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!
[Exalted 2e] Chosen of the Second Age (Update 11/19/09)
It was a village, much like any other. Wooden houses with thatched roofs scattered alongside a simple dirt path that was barely a road, deep ruts running its length as a reminder of the occasional wagon caravan that passed this way, hoping to avoid the crowded main roads. People and livestock commingled in the village and the surrounding farmland, living much as they had for generations. A flock of young children, no more than a dozen, gathered in the street and began running, the sounds of their laughter echoing in the still air. They raced toward a small house at the edge of the village, somewhat apart from the others.
“Grandfather! Grandmother!” the children shouted as they gathered around the front door.
The door swung open to reveal a wizened old woman, leaning heavily on a cane. She grinned at them, showing crooked teeth.
“Well, young ones, come to climb into my cooking pot?”
The children laughed. The old woman, who was ‘Grandmother’ to them all even though none shared her blood, was known to be a witch. The adults of the village came to her for medicines, or to consult the spirits about the harvest or the birth of a child, but other than that they tended to avoid the little hut and its two occupants. But children are not as foolish as adults in such matters.
“We want a story!” one of the younglings cried out. “Where is Grandfather?”
“Oh, it’s a story you want, is it?” she grinned. “No time for old Grandmother… not unless the smell of sticky buns is coming from her window.”
“And then you get to be the popular one, Grandmother,” said a grizzled voice behind her. Grandfather walked out into the sunlight, blinking as the light made his hair appear like a white halo. He stood straighter than Grandmother, but his hands were twisted, knobby things. It was said that he had once been an Imperial Historian, but none could say why he and his wife had come here instead of retiring in a city. Neither had any practical skills for a farming community, other than Grandmother’s knowledge of hedge magic and Grandfather’s willingness to entertain the young children and educate them.
“A story! A story!” the children chanted.
“All right then,” he said, settling himself into a well-worn wooden chair as the gaggle of children quickly gathered around in the dirt. “What story shall I tell today? Li Peng and the Perfect Peach?”
“No!” shouted the children emphatically.
“Princess Perfect and the Yu Shan Ball?”
“No!”
“The Four Friends Against the Bandit King?”
“No!”
“We want a real story!” one boy piped up.
“A story about things that really happened!” said another girl.
Grandmother and Grandfather exchanged a look. Were their audience older, and more worldly, they might have read much in that look, and perhaps felt some measure of alarm. But the look passed without comment.
“I may have just the thing,” Grandfather said. He stood up, and shuffled back into the house. Sounds of searching could be heard inside, but they took a long time to cease; longer than would be expected, for the house was not that large, and though age had slowed his body it had not slowed Grandfather’s mind. Eventually he emerged, and in his hand was held a scroll case made of a lacquered wood, embossed with jade and silver. The value of the case alone was likely more than the village produced in a year, though this was not known to the children arrayed around him, who only stared wide-eyed in wonder.
“This scroll,” he began, “and many others like it were entrusted to my grandfather many years ago. They contain the stories of a group of people who set out to change the world. Some called them villains, others called them heroes. My grandfather passed them to my father, and my father passed them to me. I was told the same thing that they were told; keep these scrolls safe, until the day comes when Creation is ready to hear the tales they contain.” He held up the scroll case. “Do you think you are ready?”
The children nodded enthusiastically.
“But before I begin, a warning,” he said, his tone serious. “These stories are for you only. They are not for your fathers or mothers, your uncles and aunts, or your older siblings. There is magic in these stories, true magic that seeks the right eyes to read them, and the right ears to hear them. I will only tell them to you, and if anyone else learns of them, then I will tell no more, and you will forget all that you have already heard. Do you understand?”
Again, heads bobbed up and down eagerly.
“Very well.” With a flourish, Grandfather snapped open the seal on the first scroll. “We begin long ago, when the world was very different from the way it is now, but in many ways not so different at all…”
And so begins my second Story Hour here at ENWorld, Chosen of the Second Age, based on our new Exalted campaign. I suppose that posting a Story Hour about a non-d20 game here might seem a little strange, but the truth is that I don't frequent the White Wolf-oriented boards; I like you guys better.
