMETIMES, YOU KNOW. UNFORTUNATELY, I WAS NOT CONSTRUCTED TO BE ABLE TO REMOVE MY OWN EARS.
AS A FURTHER CLARIFICATION, KENJI IS NOT A TRANSVESTITE. HE WAS WEARING A KIMONO, AS HE GENERALLY DOES. IF IGNORANCE COULD BE BOTTLED, BURNE WOULD BE A WINERY.
The madman, I found, was a good deal more than he appeared. He was one of those both blessed and cursed with a primal connection to CITY, and was thus deserving of some grudging respect.
Had his fearful gnosis driven him mad, I wondered? Or was his condition a reflection of the troubled state of CITY itself? I must remember to compose a monograph upon this subject. Make a note of it, Abraxis!
In any case, he had no name, or none that he would give. He carried all of his possessions with him, in a rude hand-pulled cart, and was accompanied only by a mongrel dog and a fearsome odor.
Ah! Lest I forget, there was also a hannu who followed in this Kenji fellow's wake. He called himself, quaintly enough, "Doctor" Wu, and appeared to serve as some kind of butler. Doctor indeed...it is shameful, what they call an education in foreign lands!
We set out together, then, into the very heart of Little Azhikhan to investigate the origins of this green-hued cat. I was motivated partially by curiosity, for this dye was of an interesting and unfamiliar composition, and partially by the need to keep an eye on these suspicious individuals.
Why did they follow my lead? I cannot say. Perhaps green cats are a delicacy in their land. Or perhaps they were a little awed by a man of my bearing and obvious military experience. Certainly, this was the first wisdom they had yet shown on this evening.
HE SPENT THREE WEEKS IN THE NAVAL ACADEMY BEFORE BURNING HIS DORMITORY DOWN. HE CLAIMS THAT THIS WAS AN ACCIDENT. I THINK THAT HE'S LYING ABOUT THAT.
Of course, in such an areas as this, overrun by foreigners, violence was inevitable. And, truth be told, a little welcome.
There were four, perhaps five men, assaulting a hannu and a seemingly unconscious giant dressed in the rags and tatters of a naval uniform. I could not allow a fellow veteran to be attacked in such a manor, and promptly intervened in the matter.
Two of them I set aflame, and the remainder fled in panic. Rakhir, I believe, fired a few arrows and may have caused them some small injury, but it was the fear of Burne that gave wings to their feet!
RAKHIR KILLED TWO OF THEM. THREE, MAYBE. BURNE KILLED ONE, SINGED ANOTHER, AND TALKED A LOT. HE USUALLY DOES. NOBODY BOTHERS TO LISTEN, THOUGH.
The Giant, who called himself Tenor, had drunk himself into a stupor, but his simian friend managed to rouse him. They expressed their gratitude for my heroic actions, and declared themselves in my debt.
Which, in point of fact, they were.
The thugs had, apparently, been after the giant's heart -- a common sort of ingredient in alchemical workings of the darker kind. Foul stuff, I should add, and not the sort that I would have any part in.
In the meantime, Kenji and the madman were, apparently, interfering in a kidnapping a few blocks further on. Why they had strayed ahead, I cannot guess. They're like children, really...so easily distracted.
THE SOUND OF SCREAMING HAD BEEN CLEARLY AUDABLE FOR THE PAST SEVERAL MINUTES. THE SAMURAI AND HOMELESS FELLOW WENT TO HELP HER. RAKHIR THEN FOLLOWED, WHILE BURNE ROBBED THE DEAD. HE WILL DIE ALONE.
Blood was shed, and Kenji demonstrated that he did indeed know how to use that Erisian broadsword that he was so arrogantly carrying. Between them, he and the madman accounted for a handful of incompetent thugs, and rescued the intended victim, but their leader made his escape.
In a sedan chair, if you can credit it. Vague threats were, I believe, made.
The woman, seemingly in a state of shock, managed to offer her thanks and to beg us not to tell her father of what had occurred. And then she fainted; overawed by my very presence, I suspect.
BURNE DOESN'T BRUSH HIS TEETH VERY OFTEN. AND HE ALWAYS SMELLS LIKE SMOKE. AND HIS CLOTHES HAVE HOLES IN THEM. AND HE'S REALLY MEAN TO HIS FAMILIAR, WHO DESERVES MUCH BETTER.
And that, as I recall, is when we met yet another foreign devil, albeit a polite one for a change. Mop Mop Bow, he called himself....
Last edited by Rolzup; 13th May 2006 at 03:30 PM..
And thus, the Grand Re-Posting begins. And once more, explanations are likely called for....
The Chronicle of Burne is the record of D&D game that's been running for...well. Three years now, I think? Something like that.
The PCs number four, although there is some change-over in the course of events.
I, myself, am playing the one that matters. Burne the magnificent, Burne the alchemist, Burne the pompous ass. He has a single level of Marshal (to represent his all-too-brief term of military service), and the rest of his class levels are in the campaign specific class of "Alchemist". Essentially a sorceror, but with the ability to wear light armor and a much more limited repertoire of spells.
For the most part, this stroy hour has been compiled some years after the sessions thus recorded; total accuracy is not guarenteed. Nor desired. There will, however, be occasional "Interludes" -- such as the one folllowing -- taken directly from the e-mails sent at the time. Thus, the change of tone and tense.
Feel free to ask questions! CITY is a unique and idiosyncratic world, and Mallus is deserving of much kudos for the way he has brought it to life. Whether he deserves stoning for some of the horrible puns he has brought to life along with it, well...who am I to judge?
There is barely enough room for all of them to stand in the parlor of Mop Mop Bow's Kingdom of Peaceable Teas. The shop is an example in foreignly-ordered chaos, or a study in pleasing small-space feng-shui, depending on one’s point of view. The air seems to be made of equal parts tea, spice, and roast duckling.
Mop Mop Bow says, "Please to make lady comfortable while I brew helpful tea," as he gestures to a low divan partially obscured by several large cloth sacks piled in the corner. "I'm sure you have many questions. Too bad what I sell is tea". He pauses a moment.
"I tell you this thing, though. Plaza much nicer when King Daikon sell his radish across the street. His radish so good, attract good spirits. Good spirits that look after you at no charge." He pauses again, and then continues before anyone can get a word in edgewise...
"Sure miss King Daikon. Too bad he maybe dead. And that nice young priest of Oven he associate with. Not bad for priest of round-eye devil-god...."
As he finishes, Dr. Wu excitedly tugs on Kenji's robe, saying "Kenjiiiiii, while he was talking I was consulting with the mysteries of the Wu, and let me tell you, this place is a place of Wu...not the fierce Wu of Mt. Ju, but... I believe, aha, the Wu of water. And Kenjiiiii, the woman too is wearing much Wu...Wu in necklace, and oh so much Wu in the bracelets on her arms...Kenjiiiii, oh, wait, I suppose I shouldn't have said that last part out loud...."
Dr. Wujuyama turns and addresses Burne, Garbage Man, and the archer. "Would you please do me the honor, honorable man and gwailo, of striking from your minds the last part of what I have just said? Many thanks...."
The woman opens both eyes, stares at Mop Mop Bow and says "Young priest? Of Kruetzel? Did you say dead?!" And then faints dead away.
"Hmmm, now need stronger tea," says Mop Mop Bow, disappearing through a door into the recess of his shop.
This Mop Mop Bow fellow was the owner and proprietor of "The Kingdom of Peaceable Teas", and the kidnapping attempt had occurred upon his very doorstep. He seemed properly appalled by the situation, and offered to tend to the lady's injuries.
Now, I have some small skill with alchemically based healing treatments, but I will readily confess that this is not my area of expertise. I accepted his offer with gratitude, and allowed him to use his teas to treat the unfortunate lady.
(I've found myself wondering, in my idle moments, whether Mop Mop Bow is actually a practitioner of some debased tea-focused form of foreign alchemy. It scarcely seems credible, let alone practical, but would not be the strangest thing that I've encountered in my adventures.)
When she did not, as I had half-expected, expire some moments after consuming said tea, I cheerfully accepted a cup for myself. One can never be too careful, after all.
The taste of the stuff, however, was not to my liking. Weak, bodiless stuff -- not entirely unlike the culture that produced it, eh? A man's drink should be the color and consistency of tar, and potent enough to wake the very dead!
I MAKE HIS COFFEE. I DO BAD THINGS TO IT. IN IT, REALLY.
As the woman began to stir, Mop Mop Bow explained, in an apologetic sort of manner, that the neighborhood had gone to hell since "King Daikon" and his friend, a priest of Kruetzel, had vanished a few weeks earlier. "Gone to hell?" I thought to myself, "This slum? Well, not so very far to fall, then...."
HAVE YOU SEE THE WAY THAT HE LIVES? THE DAMNED ARE ALMOST CERTAINLY BETTER HOUSEKEEPERS THAN BURNE.
The woman, who gave her name as Delphine, had awoken by this point, and was horror-struck when she heard that this young priest had vanished. She promptly fainted, again. All too typical of the weaker sex.
It was then that the archer appeared from out of the shadows, in a needlessly dramatic fashion. Rakhir had the foolish audacity to challenge me over the matter of some trifles I had recovered from the corpus of one of the thugs I had so heroically slain. I considered, for a moment, extracting his very soul from his body and incinerating it before his horror-filled eyes, but concluded that this would have been rude, and unworthy behavior for a gentleman like myself.
RAKHIR THREATENED HIM. WITH ARROWS. IT WAS AT THAT MOMENT THAT I DECIDED THAT I RATHER LIKED RAKHIR.
Disinclined to resort to such drastic measures, I allowed him to keep the trinkets. None of them looked all that interesting in any case. A knife, I believe that one was, and the other was an alchemically treated bag of some sort, probably intended to hold the Tenor's heart.
Nothing of any real interest, in other words.
AND THOSE GRAPES WERE PROBABLY SOUR, ANYWAY.
And then, Erebus help us, the man in the dress opened his mouth....
The samurai speaks. "In the meantime, I should introduce myself. I am Yamamoto Kenji, you may call me Kenji. My companion is Dr. Wujuyama, a sage and expert in matters of the Wu. Now, please introduce yourselves as we wait for the tea."
The man who smells of smoke nods, impatiently. "I am Burne, known as Burne the Magnificent in some circles. I am a veteran, a scholar, and a master of the alchemical arts. This," he continues, making an expansive gesture in the direction of the mechanical cat, "Is Abraxis, the Ultimate Cat, my famulus. One of my lesser creations, admittedly, but still a vast improvement over the inefficiencies of the so-called 'natural’ cat."
Abraxis, sitting on a nearby chair, begins to shudder and emit a horrid grinding noise.
"See! He purrs with pleasure at his master's praise!"
A foul smelling smoke begins to arise from the cat's ears.
"Enough, beast! You'll strip your gears, and this is neither the time nor the place for me to effect repairs."
"Names!" explodes the madman. "Names are power! Power! POWER! Never let them know. They can't know your names. They learn your name, they take your power. Power. Magical Power!! I've got Powers. No name! No name! No means no! Any seven.
"Mr. Bojangles. Hey there, Bojangles. Walk with a monkey-man. Talk with the Monkey Man. Can you get us some wind for the sailboat? Mr. Bojangles. Tangles. Angles.
"Pretty Hair! Her beauty lives. She is not dead. Not dead but dead. Dead but not dead. Find the dead but not dead. Alchemy! Alchem-Tea! Here kitty, kitty, kitty!"
He produces a container of milk from under his coat.
"Got milk? Nice cold milk for tea? Kit-Tea! Alchem-Tea. Here kitty, kitty, kitty!"
The madman takes a teacup from a table fills it with milk and puts it on floor near of the mechanical cat.
"Thank. You. Sir. However. I. Am. Not. Designed. To. Injest. Fluids. I. Am. Prone. To. Rust," Abraxis pauses. "Me. Ow," it adds, resignedly.
He takes another teacup, fills it with milk and holds it for his dog to slurp up, who happily indulges.
The man in red speaks. "I am Rakhir, the Red Archer, a warrior looking for employment."
He says nothing more.
The blonde woman opens hers eyes, suddenly, a look of alarm on her face. The first sight she sees is Dr. Wu. Immediately, her look softens as she makes the all-too-common, "Oh how cute!" face that humans have been favoring Hannu with since the dawn of history. Wu scowls and turns to Mop Mop Bow. "Most efficacious tea..." he mutters softly.
The woman says slowly, "Thank you for rescuing me... I really don't know what else to...I mean, this is all rather cliché. I've never been a damsel in distress before. Thank you for the wonderful tea." She uses a phrase in the Three Lands language than means 'Master of Tea Ceremony’ while addressing Mop Mop Bow.
"I am --she pauses a moment-- Delphine."
She speaks using a fair approximation of an Imperial Court dialect; the one prescribed for ambassadors and courtiers.
Her wits apparently collected, she continues, "Please honored tea-master, tell me more of the priest of the Oven-Lord. I believe he is my missing fiancé."
Mop Mop Bow says, "Fiancé, how nice. Have much happiness. If you find. Ah well, young priest was round-eye with hair like angry straw. About 6 foot. Too big. Eyes wide like a child's, and not just from his round-eye nature."
A sad look of recognition crosses the woman's face, "Oh, Joquim."
Mop Mop Bow says, "Nice man, for round-eye devil-god priest. He come to Little Ajakhan and help King Daikon feed the beggars. And cure sick. Young priest have tiny oven. This big," Bow spreads his hands. "He bake good things that fix broken legs, cure men of drink, de-plague lousy plague-woman of loose morals. Etc."
"Also, he buy much tea from Mop Mop Bow. Tea and spices. Hint hint."
"So that's why he came down here," the woman says to no-one in particular. "At least it wasn't Yellow Fever...And what happened to this King Daikon? He was a priest too?"
"No, no...he greengrocer. With funny stick. He wave it at people at they got well. Or they got cursed. But only good people got well and bad people get cursed so everything work out. Until last week, when he disappear. Along with your fiancé."
"You must know where he went!" she all but shouts, hysteria winning over lucidity-inducing tea. "That's his stand across the plaza, right?!"
"Yes, his stand," says Mop Mop Bow, "Not only that. He live on roof of building behind stand. Still I not see. King Daikon spend lot of time by the docks. See him there. Buying, fresh off boat. And waving stick at soldiers who try and press people onto terrible boat. Maybe you look there. And maybe now time for Quiet Tea, very good...."
Another dose of Mop Mop Bow's tea served to revive the woman once more, and she launched unprompted into a tale of woe. Trite stuff; she'd fallen for a man of the lower classes, her father disapproved, and now he was missing. The sort of thing that Arabia Wainright writes lurid pot-boilers about.
ARABIA WAINRIGHT IS A LITERARY GODDESS, AND WORTH TEN OF BURNE. NO, A HUNDRED.
Without even a moment's hesitation, the archer offered her his services. Some misplaced sense of chivalry, I suppose. Kenji, with an indifferent shrug, opined that he might also be of assistance, lacking anything better to occupy his time.
And what was I to do? Leave this woman unattended in the company of madmen and, even worse, foreigners?
Unthinkable. I had no choice but to offer my own assistance, even though it would take me away from my own increasingly vital experiments.
AT THE TIME, HE WAS WORKING ON A FORMULA THAT WOULD ALLOW HIM TO CREATE EXPLOSIVE RABBITS. I DON’T KNOW WHY, BUT I SUSPECT THAT ALCOHOL HAD PROVIDED HIS CHIEF INSPIRATION.
As we prepared to leave, however, Mop Mop Bow unwittingly provided a further piece of information. He offered Delphine a scarf that he called a "Hue-Wu charm", of a brilliant shade of green...the very same green as that unfortunate cat! It had been purchased, he said, from a local businessman, Han Oi Xian the Dyer, and was considered to be a good-luck charm by his credulous fellows.
Furthermore, he suggested that he might know the origin of that alchemically treated bag that I had discovered. Sanjuro Roeh, an alchemist of some sort and a rival of Bow's, was known to create such things..
Roeh, I resolved, would need to be dealt with.
We left the shop, talking quietly among ourselves, only to find a group of uniformed men entering the square, busily discussing the disposition of the criminals we had so handily dispatched. This, I thought to myself as I glanced at the foreigners, could be a difficult situation.
I was, of course, correct in my fears. I generally am.
This was the famed Asymmetric Recruitment Squad, about their vital business. The ignorant might call them a "Press Gang", but as a veteran myself I understood the importance of their work.
Their leader, alas, was an odious little fellow named Savur Phillipe. A man not without connections, as it transpired, but entirely without morals. Phillipe was to become quite the millstone 'round our necks over the course of the next few days, until we....
But, no. I get ahead of myself. Lieutenant Phillipe was, he claimed, concerned about the obvious violence that had occurred within the square. I assured him that nothing worse than justice had been done, but he seemed rather skeptical. It's hard to imagine that any man could doubt the sworn word of Burne, but I suppose that it's simply another sign of the man's degenerate personality.
Kenji then began remonstrating with the man, and I resigned myself to the onset of violence. Matter were made all the worse when our madman began scaling the wall opposite, apparently intent upon investigating the ramshackle abode of this "King Daikon" who had so lately vanished.
The Lieutenant did not take kindly to this, and began making threats. The madman, perhaps sensing the tension, responded by throwing rubbish down on to Phillipe's men. Kenji began making threats of his own, and I do believe that some swords had been drawn.
And then...something...happened. And I'll be damned if I know what.
Kenji, you see, is not *just* an effeminate foreigner. Oh, to be sure, he wields a sword tolerably well...
IF BY "WELL" HE MEANS, "CAN SPLIT A MAN IN HALF WITH A SINGLE STROKE", THIS IS, IN FACT, CORRECT.
...but swordplay is not, I think, where his true strength lies. How can I best explain this?
Ah.
It is said that there are those among the Ajakhani who practice a form of martial discipline. Some type of unarmed combat, in which the attacker's strength is turned against him. A shift of momentum, and a fearsome charge becomes a terrible fall.
This is clearly inferior to the Erisian way, in which the charging attacker is impaled upon a set spear, and then roasted alive for his effrontery. In fact, I myself have....
My apologies; I digress.
Kenji, it seems, practices this very art. But he does so verbally, rather than physically. Time and again I have seen him do this, turning an implacable foe into a reluctant ally with no more than a few well-placed words.
I'm never entirely sure how he manages this. It all seems reasonable enough at the time, no matter how mad it may appear in the cold light of dawn.
Whatever it was that he said and did, the end result was that he and Lieutenant Phillipe set off to gamble together, at a local establishment called Stiltjackets.
The madman, for his part, had made some discoveries among Daikon's belongings. A book, and a short length of wood with many faces carved into its surface.
The faces were muttering quietly to themselves; you couldn't hear them if you actually listened, but you'd catch snatches of conversation while paying attention to other matters. The madman seemed to be hearing them quite clearly, and was actually responding to the stick as though it were somehow sentient. Not, I hasten to add, that his responses made any kind of sense whatsoever, beyond betraying a disturbing fascination with pudding.
Mop Mop Bow commented that it was rather unusual that the madman was able to hold this stick, as it usually "bit" anyone other than Daikon who ventured to touch it.
Daikon, I surmised, was another individual with a primal connection to CITY itself, much like our madman. He seemed to have better maintained his sanity, however, and masqueraded as nothing more than a greengrocer for reasons of his own.