As with my previous Story Hour, the posts will mostly represent our regular game play sessions, with the occasional bit of prose written by myself or another player thrown in to add depth. For example, pretty much all of the stuff I will be posting for the first little while was not played out at the table, but is based on character origin stories that each player wrote, and then my efforts to narrate how they all met (we decided to go with this approach rather than something of the "You're all in a tavern when..." variety).
For those unfamiliar with Exalted, it's a high-fantasy style game from White Wolf which draws inspiration from non-Tolkien sources, in particular things like anime, Tanith Lee, and Michael Moorcock. You can pretty much learn all you need to know about the game world if you go a Googlin'.
Also, much like in my previous Story Hour, I should point out that I am not the GM/Storyteller for this campaign, but a humble player.
And so, with the stage set, allow me to introduce the Dramatis Personae (including our totally cheesy, totally chibi avatar-portraits!):
As has already been touched on, this entry (and the next several beyond this) are basically the backgrounds of the characters, written as fiction and are not based on any type of game play.
Also my last Story Hour had a tendency to have rather long posts. I'm trying to keep things shorter this time around.
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“Let me see,” Grandfather said, as he unrolled the ancient scroll. “Ah, yes. This tale is about several people, and the things they did together, but before we hear about what they did, I have to tell you who they are. After all, all of you know who Li Peng is, or Princess Perfect, or the Four Friends, but the men and women in these scrolls have been in no stories or plays yet written. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I opened this scroll first – I think that he made sure that his story was at the top of the pile.”
“Who, Grandfather?” asked a bright-eyed boy. “Who made sure?”
“Why, the first hero of our story, of course,” Grandfather replied.
☼ ☼ ☼
The story begins in the city of Greyfalls, in the East of Creation, one of the few cities of the Scavenger Lands still in the control of the Scarlet Empress. The boy’s parents were natives of the Nuri tribe, but were serving in the household of the local satrap, Nellens Rombulac, as Imperial subjects. This is not that strange, because most of the Nuri had bent their knee to the Empire long before. His mother, Willow, worked as a seamstress, while his father, Callum the Dutiful, was a middling bureaucrat who helped oversee the satrap’s household. Callum was the sort of man who should have been much more prominent in his profession, but alas, he was cursed with honesty and burdened by a lack of anything Satrap Rombulac valued, which meant that he was trapped in his duties. Callum and Willow had three children; two sons and a daughter, but they didn’t have their own names; the Nuri never named their children, but let them choose their own names when they turned fifteen. But of course, they had to be called something until that day came, and so, following tradition, they were given titles as names in the native Nuri tongue. Translated, their names would have been ‘Callum’s First Son’, ‘Callum’s Second Son’, and ‘Willow’s First Daughter’.
Callum and Willow followed the Immaculate Philosophy, a set of rules that tell you how to act and how to think. They wanted their children to live by the Philosophy as well, and the Philosophy told them that their children should take their place when they passed on. So they already knew that First Son would succeed his father in the satrap’s service, and First Daughter would become a seamstress like her mother. But what about Second Son? The Philosophy said only that they should guide him on a path complementary to his father’s career. Thus Second Son was educated in the ways of the Empire, and given schooling befitting one destined for a life of public service.
However, it turned out that Second Son found his education stifling, and yearned for more. He began skipping his lessons, running and hiding within the vast corridors of the satrap’s palace in Garrison Heights. Indeed, the young boy developed a particular talent for not being found. So good was Second Son at hiding, in fact, that sometimes he would end up in places that he was not meant to be, and he would see and hear things that he was not meant to know. Things that some of the adults in the satrap’s palace held secret– some were even the satrap’s own secrets. Second Son didn’t much like what he heard, because it told him that there were bad people in the world who took advantage of others and became wealthy while those who served them stayed poor. People like his father. Second Son tried to explain this to Callum, but his father knew from the Philosophy that he should not question his place, and so forbade any further discussion.
Instead, young Second Son turned to the only adult he trusted, an itinerant courtesan known as Pearlescent Lotus Whispers. Now, Lotus was not from the East, but from the South, from the great city of Chiaroscuro, where everything is made of glass. But Lotus had traveled to many places before settling in the Scavenger Lands, and knew many things. She told young Second Son that the evils he saw in the palace were known in many lands. She encouraged him to continue to practice hiding and listening, so that he would know of the world when he came of age. To cover his frequent absences from his tutors, she also taught him the basics of etiquette and polite society. Ironically, he learned far more readily under the courtesan’s hand than he did with the Imperial tutors – perhaps because she did not insist on strict adherence to the Philosophy.