At this point, I'll confess, I was growing impatient with matters. The hour was late, and I had matters of grave import to consider before retiring for the evening.
HE SPENT THREE HOURS WAVING HIS CHEAP SECOND-HAND KATANA AROUND AND KILLING IMAGINARY OPPONENTS. HE LOOKED LIKE HE WAS HAVING SOME KIND OF A SEIZURE.
We resolved, then, to meet at Mop Mop Bow's establishment upon the morrow. Rakhir would act as a bodyguard for Delphine, and conduct her though the streets of Little Ajakhan to some place of relative safety. Word would be left for Kenji at the rude little inn where he was staying.
Plans having been made, we then adjourned for the evening. I returned home in fine spirits, glad to once more breathe in the fine air of Eris.
You Can’t Trust an Ajikhani to do an Erisian’s Job
Of course, things went badly wrong. My fault entirely, I'm afraid: I made a classic blunder, and actually trusted a foreigner to do something both simple and important.
One task. Just one. Keep the Lady Delphine safe from any further kidnapping attempts.
And could Rakhir manage this? Or even die an honorable death while failing in the attempt? No, and no again.
And who was this fearsome kidnapper? I shall describe him for you: He wore a conical straw hat, one large enough to conceal his features. And his fists were shrouded in white vapor; their impact hurt, and were sufficient to beat Rakhir unconscious, but without dealing any lasting damage.
To be entirely honest, I thought that he might really have leapt forth from mouth of a wine bottle. Alas, I soon, discovered that Rakhir's description was disturbingly accurate.
In the meantime, our chief concern was finding the missing Delphine. Kenji, having returned from his evening of wagering somewhat poorer for the experience (by design, or so he claimed), joined us in the search. Rakhir proved unable to track his assailant through the cobbled CITY streets, although I grant that he did make a game attempt at it.
The madman, I think, attempted to commune with the spirits of CITY in hopes of learning something. He may even have succeeded, but since not *once* in the course of our acquintence did he *ever* say anything that even *remotely* resembled sense, we never did find out.
We were, regretfully, at something of a loss.
But not for long. There is an old Erisian saying that was pertinent to our situation, "When in doubt, use your brain! Find a foe, and cause him pain."
Wisdom indeed. And thanks to Mop Mop Bow, we had Sanjuro Roeh's address. Our path, then, was clear.
Not everyone, I realize, is familiar with the Great Art. Their lives are poorer for this lack, and I feel pity for their loss, rather than scorn for their shameful ignorance.
Alchemy, you see, is the art or transcendence. The ultimate goal of alchemy, and of every reputable alchemist, is to transcend the limits of mortal clay and ascend to a higher state of being. Personally, I plan to do this through the medium of fire. The physical effects of even a normal fire are plainly transcendent, after all. Base matter is transformed into the divine energy of heat and light.
When -- not if! -- I discover the method to ignite my own soul in such a manner, I will truly have mastered the greatest Art of all.
In the meantime, I must content myself with the more mundane pleasures of the pyrotechnic arts. Is there anything more beautiful than a white-hot flame? I rather think not.
THIS GOES A LONG WAY TOWARDS EXPLAINING WHY BURNE IS STILL SINGLE.
And this brings me to Sanjuro Roeh. There are, sadly, alchemists who choose to debase the Art by practicing their craft for mere coin. Roeh, by all available evidence, was one such individual. What's more, he was a man willing to defy even the most basic laws of morality in pursuit of profit.
To actually dispatch thugs with the intent of killing a helpless giant and extracting his heart? Monstrous.
A true alchemist would face said giant, defeat him in single combat, and then carve out the still-beating heart with his own two hands. If a man is not willing to get his own hands dirty, he's no alchemist at all.
(Found objects are another thing entirely, I should add. If no one is actually making use of a given organ, it's free for the taking.)
And so, armed solely with my own righteous indignation...
AND A CROSSBOW, AND A HALBERD, AND A BADLY MADE SWORD, AND MAGIC, AND THREE BURLY COMPANIONS.
...I set out to confront Sanjuro Roeh. His shop was located on the edge of Little Ajakhan, near the border of the Blue Light District . On our way there, we passed by the dye-works of this Han Oi Xian fellow, and took a moment to observe the place.
It had been a monastery at some point in the past, but now it was simply a rundown building with a rundown tower, surrounded by a rundown wall. A pair of tall statues stood in the courtyard, one depicting the god Kruetzel, and the other the pirate goddess Pentamoor. Little did we know what evil those statues portended....
A crowd was gathering outside the gates, in anticipation of the sale of the newest Hue-Wu charm. Xian's practice, we had learned, was to sell a new color of scarf each week; fashion and superstition both demanded the purchase of is most recent creation.
I made a mental note of the building's structural weaknesses (siege engineering being one of my many areas of expertise), and we continued on to our true goal.
UNLESS STEPPING ON ANT-HILLS COUNTS, BURNE IS NOT IN ANY WAY QUALIFIED AS A SEIGE ENGINEER.
Narayan is, sadly, prone to harboring the worst examples of the criminal element. The Room Rouge Players -- duelists, actors, lawyers -- were a particularly foul example.
(Note that I said "were". I soon put an end to the Players, with some minor aid from my companions. But this was still some weeks in the future.)
What business they had with Sanjuro Roeh, I could not imagine. But nevertheless, as we pounded upon the man's door, there they were. Not all of them, but enough to provide an interesting diversion. They had a wagon, which contained a tarpaulin, which in turn covered something large and wet.
This bore further investigation.
Our polite inquiries were rebuffed, and matters grew only more tense when Roeh himself, accompanied by a Rukh-Kazah bodyguard, finally made his appearance. I firmly denounced him before the gathered crowd, and he blanched in obvious terror.
The Room Rouge Players, amusingly enough, chose to threaten us with violence. I responded with a raised eyebrow, and three simple words: "I am Burne." The eyebrow alone was likely inducement enough for them to flee, but at my words they took to their heels without delay.
ACTUALLY, KENJI NEARLY GUTTED ONE OF THEM, AND THE REMAINING PLAYERS DRAGGED THE UNFORTUNATE VICTIM OFF. NOBODY EVEN LOOKED IN BURNE'S DIRECTION. FEW PEOPLE DO, UNLESS THEY HAVE TO.
Roeh, obviously terrified, surrendered the wagon and its contents to me, and we retired in triumph.
MORE IRRITATED THAN TERRIFIED, ACTUALLY. THAT RUKH-KAZAH WAS REALLY, REALLY BIG.
The contents of the wagon took even myself, well known for my intuitive prowess, by surprise. A reptilian creature, the size and general shape of a man, obviously well-adapted to aquatic life. Credulous sailors know these beasts as "Sea Devils", while I quickly identified the beast by its proper name: that of "Kuo-Toa".
Not surprisingly, considering his barbarous origins, this poor beast was not blessed with knowledge of any civilized tongue. We sought out magical assistance to provide a translation, and purchased a formulation from a nearby temple for this purpose.
Erebus preserve me, the creature gave its name as "Blub-Blub". Possibly the aquatic equivalent of "Smith"; who am I to say? I've no love for the water, as it is far too damp and fire-resistant an environment for my liking.
But never mind its absurd cognomen. The Kuo-Toa had a fascinating tale to tell, and one with obvious bearing upon our own situation.
He and a tribe of his people had been captured, by persons unknown, and brought to CITY from their home territories. As they were not citizens, they were considered to have a status equivalent to that of pets, and could be brought and sold without legal impairment.
They had, in fact, been sold...to one Han Oi Xian. No mere dyer, Xian was actually a practitioner of some debased foreign sorcery. He made use of certain techniques, all of them most unpleasant, to cause the Kuo-Toa to release fluids that he employed in his dyes. The very dyes that he used for his famous Hue-Wu charms, in point of fact.
This "Blub-Blub" had managed to make his escape by literally transforming into a priest, by a mechanism that I do not pretend to understand. It involved the secretion of some form of holy icon, a process that I chose not to investigate. Matters theological are of little interest to me, frankly, and mucous-based religion is even less appealing than the usual sort.
In any case, he had not remained free for long. The waters of Narayan are not hospitable to foreign swimmers, and he was soon taken into custody by the Room Rouge Players. And then, of course, I saved him.
YES. BURNE SAVED HIM. THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED.
Waving off his gratitude, I pressed him for further details. He revealed that his people were imprisoned within the tower that adjoined Han Oi Xian's dye works, the lowest level of which was flooded. Furthermore, a human had been imprisoned with them who, by his description, could only be the missing King Daikon.
A full-scale frontal assault upon Xian's lair was clearly the only answer. Alas, even the plans of a master tactician like myself can be foiled by the vagaries of chance....
Delphine had been kidnapped, by person or persons unknown.
Only a few days earlier, a previous kidnapping attempt had been made, directed by a man riding in a sedan chair, which we had foiled.
The missing greengrocer, King Daikon, has been revealed to be a prisoner of the dyer Han Oi Xian, along with a tribe of "Sea-Devils".
Han Oi Xian, as we had learned, was well known for riding about in a sedan chair identical to the one that we had seen, and....
What?
Yes, Abraxis, I'm sure that I'd mentioned that. Don't contradict me, damn you! If I say that I've already mentioned it, then by thunder! I've mentioned it!
Abraxis, if I want your opinion, I will pry open your cast-iron cranium and retrieve it by hand! Have I made myself clear?
Very well, then. Now, where was I?
GETTING THINGS WRONG. AS USUAL.
Ah, yes! So, it was clear that we would have to crush Han Oi Xian like a bug, and retrieve Delphine before he did anything permanent to her.
But Kenji, naturally, decided that it would be better to try sweet reason first. Madness, clearly. I saw no point in arguing with the fellow, though, and agreed that we might yet learn something. And, if naught else, we would get a close look at Xian’s defenses.
Off we went, after first entrusting Blub-Blub to Mop Mop Bow.
And so, several hours later, we leapt into action. Before knocking on his gate, we took a moment to better survey Xian's hidey-hole, that old monastery that I mentioned earlier.
I did mention it, did I not, Abraxis? Yes? Thank you.
JACKASS.
To reiterate, however, it was an ill-maintained building with a courtyard surprisingly empty of vats, and presses, and other such tools of the dyer’s trade, surrounded by a large wall, with a rather dodgy-looking tower in the rear. Further reconnaissance showed that the rear of the building faced the Seleices river, with only a crumbling wharf separating the monastery from the water.
The tower was, surprisingly, seated within the river itself. It rose a good three, perhaps four stories high, and a narrow bridge of planks connected it with the building proper.
To either side, Xian's lair was surrounded by blocks of warehouses, some tenanted and some empty, which actually came directly up the walls of the monastery. "Careless indeed," I thought to myself.
The crowd had dispersed by this time, and the courtyard gates had been closed once more. I knocked firmly, and announced my name. The gates, eventually, opened. We explained our purpose to the lackey, and entered the courtyard while he went to seek his master.
I found it odd, that courtyard. I'm no dyer, but I've no end of experience with chemicals of all sorts, and know the process of dying well enough to discourse knowledgably upon the subject. I'd already noted the puzzling absence of equipment, but there was another lack that we even more unlikely: there was no odor. Sniffing the air in the courtyard, I could detect nothing more than Little Azakhan's usual stench. This made no sense at all.
It was then that Han Oi Xian made his appearance. He was rather younger than I had expected, and sported an absurdly long and slender moustache, but he dressed well (for a foreigner), and carried himself with a certain dignity. He was not, in short, what I was expecting of a man reputed to be a fearsome crime-lord. What's more, Xian also showed himself to be well-spoken, lacking even the barbaric Azikhani accent.
He invited us inside, and I -- fighting to hold back a smirk -- accepted. Xian was playing right into our hands. Or so I thought. He refused to give us a tour, infuriatingly enough.
What little we saw was revealing of the man's personality, but little else. The building was well appointed, and better maintained that it appeared from outside. The artwork and such were lamentably foreign, but that was hardly a surprise.
Kenji complimented him on his taste, and opined that Xian had done a marvelous job on the place.
"This is a terrible place," Xian replied. "Children were murdered here."
Kenji, for once, was silent.
It transpired that the statue of Kruetzel, god of cooking and patron of chefs, that stood in the courtyard was more than it appeared. Blasphemously (at least, to those who give a damn about Kruetzel), the statue's face had been altered to resemble that of the bishop Sebastian Babulabla, the previous owner of the monastery.
This Babulabla was a man of singularly unpleasant habits, by all accounts, and had committed any number of horrible crimes on these grounds. He'd used the building as an orphanage, and had abused his charges in a variety of ways.
I remember my precise response. "An orphanage, you say?"
I SOMETIMES WONDER IF HE'S DEAF AS WELL AS STUPID.
Now with a monastery one expects a certain amount of...how can I put this delicately? Buggery, shall we say? But with an orphanage, one would expect somewhat less.
ONE DAY HE'LL FIND THE FORMULA FOR COMPASSION. I KNOW IT WILL POISON HIM.
There'd been more than a few murders, Xian told us, and there were rumors that he had even consumed the flesh of some of his victims.
I made a witticism at this point, about what one might expect from an orphanage dedicated to the God of Cooking. It was not well received.
Babulabla was executed, in the end, and the Church of Kruetzel moved heaven and earth to cover up his crimes. I've spoken before, I think, of the sham that we call religion? I shall make a point of going into greater detail upon the subject later in this narrative.
However, these crimes were horrible, certainly. But thankfully, long in the past. Xian, oddly enough, went on to claim that the sprits of Babulabla's victims still haunted the monastery, unable to rest. Poppycock, clearly. I was a little saddened, in truth, to see that a man of learning was so superstitious. But then I reminded myself that he wasn't Erisian, and could not be blamed for his ignorance.
The many paper lanterns about the building, he went on to explain, had been hung to quiet these restless spirits. The lanterns were, he claimed, filled with 'the Shu of the Air'. This meant nothing to me, but Doctor Wu seemed impressed.
It was at this point that my keen eye noticed a portrait, beautifully executed in an Erisian style, of a woman with a striking resemblance to the missing Delphine! I pointed this out, and Xian Kenji, seeing an opening, launched into a verbal assault on the unsuspecting Xian.
There's no way the man could have prepared for such a barrage, and -- criminal or no -- I actually found myself feeling a little sorry for him. Kenji appealed to him as a countryman, as a nobleman, and as a warrior, to give up his evil ways and to release Delphine from his clutches.
Shockingly, Han Oi Xian held his own. He was in self-imposed exile from his home, he was actually a half-blood who cared little for the Azikhani Empire in any case, and his mastery of the "Shu" made him more than capable of defending his home from the likes of Kenji. Little did he reckon with the power of Burne, though....
In the end, we left, with Xian still unslaughtered. Desperate though the situation may have been, there was still no call to violate the rules of hospitality. It is this, and table manners, that separate us from the beasts.
I considered, for a moment, the idea of a direct assault. A single working would be enough to shatter the doors of the courtyard, and no number of thugs would suffice to keep me from Xian's throat. But alas, there was Delphine's welfare to consider. It would be all too easy for Xian to murder her before we could prevent it.
HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN ABLE TO CHAR THE DOORS A LITTLE, IF HE’D REALLY TRIED.
Stealth, then, was our only recourse.
As evening fell, we took up a position some distance to the South, and scaled a convenient warehouse. Abraxis, in another sign of my foresightedness, can be used as a crude but functional grappling hook, with the added benefit of self-motivation.
A FAMILIAR'S LOT IS NOT AN EASY ONE.
Having reached the top of the building in question, we began to make our way North, picking a path across the rotting roofs and through the occasional shantytowns. It took only a few minutes to regain sight of Xian's lair, and we settled ourselves in to properly scrutinize his defenses.
They were not, frankly, overly impressive. A few guards; one, occupying the remnants of a steeple atop the monastery, did have an impressive field of view. No magical defenses that I could discern, although there were a number of paper lanterns lit by an unknown mechanism. I did, however, notice that a hawk was flying in lazy circles high over the building, with no apparent purpose.
During our observations, Xian had several visitors. The first was unknown to us: a tall, dignified-looking fellow clad entirely in black. I recognized him as a fellow Erisian, as well as another practitioner of the Art. Not an Alchemist -- he wasn't nearly scorched enough -- but obviously a learned man nevertheless.
The second visitor was Lieutenant Savur Phillipe, accompanied by his assistant "Lucky". What business could he have with Xian, we wondered?
Well, they wondered. I had already deduced the truth of the matter, but remained silent in order to spare their feelings.
HE'S LYING AGAIN.
And the last visitor? At the sight of him, I felt a sudden frisson of excitement; here, before our very eyes, was Pure Evil. A Shirac mind-witch, I knew instantly, and surmised that it was his hawk that we had seen gyring over the building. I watched him attentively as he strode away, the bird following in his wake, fixing every detail of his appearance in my mind. Here, I knew, was a threat far greater than Han Oi Xian could ever aspire to become.
IN REALITY, BURNE WAS SLEEPING BY THIS POINT. HAVE I MENTIONED THAT HE SNORES? ARE YOU AT ALL SURPRISED?
It was several hours more before we were ready to strike. The night was dark and cold, the sentries were no doubt nodding at their posts, and we had a plan. I don't remember the plan, sadly, and it's a shame. It was a damned good one, and that's for sure.
It turned out to be entirely irrelevant, as we didn't bother to follow it, but let me repeat: It was a damned good plan.
Rackhir began the assault, firing an arrow or three into the sentry in the steeple. Kenji followed a moment or so later, leaping from atop the warehouse to the roof of the monastery in order to finish the sentry off. I followed, at a more dignified pace, a moment or so later.
They were expecting us, somehow. Perhaps the mind-witch had warned them, or Xian's foul arts. It didn't matter, as they were most thoroughly out-classed by Burne. And my companions were there as well, to handle the scut-work.
The three of them engaged the foe, our madman ululating a frightful battlecry, while I and Blub-Blub hurried across the plank bridge and into the tower. My goal was to free Daikon and the Kuo-Toa, so that they could join in our assault. Not that we needed them but superior numbers are always welcome.
As it developed, the tower stairs were damp, slimy, and terribly slippery. I was forced to take my time climbing down them, lest I risk breaking my neck. I had confidence that the others could deal with Xian's minions.
Misplaced confidence, sadly enough. Kenji faced down Rackhir's attacker (named "Cloud Ghost", we later discovered), and very nearly slew him with a single stroke of his sword. But "very nearly" is hardly sufficient in matters of life and death, though, now is it?
Wounded though he was, Cloud Ghost commenced to beat Kenji within an inch of his life, knocking him unconscious without actually injuring him in any way. It was Rackhir, wielding a sword for a change, who finally took Cloud Ghost down.
At this point, a veritable throng of attackers emerged from the monastery, led by a large fellow with curiously empty eyes and a distressingly long chain….
While all this occurred, I was descending the tower stairs as hastily as dignity and common sense allowed. I could hear Blub-Blub's gabblings from below, echoing through the tower, but could make no sense of his words.
When at last I reached the base of the tower, I found a pair of locked cells. Both had been flooded, and one contained Blub-Blub's kinfolk. The other, a rather damp greengrocer.
It was a work of seconds to open both of the locks; they were poorly made, and badly maintained, and no match for a mechanical genius like myself..
As we struggled our way back up the stairs, a horde of babbling fish-men at our heels, I endeavored to explain the situation to Daikon. He seemed a bit confused, and understandably so, but was almost pathetically grateful to have rescued by the reknowned Burne.