As Second Son approached his twelfth year of age, the reports of petty thefts within the satrap’s household began to rise, as did incidents at the Scintillating River Palace, a grand building that was supposed to be the Empress’s court when she was in Greyfalls, but as the Empress never visited, it was used mostly for grand parties by the nobles. It seemed that visiting nobles and merchants were the frequent targets, many of whom had suspicious dealings with the satrap. Second Son, of course, was behind these thefts. Now, as you have been taught, it is wrong to steal, and that is still true; but so angry was Second Son at the evils he had heard that he decided he must act in some way to show these people that there was a price to their greed and corruption. Though many of the things he stole were valuable, he did not steal just to acquire wealth; he chose things that had personal value to his victims, or would cause them embarrassment if the theft were known. He also did not steal from those who could not afford it, or who were truly honest men and women. Second Son was now spending less time in Garrison Heights and more in the city of Greyfalls, where he made the acquaintance – thanks to Lotus - of Rhulad of the Ten Thousand Talents, a local fence with a reputation for both vast wealth and vast knowledge. It was Rhulad who took the treasures Second Son brought him. Some of the money that Rhulad paid was given to the poor, and some Second Son kept, or spent on food, wine, and pleasurable company for himself and his friends in the city, for it pleased him to think that those luxuries had been bought with the wealth of the corrupt.
Of course, Callum and Willow could not help but notice that their son was frequently missing for days at a time. They tried to steer him back on the correct path, but Second Son refused, and then just before his fifteenth birthday, he never came home again. Callum and Willow grieved the loss of their son, but as dictated by the Philosophy, they turned their back on their wayward child, and focused their attention on their more obedient progeny. Meanwhile, Second Son celebrated his adulthood by choosing a new name; Resplendent Ghost of Midnight, or simply ‘Ghost’ to those who knew him well.
Ghost continued to ply his trade as a thief, though now his territory had expanded beyond the palace walls. As the years passed, many corrupt nobles and officials would come to curse his name. There was even talk of bringing in a Dragon-Blood to hunt this thief down, though such never came to pass, as the Blessed Isle was very far away, both geographically and politically, and the commander of the Twenty-Third Legion, General Kathak Kitono, couldn’t be bothered to send valuable men to hunt down a pickpocket. Rhulad considered him among the best in the city, and eventually revealed to him a secret; he was not just a fence, but was a agent of the Guild, who had been sent to Greyfalls to keep an eye on the Scarlet Empire and Satrap Rombulac. He offered to sponsor Ghost into the Guild, but the young thief declined – he knew that in many ways the Guild was as rife with corruption as the Empire. And young Ghost was beginning to take a great sense of pride in his work, knowing that he could pull off the most daring robberies and not get caught. It was this sense of pride that led to the most astounding moment of his life.
As he approached the age of twenty-five, rumors began to circulate that Resplendent Ghost of Midnight was no longer the best thief in the city. Rivals, jealous of his skill, hoped to goad him into attempting a daring theft which would result in his capture and arrest. His pride wounded by the taunts, Ghost vowed to commit the boldest theft of all – to steal the satrap’s Writ of Authority, the documents that were signed by the Scarlet Empress herself granting Nellens Rombulac authority over the Imperial holdings in the East. Losing the Writ would not mean that the Empire had no power in the land, of course; such things are granted by swords, not words. But it would be a devastating blow to the satrap’s honor to have the Writ stolen, and the subsequent investigation might well reveal some of his more unscrupulous dealings, or at least give one of the Great Houses sufficient cause to replace Rombulac with one of their own family members.
It was no great challenge for Ghost to enter Garrison Heights; he had been coming in and out unseen since he was a boy. The passages through the walls were in the same places, and the guard patrolled the courtyard in the same way. He came to the satrap’s treasury and slipped inside. Surrounding him were vast treasures, the wealth of entire towns in silver and jade. But Ghost had long ago ceased coveting wealth – he only cared for the symbolism of his act, and his own reputation. He found the Writ sealed in a wooden chest, and soon it was in his possession. But when he emerged from the treasury, Ghost found himself surrounded by many guards, with their weapons drawn and pointed straight at him. The Writ dropped from startled fingers.