DAIKON HAD NEVER HEARD OF BURNE, AND I DON'T THINK THAT HE LIKED HIM MUCH. WHAT A SURPRISE.
I regained the top of the tower just in time to rescue my compatriots from their attackers. Rackhir was having great difficulty with the chain-wielding man, who kept striking at him from a distance, the madman was also being held at bay, and Kenji was quite unconscious.
Pathetic, really. I spent a moment to finish off Cloud Ghost….
BY FIRING A CROSSOBOW BOLT AT POINT BLACK RANGE INTO THE FOREHEAD OF A HELPLESS FOE.
…which occasioned a shout of dismay from the foe. I noticed, as I observed the battle for a moment, that Xian's men were making pains to avoid bleeding upon the monastery grounds, going so far as to roll around on the roof to avoid their blood coming into contact with it.
I made a mental note of this, considered the fact that our enemies were armed solely with bludgeoning weapons, deduced the meaning of all this on the instant, and concluded that it was irrelevant for the nonce. But interesting nonetheless.
And then, at long last, Burne took the field. A single usage of Burne's Incandescent Arc was enough to clear the bridge, and to force the blank-eyed man into retreat. I wasted precious seconds using a wand to restore Kenji to consciousness, and then advanced into the monastery with Kenji following behind.
Rackhir, as is his wont, had already charged ahead. Intent upon vengeance, no doubt.
We met more thugs, and between the madman, Kenji, and myself we dealt with them in a summary fashion. Waving the smoke from the air, I paused for a moment, and heard the sounds of battle coming from a room ahead. Rackhir, without question, and no doubt in need of rescue again.
How right I was. I'm not sure what to call the sight that greeted us, but I feel certain that we could have charged a goodly admission for it. The blank-eyed man, whom we would soon learn bore the name of "Broken Chain", was employing his chain weapon (the ends of which, I now noticed, were wrapped in thick cloth) in an exceedingly cunning fashion, using it to rip the bow from Rackhir's hand and his feet from the floor. It was all the more astonishing to see now that I had a moment to get a close look at him; Broken Chain was clearly an imbecile, a mental defective of some sort.
I SUPPOSE THAT "IT TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE" WOULD BE CONSIDERED A CHEAP SHOT?
Comedic though this performance was, it paled in importance to the other occupant of the room.
He actually had the audacity to threaten us. Outnumbered, his minions slain or fled, and with Burne himself prepared to strike him down. He made threats.
Unthinkable.
I stepped forward, prepared to unleash a working that would forever break his power, and….
Kenji pushed me out of the way and entered the room. It boggles the mind, the way that man acts. I turned on Kenji, ready to unleash my full fury upon him, but it was too late.
He had begun to work his own art. Kenji, Erebus preserve us, was already talking.
By the time he finally fell silent, matters had entirely changed. Dephine was free, the Kuo-Toa had been given their freedom, Daikon had taken possession of the monastery, and we had agreed to help Xian in his work.
And what was this work, you ask? Why had he come to Narayan, and why had he kidnapped Delphine?
Because of his mother. His mother, who so closely resembled Delphine. His mother, whose soul had become trapped in a mask of jade. His mother, who he had dedicated his life to reviving.
He had consulted with many experts on this matter, including the famed Diabolist Dr. Mephisophocles, and the infamous Shirac mind-witch Nadir Medhi...both of whom we had seen leaving the premises earloer that very evening.
Such a great fuss, over so very little! I offered to build him a clockwork mother, similar to (but more sophisticated than) Abraxis, but he would have none of it. "A Jade Golem?" I suggested.
No, no. Only flesh and blood would do. Such a limited mindset!
Obviously, I had a good deal of research before me. With the proper essential salts, I could almost certainly grow Xian a new mother, but even now this art is somewhat beyond me. Remind me to do further research into this matter, Abraxis!
In the meantime, Xian had agreed to leave CITY and give up the life of a crime-lord. But our troubles were not yet over. Savur Phillipe, of the Asymmetric Recruitment Squad, had made certain deals with Xian, and would not be happy to learn that they would be coming to an end.
And we had less than a day to determine how to deal with him.
Xian and Savur Phillipe, we discovered, had made a deal. Xian would sell his lucky scarves, reaping a nice profit thereby, and in return for a percentage of the profits Phillipe would not "recruit" those he saw wearing them. Thus making them, I suppose, authentically lucky.
Xian saw this as a service to the community, "protecting" them from the honor of serving CITY. Phillipe, for his part, saw it as a way to make a nice profit with little effort.
This probably counts as treason. I certainly classified it as such, and at the very moment tried, condemned, and sentenced Phillipe Savur to death. Now all that remained was to carry out the sentence.
He would be coming to the monastary that very evening, to collect his share of the scarf money, and XIan was quite certain that he would not just allow their deal to end. We could, in theory, capture turn him into the Naval authorities -- King Daikon's mysterious book, we had discovered, was entirely full of eyewitness accounts of Phillipe's many crimes.
Including, lest I forget, the recruitment of one Joachim Driftwood, Delphine's earstwhile fiance. This had been done as a special favor to Xian, who had found young Driftwood's attempts at moral reform to be rather irksome.
But in truth, evidence or no, conviction was unlikely. Phillipe's family was too well connected, and had pockets too deep, for justice to prevail. And upon release, he would be very likely to make the people of Little Azikhan suffer.
Not, I hasten to add, that I gave a damn about a bunch of filthy foreign devils. But it's the principle of the matter! I simply will not tolerate this sort of abuse of power.
BY ANYONE OTHER THAN HIMSELF.
And so, we made plans. We knew that Savur would be accompanied by his assistant "Lucky", a rather shifty-looking fellow. And very likely he would bring some of his men along with him, to provide some "muscle". But how many men?
Not that any of it mattered, really, not with Burne's magic to defend the monastary.
DO I NEED TO ADD ANYTHING HERE? I DOUBT IT.
We spent this day preparing ourselves for the coming battle. I spent most of the day in meditation, sharpening my mind and focusing my Will.
SLEEPING, IN OTHER WORDS.
The Lieutenant arrived, on schedule, and words were exchanged. He was rather peeved at the situation, and didn't hesitate to let us know this. Even Kenji's skill proved insufficient to sooth the man's ire, and before long we found ourselves on the wharf behind the warehouse, facing Phillipe, Lucky, and perhaps half a dozen men.
MORE LIKE FOUR.
And when I say "we", let me clarify, I meant myself, Kenji, the madman, and Abraxis. Xian refused to get involved, and had insisted that we battle here, outside the confines of his sanctuary, to avoid the disruption of his magics.
(Xian had revealed to the others what I had already deduced; any bloodshed on the monastary grounds would break his power, and cause his magic to lose all efficacy. The consequence of some kind of heathen oath, I gathered.)
Xian made it clear, in fact, that if we failed to survive the evening, he would be resuming his former deal with Phillipe.
And Rackhir was perched atop the monastary walls, on the pretense of obtaining a better field of fire. I met his declaration with a simple roll of my eyes, and allowed him his attempt to save face.
RACKHIR, UNLIKE BURNE, IS AT LEAST CAPABLE OF HITTING WHAT HE'S AIMING AT.
The battle was brief, but one of the ugliest affairs I've ever witnessed. Kenji assaulted Savur Phillipe, who turned out to be a rather more adept swordsman that I would have guessed. The madman attacked Lucky, with little success. He was a quick little weasel, and aided his master in harrying Kenji.
And I? I laid waste to Phillipe's army....
FOUR THUGS, REMEMBER.
...with flame, and acid, and the raw power of my Art.
Rackhir probably did something as well. But it was dark, and I'm not certain.
Kenji, by this time, was badly wounded. Phillipe had suffered a few scratches, Lucky had fallen, and out madman was now frothing at the mouth. I heard someone scream that the madman's eyes were afire, but that was doubtless nothing more than the reflection of the flames that
I had personally conjured.
Now pressed hard by Kenji, and with myself turning my attention in his direction, Phillipe decided that discretion was the better part of valor. With a bound, he leapt into a dilapidated shack standing at the edge of the wharf.
A long-disused outhouse, as it happened.
He crashed through the floor, and plunged into the river Seleices. Kenji, poised to follow him, demurred when he realized that he would have to risk soiling his dress in the process.
The madman pursued, and a struggle resulted. It ended with the madman standing on the Lieutenant’s chest, and Phillipe inhaling rather more of the Seleices than was strictly good for him.
Dispensing justice is all well and good, but there are practical considerations that the popular novelists rarely address. What, for example, is one to do with the remains of those to whom justice has been dispensed?
For the most part, this was unlikely to be a grave concern. A few sailors more or less are unlikely to be missed, and the ironically named "Lucky" was in much the same category.
Lieutenant Phillipe, however...he was a different story entirely.
I've already spoken of his family, and of the wealth and position that they enjoy. A man such as Phillipe's father is unlikely to take his son's death lightly, and would move heaven and earth to find those responsible. And when one considers the many ways in which the dead can be made to speak, both figuratively and literally?
Savur Phillipe, obviously, needed to disappear entirely.
My companions had already divested the late Lieutenant and his lackeys of his valuables -- including his sword, marked with his family crest, as well as a rather interesting dagger with a pommel that looked like a very realistic eye -- and we briefly considered making it look as though he was the victim of a common robbery.
Too chancy, I concluded, for the reasons already given.
And then I had an idea.
WAIT FOR IT....
I will admit that I am not altogether proud of what we did to Phillipe. He was the worst kind of scum, mind you, but even so.
Even so.
There was at least a hint of efficiency to our solution, though. Allowing us, as it did, to resolve two problems at a single stroke.
On the one hand, we had several human corpses that need to be disposed of.
On the other, we had a tribe of Kuo-Toa growing increasingly hungry.
At last, expediency won out over moral and aesthetic considerations. And not for the last time.
This distasteful task accomplished, we had a further problem to consider. What next? Ultimately, we wished to rescue this Joachim fellow of Delphine's...but this would take money, which was in distressingly short supply.
But again, providence smiled upon us. Not only did we require a source of income, but we also needed to dispose of Savur's possessions. Again, one problem solved the other.
But how to sell Savur's things without leaving a trail that would lead straight back to our door? They were clearly marked with his family's crest, and there could be no legitimate reason for us to have them in our possession.
Once more, I had a plan.
KENJI DID, ACTUALLY. BURNE'S PLANS INVARIABLY INVOLVE BLOWING SOMETHING UP, OR SETTING IT ON FIRE. OR BOTH.
Unfortunately, this plan involved a form of the Art that I have not, difficult though this may be to believe, mastered. I speak, of course, of Illusion. Specifically, using an illusion to take the appearance of the late Lucky.
Naturally, I was the only choice for this mission. I am renowned for my acting talents, and very nearly embraced a career upon the stage before discovering that my destiny lay with the Art and Science of Alchemy.
HE CAN'T EVEN ACT POLITE, LET ALONE CONVINCINGLY. UNFORTUNATELY, HE WAS THE ONLY COHERENT ONE WITHOUT AN AZIKHANI ACCENT.
Xian proved useful at this juncture. Combining his "shu" magic with my own Art allowed me to brew an elixir that would enable me to alter my appearance. This accomplished, we took the time to properly classify our discoveries.
Phillipe's Erisian bastard sword was both finely crafted and somewhat magical, as were the bucklers that both he and Lucky had carried. But it was Lucky's dagger, unexpectedly, that proved the most interesting. The dagger, called "Squint", had the most remarkably ability to increase the visual acuity of anyone who peered into the pommel-stone.
Kenji, inexplicably, laid claim to Squint. I allowed him to do so, albeit reluctantly. This ultimately proved a wise decision, and would lead to one of the best laughs I have ever enjoyed.
In any case, my suspicions had been confirmed. Savur's gear was indeed worth a pretty penny. But where to sell it?
There was only one answer to that question, and it was obvious to a man of my taste and sophistication what that answer must be.
Urbane Outfitters.
The very definition of Style over Substance, and the sort of establishment frequented by the nouveau riche, and idle young nobles with delusions of good taste.
THEY HAD NEVER LET BURNE THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR, BUT NOT FOR LACK OF HIS TRYING. OBVIOUSLY, THEY DO HAVE GOOD TASTE.
Things went perfectly, of course. I presented myself as Lucky, and purported that Philippe had sent me here because he was desperate for money to pay off some outstanding gambling debts. A likely story indeed, from what we knew of the man.
They wondered why Phillipe had not come to sell his goods personally, but understood entirely when I told them that he hadn't wanted to risk public embarrassment...or worse, word getting back to his father, Lord Nitin Phillipe.
This, they understood.
Mission accomplished, and gold jingling cheerfully at my side, I made a point of walking about for some time with Lucky's face, hoping to stir up some confusing rumors.
And then, like a ghost, Lucky ducked into an alleyway and vanished...and Burne strode forth once more.
Heretofore, my Art had saved the lives of myself and my companions on more occasions that I cared to remember. A casual observer would perceive no flaws in my workings, and could only marvel at what I had accomplished.
HE’S GONE THIS LONG WITHOUT KILLING HIMSELF. THAT’S CERTAINLY A MARVEL.
I, however, knew better. Slight inefficiencies still nagged at me, and I could not help but think that there was a better way.
Once again, I was correct. It came to me in a flash of brilliance, and I returned to my lab on the instant, my mind bursting with plans.
What plans, you ask? Ah, let me tell you of a wonder....
Imagine, if you will, a crossbow. A large crossbow, in point of fact, perhaps even awkwardly so. Then make it a bit bigger than that. And there you have the heart of Burne’s Heremetic Destructive Engine.
To this enormous crossbow, one should then bolt a second, slightly smaller crossbow. And then attach a third crossbow, of rather more modest size.
Next? A series of lenses, each with a dedicated purpose. Abd then various rods, tubes, and cylinders of varying construction -- copper, glass, steel, oricalchum -- are connected, each jutting out at a precisely calculated angle, to function as emitters, thaumic resonators, and focusing devices.
Finally, a cunning arrangement of gears, ratchets, and levers is used to operate the Engine to full effect.
And there you have it. The single greatest implement of magical destruction ever created. Using the Engine, one can create and apply Alchemical preparations with astonishing speed and efficiency, far greater than anything previously imagined. More, it infuses the Art with an alchemical property known as "moxie", which has a value beyond stating.
Consider, for example, Burne's Incandescent Arc. Or "Burning Hands", I believe that it is more vulgarly known. Formerly, I would have needed to produce the proper reageants from a convenient pocket, hurl them into the air and then position my hands into a fan-shape while reciting the appropriate mantra of focus.
Crude, obviously. Primitive, in fact.
How does this same treatment function when employing the Heremetic Destructive Engine? Nothing could be simpler! The reagents are already stored within the Engine's interior, in precisely measured doses. To deploy them, the user must lightly depress the third trigger on the left -- *lightly*, mind! -- whilst simultaneously ratcheting the octagonal brass lever exactly three degrees anti-clockwise. The centermost trigger must then be fully depressed, while the focusing mantra is spoken aloud, taking care that the brass plate marked with the High Erisian fire-rune is in full contact with the user's flesh at all times.
So simple that even a child could manage it.
THIS, I THINK, SPEAKS FOR ITSELF.
The Engine came together with remarkable speed, very nearly building itself. I ran some simple tests, invoked my Arts, and found that I had succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. Bursts of flame, globes of caustic liquid, masses of adhesive resin...all this, and more, at my fingertips.
Tremble, oh world, at the power of Burne!
HE DOES, SADLY, REALLY SAY THINGS LIKE THIS. WITH A STRAIGHT FACE, TOO.
When I rejoined my companions, on the day following my successful impersonation of Lucky, they were struck dumb with awe by the sight of the Engine. I smiled a mysterious and humble smile, and left them to their wonderings while we discussed the future.
Xian had already departed, leaving the monastery in our care. We, in turn, entrusted it to King Daikon. He had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to take up Xian’s position as protector of Little Azikhan, and could use the place as his new base of operations. Besides, it would make a fine open-air market.
It was agreed that, lacking anything better to do, we would help Delphine find her fiancé, Joachim. Precisely how we would do this was something of a question, however. We knew that he was aboard a naval vessel somewhere in the Straights of Narayan, but this is a distressingly large area to have to search. Investigation, it was decided, might enable us to discover the ship’s name, and possible itinerary, and so make further plans.
Secondly, there was the matter of the Kuo-Toa. I felt a certain responsibility for them, having saved their lives as I did, and did not wish to see them starve on the streets of CITY. Besides, as we had already seen, they had certain uses....
The open waters were, Blub-Blub told us, too dangerous for them. There are things in the CITY waters which are best left undefined; suffice to say that they were enough to frighten even these "sea-devils". After some negotiation, King Daikon agreed to look after them, and allow them to use the tower that had once been their prison as their lair. We agreed to purchase certain equipment for them -- weapons, and tools, and suchlike -- and they would, in turn, remain in our debt.
Plans having been made, we first needed to address the practical matters of obtaining equipment, and chartering a ship. This, we proceeded to do over the course of the next several days.
As it transpired, however, Xian’s absence had not gone unnoticed....
Last edited by Rolzup; 2nd October 2006 at 07:14 PM..
We were walking down the Street of Costs, hoping to find someone from whom to purchase a magical hat. After my successful performance as Lucky, Kenji had decided that we needed some way to reliable disguise ourselves, should the need arise. And who was I to argue? It was a fine day, after all, and I was rather enjoying the opportunity to stretch my legs a bit.
And then some idiots tried to kill us.
Actually, no. I get ahead of myself. First, some idiots sought to threaten us.
They accosted us on the street, a handful of men wearing the foppish clothing of the Room Rouge Players. They sported a dazzling variety of absurd cognomens: Jacque the Knife, Short Paul, Mark un Mark, and one Boneaparte.
This last, dressed in a particularly gaudy outfit, acted as their spokesman. In a transparent attempt to seem dangerous, he used various pieces of bone as clothing accessories -- cufflinks made from human molars, for example. Sad, really.
Boneaparte blustered at us, told us that we would soon be dead, and threatened us with the wrath of Players' leader. I laughed aloud. Kenji went so far as to quirk an eyebrow; the equivalent of a belly-laugh for a man with human emotions.
They left, sullenly, still calling out imprecations. I dismissed them from my mind, and we continued on our way. The Players had plans of their own, however, and we were not yet quit of them.
Knowing the streets rather better than we did, they were able to use back-alleys and side streets to get ahead of us on the Street of Costs. They then set up an ambush, hoping to catch us by surprise and murder us on the street.
The fools. Burne is not so easily defeated.
It was to have begun with arrows. Thugs were hiding in an alleyway, preparing to shoot as us as we passed. Kenji spotted them first, however (my own mind was on higher matters), and introduced them to his sword. As he did so, some more scum attacked us from behind.
I rather welcomed the excitement, frankly. The Engine had not yet had a proper field-testing, and this seemed a perfect opportunity. A 'Trial by Fire’, as it were! Ha!
OH, HE IS A CARD
It didn’t go at all as they had planned. Kenji, in his usual casual manner, slaughtered his way through the alley while Rackhir peppered them with arrows. I laid waste to the foe in my usual manner, using the 'Incandescent Arc’, the 'Inflammatory Emanation’, and the infamous 'Corrosive Sphere’.
It was the most fun I’d had in weeks. And naturally, the Destructive Engine performed flawlessly.