“Your plans were known to us, thief,” said a very familiar voice. Stepping from behind a pillar came Callum the Dutiful. The father did not recognize his son; Ghost wore a mask on his face, and Callum had no reason to suspect that his missing son was in fact Greyfalls’ most infamous thief. “We were informed of your plans,” Callum continued. “Thus ends the career of Resplendent Ghost of Midnight.” Callum ordered the guards to bind the thief and remove his mask. At that very moment, something extraordinary happened.
It seemed to Ghost that the room suddenly filled with light. At first, he thought that perhaps he had tarried in the treasury longer than he’d thought, and that dawn’s light was now entering the palace. But then he realized that although the golden light was as bright as the sun, it came from within the palace, surrounding everyone. Then he began to hear a calm but strong voice, whose words held no meaning for him but were reassuring nonetheless. Ghost felt strange as though he was both moving and remaining motionless at the same time. Soon, the light faded, but did not diminish entirely, and when Ghost looked around he saw that all of the guards were dead, slain with their own blades. Only Callum remained standing, unharmed. The bureaucrat backed against a wall, a look of terror on his face. Ghost realized that somehow his mask had torn free, but still his father seemed not to recognize him.
“Anathema!” Callum screamed.
Here I must pause in the telling of this tale. Those who hear my words have no doubt guessed what has happened to young Ghost, though he himself would not understand it for some time. And perhaps you may wonder at my purpose in telling the tale of such a being, when so many would call it blasphemy at best. But I say to you now, there are lessons to be learned in the telling of this tale, and the others like it, but the tale entire must be heard.
As I have already said, Resplendent Ghost of Midnight’s heart was filled with fear and confusion. Surely he could not be one of the Anathema! He sought to speak words of comfort and reassurance to his father. Instead, he spoke words that he had not intended to say, but were his words nonetheless.
“Your beliefs are flawed, and your masters corrupt. Those who lay claim to stolen power shall soon know that there is nothing in all Creation that cannot be stolen back.”
Callum the Dutiful fainted, and Resplendent Ghost of Midnight ran. The light followed him.
It is the sad truth that in the life of a criminal, even a noble one, he can name many companions but few true friends. Ghost was no doubt being pursued by the satrap’s soldiers, and on top of that he had been accused of being Anathema. He thought of turning to Rhulad, but knew that the Guildsman would likely turn him away to protect his own interests. Thus, he could think of only one place to go.
He arrived at the apartments that had been rented out by Pearlescent Lotus Whispers, sneaking into her bedchamber. Desperately, he tore a strip of cloth from his garment, to tie around his head and cover up the light which seemed to emanate from his forehead.
“You cannot block out the sun, young one,” said Lotus. He turned to see the courtesan, dressed and kneeling before a tea service set for two. “The light will fade when you are calm. Please, be seated. It is most discourteous to keep your host waiting.”
The night became day, and then became night again. Lotus explained much to Ghost in that time. She explained that yes, he was one of the Chosen of the Unconquered Sun, and no, that did not make him a demon. She stated that she had knowledge of such things, though she did not say where such knowledge had come from.
“I had a feeling from the first day we met that you might be chosen,” she told him. “That is why I guided you toward the path you now walk. That is also why I informed your father of your plan to steal the satrap’s Writ.”
“You!” he gasped. “But why?”
“You needed a push,” was her only reply.
The courtesan left Greyfalls the next day, her entourage having grown by one. Resplendent Ghost of Midnight traveled with Lotus for six months, and in that time he learned about the powers granted him by the Unconquered Sun, and how to use them. He learned to balance on a blade of grass and to leap high walls, to disappear from sight and how to avoid the swiftest attacks. He learned the use of the boomerang and the blade. But most importantly, he discovered his purpose. He knew that the common people were capable of throwing off the chains of oppression placed on them by the powerful and greedy. He knew that all they needed was an example of one of their number rising up from obscurity to greatness. Thus he resolved to become the greatest thief in all Creation; he would be known as the thief who stole the corruption of a Deathlord, who stole a playing piece from the Games of Divinity, perhaps even the one who stole the Scarlet Throne from the Dragon-Blooded.