Ah. But I forget the madman.... He, too, did his part. Foaming at the mouth, as was his wont, he was laying about with his table leg, displaying great enthusiasm in his skull-crushing. Oddly, though, I once more heard someone cry out, in a tone of panic, that the man’s eyes were afire. Would that I had witnessed this myself, but alas.... I can only assume, under the circumstances, that the condition of his normally bloodshot eyes was exacerbated by his state of rage.
The Room Rouge Players, for their part, did not fare at all well. They managed to wound a bystander with a misplaced arrow, and I do believe that they managed to cut Kenji a time or three, but did they lay a hand upon Burne? Not at all.
PROBABLY AFRAID OF CATCHING SOMETHING.
In the aftermath, the corpses slowly cooling in the morning air, I did what I could for the injured civilian. I offered him some cogent advice, and suggested that regular exercise might go a long way towards improving his poor reaction time.
Ungrateful bastard never thought to thank me.
Happily enough, a traveling Barrister happened upon the scene mere moments after we’d dispatched the last of our assailants. There was some question as to whether or not we had been the ones to instigate the slaughter, but our obvious sincerity (as well as some eyewitness testimony) soon cleared our names and we were declared free to go about our business.
And fate, once more, smiled upon us. One of the witnesses had spoken upon our behalf was the owner of a tavern and church called "the Chapel". He declared himself to be the Right Reverend Don "Magic Wand", or, more properly, Donatello Pazzi de Gallina, priest of the Saint of Sinners.
Not only was he impressed with our martial prowess, Donatello told us, but he was grateful to us as well. The Room Rouge Players had been a thorn in his side for some time now, and we’d just done much to break their power. Some still survived, he went on to warn us, including their leader, the infamous Jack Fancy. Fancy would no doubt be intent upon revenge.
I laughed. What threat could such a man be to Burne?
In any case, it transpired that the Right Reverend was entirely capable of making our magic hat for us, and offered to do so for us at a substantial discount. It would take some time, of course, but it would be a very nice hat. I accepted his offer with thanks.
And on we went, about our business. A song in my heart, a spring in my step, the smell of roasted flesh upon the air. It was indeed a fine day.
By this time, after the way in which we had so handily dispatched the Room Rouge Players, we had made something of a name for ourselves.
THAT NAME BEING "THOSE FOUR CRAZY BASTARDS".
Not everyone had learned to properly fear us, however. Not yet. And King Daikon was experiencing trouble from some of these ignorant fools.
Naturally, he came to me for help. Who else could he approach?
KENJI. WHICH IS WHO HE DID SPEAK TO.
This particular band of criminals, who called themselves the "Yellow Lotus Society", were apparently the masters of Little Azikhan’s docks. Ruthless criminals, they were taking advantage of Xian’s absence to try and add Daikon’s neighborhood to their sad little empire.
Nor was the Yellow Lotus Association the only such gang. The Room Rouge Players had been sniffing about before we so handily crushed them, as well as some individuals calling themselves Troupe Blue d'Homme. A colorful bunch of criminals indeed, eh?
HA. HA. HA.
In any case, the Yellow Lotus Association had begun negotiations with one "Master Yu", the owner of a 'do-jo’ across the street from the monastery, a place called "The Cobra in Repose". Apparently, they were hoping to hire Yu and his students, the so-called "Yu-Tang Clan", as cheap muscle.
We agreed to meet with Yu, and to explain the situation to him. And by "explain", I mean "threaten".
As it happened, Yu was in negations with a representative of the Yellow Lotus Association even as we arrived upon his doorstep; a fellow who styled himself "Ghost-Talking Ping Ming." He was dressed even more outlandishly than most foreigners, wearing nothing more than a grass skirt and crude sandals.
We made our position known to Yu, and to this Ping-Ming fellow. Kenji implied, in his inimitable way, that we were in the employ of yet another crime lord, one far too powerful for the Yellow Lotus Association to defy. Kenji did this, I should add, entirely through implication. At no point did he actually lie, per se, but even so managed to spin an impressive web of half-truths.
Ping-Ming, wisely, chose to withdraw. Yu did not take this well, and offered us threats.
As history has shown, this is never a good idea.
Unworried, we left the do-jo. But, while Kenji and I were about other matters, the madman decided to take matters into his own grubby hands. He entered the alley behind the building, and begin digging through a convenient trash-heap.
I’ve no idea what he hoped to learn. Perhaps he was just hungry. In any event, Yu proved oddly possessive of his trash, and attacked the madman, using a curious sort of sword. It was an application of the Art that unlike any I’ve ever seen. The blade would grow to some 30 feet in length, twisting and writhing like a thing alive, apparently responding to Yu’s will. Fascinating, really, and it’s a shame we had to kill him.
I should emphasize at this point that I did not in fact witness precisely what happened in the alley, and was forced to piece matters together from what scraps of information Rackhir was later willing to divulge.
Nevertheless, I believe that I can reconstruct the events in exacting detail.
The madman was, as I have said, digging through a pile of garbage when Yu struck, using his "Yu Sword" to first bind and then somehow poison the madman. Rackhir, who had for reasons of his own been following the madman then stepped from the shadows and announced himself. He told Yu to release the madman, lest he incur the wrath of Burne.
Yu, strangely, was unmoved. He told Rackhir that he would allow the archer to remain free if he went to Kenji and told him that he had taken the madman prisoner. Why Kenji? I cannot imagine. Perhaps he didn’t feel worthy of addressing me directly.
I LIVE WITH THIS. I AM COMPELLED TO OBEY HIM. DO YOU UNDERSTAND MY PAIN?
Whatever Yu’s reasoning, Rackhir defied him, telling him -- correctly, I might add -- that Burne would pay no ransom. He then launched an attack, firing a hail of arrows at his foe. To no avail. Yu handily disarmed him.
Rackhir then ran. To no avail. Yu handily tripped him up, entangled him, and then rendered him unconscious as well.
The two of them awakened in a small room, bound hand and foot. Even their untrained minds could make the proper deduction, and conclude that they had been imprisoned in the do-jo. Well, Rackhir’s mind at the least. The madman? Who can say?
To their credit, they instantly attempted to escape. Rackhir succeeded, but the madman was recaptured before he could leave the building. Rackhir, wisely, came straight to me to beg my help.
Which, graciously, I granted. As did Kenji, superfluous though he was. He did lend Rackhir a bow, however, and so the three of us assembled outside the monastery gates girded for war.
And there was Yu, with his clan assembled around him, unprepared for the hellstorm that was about to erupt. Rackhir, filled with righteous rage, stood well back and fired arrows through the open door of the building. The rest of us charged into the thick of it.
I had used the Engine to spray metallic particles into the air around me, which my Art then fixed into place as a protective shield -- the famed 'Burne’s Indomitable Bulwark’. Safeguarded in such a fashion, the Yu-Tang Clan was unable to breach my defenses, enabling me to strike them down with impunity. The 'Incandescent Arc’ saw use once again, as did the 'Corrosive Sphere’ and the 'Immolative Aura’.
Kenji, meanwhile, was engaging in his usual crude form of combat, flailing about with his Erisian broadsword. He was facing Yu himself, and having a difficult time of it, so I took it upon myself to work my Art upon our foe.
He responded by using his bizarre flexible sword to entangle me, but to no avail -- I employed the Engine yet again, to invoke 'Burne’s Inevitable and Infernal Sphere’ and send it rolling in his direction. Thus distracted, he released me upon the instant.
At approximately this juncture, the madman kicked open a door and emerged from the depths of the building. He crashed into the Yu-Tang clan members from behind, and threw a pot of coffee into the eyes of one of them. His fearsome appearance was nearly enough to break their morale entirely, but to top matters off he worked his own Art for the first time I can remember.
Connected as he was to the primal soul of CITY itself, he was able to call upon it for aid. Which manifested as a CITY guardsman, who burst in through the front door of the do-jo, prepared to aid us in our assault.
He died only a heartbeat later, without having struck a single blow, but I was nevertheless impressed. I think that I sent a few coppers to his widow, but am not entirely certain.
HE DIDN’T.
The building was afire by this point, incidentally. Not badly so, more smoldering than anything else, but such a fuss from my companions! You would have thought that there was some kind of danger.
Once again, the firelight was reflected in the madman’s eyes, putting a rather impressive scare into the superstitious members of the Yu-Tang clan.
It’s been some weeks now since the madman went missing, and as I dictate these memoirs I find myself missing him more and more. Why, oh why, didn’t I dissect him while I still had the opportunity? Just think of the things that I could have done with his eyes!
Ah, well. Missed opportunities abound.
We slew Yu, eventually. I don’t remember who struck the fatal blow, but it was probably myself. The surviving Clan members surrendered at this point, weeping abjectly.
I allowed the others to put the fire out, after a time.
After the "Rumble in the Dojo", NE7 runs into the back hallway and then upstairs, still filled with homeless rage. He returns --a few moments later- calmed and carrying a large wooden box, which he presents to Burne.
Burne sets the box down atop a hastily-abandoned game of Ajakhani chess on a table in the dojo's practice floor. Its 2.5 by 1.5 ft across, made of foreign-looking wood, with an obvious and well-made (to the eyes) metal lock. There are hinges along the upper back panel. Clearly, the top opens up. It’s also fairly light. Not a chest full of coin.
Burne and his odd mechanical cat examine the box, and then proceed to efficiently pick the lock.
As Burne flips the last tumbler of the clearly inferior foreign lock, a sepia-colored vapor issues out of the mechanism, coalescing into a vaguely snake-like shape. It then re-arranges itself, briefly forming an ideograph of the Ajakkhani's gruesomely inefficient written language. Only to become snake-like once more, and lunge at Burne with the speed of a viper shot from an arbalest.
In response, Burne nimbly steps aside. The snake-shape strikes the wall behind Burne and its weak foreign magic returns to the badly-conceived cosmology from whence it came.