When he was ready to make his own way in the world, Pearlescent Lotus Whispers presented him with three gifts. The first was a jade pendant, which he recognized as the first thing he had ever stolen. It had once belonged to a noblewoman who had been carrying on an affair with the satrap, and then using her influence to extort higher taxes from the lands she controlled. The pendant had been a gift from the satrap, and its loss was never investigated, as it would have led to too many questions.
“The pendant carries magic that will repel dirt and filth,” Lotus explained, “so that you will always be presentable, at least.”
The second gift was a suit of chain armor, made of an opalescent grey metal that was light as a feather. “This is Hidden Strength,” she said. “For you cannot always remain unseen.”
The final gift was a pair of war boomerangs, crafted from amber-colored Chiaroscuro glass. “They will not break, and will not lose their edge. Use them well, use them wisely.”
Resplendent Ghost of Midnight bowed. “Thank you for all you have done for me.”
With that, Resplendent Ghost of Midnight left, and sought to make his own fortune in Creation.
But there is a final note to this story. For back in Greyfalls, Callum the Dutiful, who successfully protected the satrap’s Writ of Authority from one of the Anathema, was finally recognized for his years of loyal service, and promoted to the head of his department, as well as receiving a sizable reward. Thus he lives on, enjoying his newfound prosperity and reputation, not knowing that he had been guided there by the actions of his Second Son.
I decided that the best place to post character stats was immediately after each origin story (I have trouble justifying an entire Rogue's Gallery thread for four characters!). I'll update these as time goes on. Bear in mind that the stats I'm posting now are after we've played for a few months, so they have a little more than a typical starting character would.
Character Name: Resplendent Ghost of Midnight Caste: Night Anima: A grey-white spider monkey with violet eyes, cavorting in midair Motivation: To become known as the greatest thief in all Creation by committing ‘impossible’ thefts Intimacies: Confederation of Rivers, Improving Reputation
CHARMS Second Thrown Excellency
First Dodge Excellency
Second Larceny Excellency
Second Stealth Excellency
First Awareness Excellency
Graceful Crane Stance
Monkey Leap Technique
Ox-Body Technique (one 0-level)
Shadow Over Water
Reflex Sidestep Technique
Easily Overlooked Presence Method
Returning Weapon Concentration
Mastery of Small Manners
Equipment
Fine Clothing
Exceptional Lockpicks (+1D)
Provisions
Other Notes Indiscriminate Larceny (Virtue Flaw) – Confronted by the injustice of the world, the Solar is filled with an uncontrollable urge to deprive the undeserving of their excess. For one full day, the Solar will actively work to steal from anyone he perceives as being “wealthy”, which can mean anyone who obviously has more money than the poorest of beggars. These thefts will occur regardless of circumstances, and with little to no planning or forethought. Any valuables acquired will be given to the poor. With partial control, the Solar can exercise some restraint in their choice of targets (going after the truly wealthy instead of anyone with more than two yen to rub together), and can utilize some caution when executing these thefts (not just grabbing someone’s jewelry in broad daylight, for example). This Flaw is triggered whenever the Solar witnesses an excessive display of wealth.
APPEARANCE
Age: 26 - born RY 742
Exaltation: RY 767
Sex: Male
Ethnicity: Eastern (Nuri)
Eyes: Violet
Hair: Red
Skin: Chestnut tone, several tattoos on body
Clothing: Well-made, tending toward black and silver/gray
Height: 6’ 4”
Weight: 217 lb
Build: Athletic
Birthplace: Greyfalls
Languages: Forest-tongue (native), High Realm, Riverspeak; literate
Great stuff. I've been looking for Exalted Stoy Hours, but yours is the first I've seen. Is your other story hour based on Exalted, too? (I can't get the link in your sig to work).
Where'd you get the chibi avatars?
Keep up the good work! I like your writing style; I think you capture a lot of the flavor of the setting in your prose. I hope the rest of your circle have such interesting backstories!
__________________ "The avalanche has already started. It is too late for the pebbles to vote."
Great stuff. I've been looking for Exalted Stoy Hours, but yours is the first I've seen. Is your other story hour based on Exalted, too? (I can't get the link in your sig to work).