"Typical Ajakhani magecrafting," Burne mutters, "All flash, no substance. Where are the flames, the explosions?"
Inside the box, Burne discovers a finely-made black cloak, of a material he can't immediately identify. It’s embroidered with a single symbol, similar to the one formed by the snake. The cloak wraps a sizable leather-bound book.
Burne peers through the sight of the massive, crossbow-esque contraption he refers to as "the Engine", first at the book, then at the cloak. The writing on the books cover is in Ajakhnai pictographs.
"I've no familiarity with this foreign jibber-jabber! What an inconsiderate thug this Yu was! I'm increasingly delighted to have burned the fellow to death."
"Samurai! Come here and take a look at these items, if you would."
The book is in the Imperial script appropriate for poets and executed historians posthumously absolved of wrongdoing.
It is entitled "Three Frightened Cherry Blossoms"
It is subtitled: "A humble dead man's account of the Yu-Sword, Yu-Bow, and Yu-Spear".
Dr. Wu begins and swiftly finishes his incantations, only to spend the next few minutes in silent contemplation.
"Ahhhhhh, Kenji-sama...it seems that Master Yu was not 's------g us', as King Daikon would say. The Yu-sign on the cloak is the True Yu of the Serpent, and the cloak itself has been bathed in the Black Blood of the Earth, found only at the base of the 100,000 Steps Stair below Mt. Yu...."
Wu slowly realizes not even Kenji is paying attention to him. "Snake-man magic. Yuan-Ti. Given to their servants. Not usually found outside the Empire. Very odd..."
Interlude the Second: Dramatis Personae
(As of the end of this session, more or less.)
The Tenor: A homeless, alcoholic Giant (former soldier) with a lovely singing voice. Riktiktavi, aka "Little Buddy": The Tenor's Hannu monk companion. His name means "hostile to snakes".
Delphine Laxshmi St. Sous: Heiress to a large shipping fortune in Narayan and kidnap victim. --Pavur-Pierre Arjuna S. Sous: Her father. A Magnate of Narayan, owner of Blue Star Lines. --Joachim Driftwood: Delphine's fiance. An orphan priest of Kruetzel and chef at the Palm d'Whorl at the Narayan Arms Hotel. --Eduard Revi: Captain of the naval patrol ship Windsprint, believed to be the current location of Joachim, after running afoul of a press-gang.
Mop Mop Bow: tea-shop owner and alchemist. Properietor of The Kingdom of Peacable Teas. King Daikon: street shaman and greengrocer. Now unoffical protector of the Little Ajakhan neighborhood.
<Lt. Capt. Savur Philippe:> Deceased head of the Fort Ormond Assymetric Recruitment Squad (ie, a press-gang). <Lt. Lucky:> Philippe's right hand man. Also deceased.
Sanjuro "Saville" Roeh: Amoral alchemist in Little Ajakhan. The Room Rouge Players were steady customers. Watchful Ox: Saville's hulking Ruhk-Kaza bodyguard.
Han Oi Xian: A half-Imperial Priest of the Shu (Shujenka) and (former) part-time Yakuza boss. Strives to return his dead mothers soul to a living body. --<Aribella Sans Merci:> Xian's mother. Mostly dead. Her soul resides in her favorite jade necklace. Broken Chain: Slack-faced, idiot-savant spiked chain fighter. Xian's bodygaurd. <Cloud Ghost:> Deceased hobgoblin monk with funny hat. Master of the Soft Thunder Strike.
Blub-blub: A sea-devil priest. Blib-blub: His apprentice.
<Master Yu:> Now-deceased head of the Cobra-in-Repose Dojo. --Wok-Top: former soldier and now resturant owner.
The Bridge Troll: A talkative little monster. Lives and works under a bridge near Little Ajakhan.
(The Room Rouge Players <Jacque the Knive, Esq.:> deceased. <Short Paul, Esq.:> deceased. <Mark un Mark, Esq.:> deceased. <Boneaparte, Esq.:> deceased.
(The Staff at Urbane Outfitters) Margeaux Devareaux: A specialist in magical item sales/acquistions. Sandrine: A shop girl. Zeus: A weapons-master.
(Faculty at the University of Narayan) Dr. Mephisophocles: professor of Ineffable Inquiry and Un-Nautral Philosophy. Has a familiar named Doubting Thomas. Gaspard Obeserai Illigitimo: professor of archeology. Expert on the lost city of Ur-Imbra in the Lassantess Wastes.
(Various Mages) --Riven Sugarglass: master alchemist in Eris. Said to have worked on the Philosopher's Algorithm, and to own a copy of the Calculatus Homonculatus. --Shalazar: head of the so-called New School at the Acadeum Gaeta in Gallina. Pioneer of new uses for Gate Magic. --Ramadeo Ben Donovan: a young student at the Acadeum Gaeta, rumored to have Shalazar's ear. --Nadir Medhi: Shirac mind-witch trained at the Miir Valley School. Has witch-hawk familiar. Rumored to have drunk from the Goblet of Ire.
Sul Sark: a Ruhk-Kaza mercenary with magical powers. Often found at The Chapel (tavern) in Narayan. Kadijah Thoris (Helios Flower Clan of the Great Ummab of the Shirac): A dealer in magics at the Grand Bizarre in Marimbra.
--Arabia Wainwright: A bestselling romance-novelist.
Last edited by Rolzup; 13th May 2006 at 03:59 PM..
Having claimed yet another building as part of our spoils of war, we set about ransacking the place with a clear conscience. I took charge of the Yu Sword, in hopes of analyzing it and discovering the origin of its powers.
One of the others discovered a locked strongbox in a back room; almost certainly the property of Yu. I examined the lock, and picked it without effort. Opening the box, however, caused the manifestation of some weak Azikhani magic; a pale brown serpent materialized and struck at me.
It missed, naturally. My reflexes put those of a serpent to shame.
AND YET, HE STILL HAS NO EYEBROWS.
The box contained a book, and a black cloak.
The cloak was cut in an Azikhani style, and therefore unsuitable for a gentleman of my standing. Yu claimed that a rune scrawled upon the cloak was the "True Yu of the Serpent", and the cloak itself had been bathed in the "Black Blood of the Earth".
Whatever the hell that means. Snake-man magic, according to Wu. He seemed surprised by this.
The book? Written in a foreign tongue, and thus objectively worthless. Kenji translated the title as: "Three Frightened Cherry Blossoms: A humble dead man's account of the Yu-Sword, Yu-Bow, and Yu-Spear". We had the Yu-Sword in our hands, such as it was, but these other weapons were admittedly of some interest. Rackhir, for his part, was virtually salivating at the very thought of this "Yu-Bow".
The madman, charmingly, decided to claim the now vacant building as his own lair. In lieu of anyone else willing to declare ownership of the do-jo, I cheerfully granted it to him. He proceeded to redecorate the place in the expected fashion, strewing garbage and sundries about until it looked much like a disused alley.
His dog, I might add, entirely lacked any sort of hygienic training.
It was at about this time that another incident involving the madman occurred, and it was unusual enough that I believe that it should be noted herein.
It was early evening, and we were standing before the monastery gates speaking to King Daikon about the missing Joachim, and our plans for finding him. The madman was there, contributing nothing to the conversation -- as was his wont -- when he suddenly became agitated. Violently so.
He was speaking to a cat, or so it sounded, who was not there. Nothing unusual in this, as he generally carried on conversations with individuals seen only to himself. But when he pried a cobblestone lose from the street, and began brutally smashing it against his own skull, I was forced to take notice.
So taken aback we were by his actions, that none of acted quickly enough to prevent him from knocking himself unconscious. He fell, bleeding profusely, as we stood stunned. And as we moved to help him, we noticed something even odder than his behavior.
His blood. As we watched, the trickles of blood were actually forming words, intelligible words, upon the street. I made a point of recording those words, for posterity’s sake, and shall now relate them.
Hmmmm.
Now, I’m sure that I had that somewhere about. Underneath the girallon limbs, perhaps?
No? Check under the tendriculous cuttings, Abraxis!
Still no? There, on the shelf, next to the jars with the witch-dog hearts?
Blast. Well, it was a prophecy, and as such it was lamentably vague. Beware of this, and defend that, and pay heed to some other...I do remember something about women, and about "protecting the bones", though.
Well, what does it really matter? It didn’t make any damned sense in any case, precisely as one would expect from something that came out of the madman’s head.
But, duly enlightened, we tended to the now groggy madman and discussed the implications of what we had just witnessed. I expressed some astonishment that his head had broken before the cobblestone did, and there was general agreement at this.
Saguinary screeds aside, we had something of a problem. The "Lady" Delphine. Over the course of the past few days, we had discovered that Delphine was, properly, the Magnaeta Delphine Laxshmi St. Sous, daughter of Pavur-Pierre Arjuna St. Sous, owner of the Blue Star Shipping Lines. The second richest man in Narayan, and thus one of the richest businessmen in CITY.
And to his credit, the man was not one of those modern, "progressive" parents who are so busily ruining the very fabric of our noble CITY. No, St. Sous was the sort of man who would illegally imprison his own daughter in order to keep her safe, virginal, and free of scandal.
Bravo.
Laudable though his actions were, they made our task somewhat more difficult. Delphine was our only source of information on Joachim, and without her assistance it was clear that finding the lad would be all but impossible.
AND BURNE'S PAYMENT FOR "SERVICES RENDERED" MORE UNLIKELY.
Fortunately, we had one last lead to follow. And, what’s more, it would allow us the opportunity for some fine dining. Before his disappearance, you see, Joachim had been employed as a chef at the famous Palm d'Whorl at the Narayan Arms Hotel, one of the finest restaurants in all of CITY. It was more than possible that, through his cooking, he had made some influential friends...friends that we could prevail upon for aid.
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