Ah, that would be because I was using the wrong URL, from before we moved to ENWorld 2. I've fixed the link in my sig, but the old story's at:
It's not Exalted, but D&D 3.5, in a homebrew world. We played it for about five years (and no, we didn't stop because of 4e; the timing was just a coincidence. Though none of us have bought 4e yet).
Keep up the good work! I like your writing style; I think you capture a lot of the flavor of the setting in your prose. I hope the rest of your circle have such interesting backstories!
Thanks. I'm making something of a conscious effort to impart the game's style in my writing, whereas my previous Story Hour was more straightforward prose.
A storm had rolled in during the night, and had turned the little village’s simple dirt-track road into a muddy morass by the next morning. Rain still pattered on the straw rooftop of Grandmother and Grandfather’s home, with the occasional drop falling into an iron pot in the corner. Children sat huddled on the floor, crowded into the tiny dwelling, some with streaks of mud still drying on their faces. They sat quietly, each sucking on pieces of rice candy that Grandmother had somehow produced from a simple clay jar on the high shelf, as Grandfather settled into his favorite chair, another scroll case in his weathered hand.
Grandfather broke open the case, the dry wax seal snapping with a report that sounded much too loud in the small room. He carefully unrolled the parchment, and perused it with his sharp, bright eyes.
“Ah,” he said at last. “Now I understand.”
“Understand what, Grandfather?” a young girl asked.
“Why the gods of the sky choose to weep this day. They must have foreseen whose tale I would tell this day.”
“Is it a sad story, Grandfather?” the girl asked, her eyes wide.
“It is, at first,” he said in answer, “but in stories, as in life, we cannot always choose to make the beginning to our liking, but only choose what to do with what is given to us.”
☼ ☼ ☼
Far to the East, where the endless forests grow so deep and thick that the sun never touches the earth, there is a village known as Petgrana, which lies to the south of the Yellow River. The villagers of Petgrana make their living as most other villages in this land do, by felling the great trees that lived deep in the forest and selling them to the Guild, and by buying slaves from the barbarians who also lived deep in the forest, and selling them to the Guild as well. The villagers made their offerings to the little gods of the forest, and life was peaceful and orderly for them.
One of the people who called Petgrana their home was a young girl named Ayama. At an early age, she had been apprenticed to Kaila, the village wise woman, to learn the secrets of the land and of the spirits that resided there. She learned her lessons well, even though some suspected she lacked the intellect to master the profession, due to her tendency to speak very little. But none could deny her caring heart, or her tenacity. She soon caught the eye of another resident of Petgrana.
V’neef Odaask had come to Petgrana some years ago, and was now the town’s healer and surgeon. Though he did not rule the village, he held great influence, thanks in large part to his status as a Dragon-Blood from one of the Empire’s Great Houses. There were whispers that he had come to Petgrana because he feared to return home to the Blessed Isle; that he had been with the Imperial Army at the Battle of Mishaka, and that something that had happened in that battle had caused him to leave in disgrace. But none spoke openly of this. For his part, Odaask tried to instruct the villager in the ways of the Immaculate Philosophy, discouraging their worship of the little gods of the land, only permitting those spirits to deal through him. As his interest in young Ayama grew, he began to insist that the wise woman allow her apprentice to learn under his own tutelage – in this he had the right, as he was Kaila’s superior in the healing arts. At first, it must be said, V’neef Odaask’s fascination with the girl was simply a recognition of great potential. Though he found her stubborn and at times irrational, he admired her devotion, and as the girl became a woman this admiration turned to attraction, though he did not make his desires known. He knew that he was past his prime, and a poor husband for the young woman.
As can be expected, once Ayama became a young woman she was betrothed to the wise woman’s nephew, Kayin, and after they were married she bore him two children, a son Rutendo and a daughter Dakarai. Ayama and Kayin loved each other deeply, and both cherished their children. Ayama continued her work as a healer, while Kayin would go deep into the forest in search of rare trees to cut down.
One day, when the children were still young, a strange and terrible storm struck Petgrana, and several of the villagers went missing, including Kayin. Ayama joined the search parties over the protests of the elders, arguing that the missing villagers might require healing when found. After two days, the missing villagers were found, having been trapped on a ridge by a mudslide. But as they returned to Petgrana, they were attacked by wild barbarians. Many of them were killed, those who surrendered were taken captive. Only three survived; Ayama, Kayin, and one other. Though terribly injured, Ayama managed to bind her own wounds and fashion a litter, and dragged the two other survivors back to Petgrana, an ordeal that lasted four days. She almost died for her efforts, but the other two men were saved. It was a full year before Ayama recovered her strength fully, even with the efforts of V’neef Odaask to heal her.
More years passed, and Rutendo and Dakarai grew older and began their own apprenticeships. Life was peaceful and content for Ayama. But one day a tribe of grim-faced barbarians came to Petgrana, leading a band of slaves that looked more dead than alive. The barbarians had come to bargain with the Guild for the slaves, which was not an uncommon sight. The barbarian chief and the Guild factor argued over the price, but surprisingly the chief relented and agreed to a price far less than they had asked. The factor kept the slaves in Petgrana, allowing them to rest and recuperate their strength before returning to Nexus to sell them. But soon the slaves began to show signs of sickness, and the town’s healers were called in. Despite their efforts, the plague killed the slaves quickly, and then spread. Within weeks, half the village had either died or was too weak with plague to support themselves. Ayama watched as her mentor, Kaila, fell ill and died, and she grieved as she lost Dakarai, and then her beloved Kayin.
At last, though Ayama’s tireless efforts, a cure to the disease was found, just as V’neef Odaask fell victim to exhaustion. Ignoring the early signs that told her that she had been infected, Ayama spread the cure to others, saving her village, but by the time she stopped to administer the medicine to herself, the plague had already taken hold. As she lay on her deathbed, listening to the wails of her son Rutendo, she found herself the recipient of a strange vision.
She felt her spirit floating away from her body, but then suddenly it snapped back. Opening her eyes, she saw all around her a vast field of the injured and dying, as far as the eye could see. Even as she watched, some succumbed to their wounds or to their illness, and died before her. Looking around, Ayama felt a presence behind her, and when she turned she saw the radiant form of the Unconquered Sun, looking at her expectantly. She knew in her heart that it was her duty to heal, but the magnitude of the task was overwhelming. The Unconquered Sun seemed to flicker and flare for a moment, and when she looked on him again she saw that arrayed at his feet were all manner of strange and wondrous tools of the healer’s art. Deep in her soul, Ayama knew her purpose. She reached for the tools offered by the Unconquered Sun, and awoke as she did so. She sat up, bathed in a radiant glow, her illness gone. Rutendo was the only witness to this miraculous event; V’neef Odaask was still recovering and had not yet awoken. Her life had been spared, but she had lost a daughter and a husband. She wondered what kind of life she could have now, and what her strange vision had meant, though she spoke of it to no one.
Slowly, Petgrana recovered, but they had lost many. Barbarians came from the forest to trade slaves, but soon saw that the village was weak and ripe for conquest. Fearing for their lives, the villagers began to petition the little gods of the forest for protection. Odaask protested, insisting that the spirits should only deal with him as one of the Dragon-Bloooded, but the spirits ignored him. It was clear to them that the villagers were willing to give so much more than what Odaask offered.
One of these spirits, a little god named Sunlight Pierces the Canopy, appeared to Ayama directly. Ayama knew this spirit well; he had often tried to cajole her as a youth into becoming a priestess for him. She had never been particularly awed by the spirit before, which only served to intrigue him. But Sunlight Pierces the Canopy now knew of Ayama’s Exaltation, and hoped to use it to garner greater favor and worship from the villagers. He told her that if the villagers were to open a hole in the canopy of trees over Petgrana and let in the sunlight, he would be able to create a glamer around the village that would confuse the barbarian raiders.
Ayama informed the villagers of Sunlight Pierces the Canopy’s offer. V’neef Odaask stood, and forbade the villagers from accepting, as the forest-spirit was attempting to circumvent the established order. Rather than argue with the elder Dragon-Blood, Ayama simply set about accomplishing the task herself. But Odaask caught her, and had her beaten severely as punishment. But the next morning she was once again in the treetops, showing no signs of her injuries. Inspired by her example, the other villagers made their way into the trees, saws and axes in hand. Odaask, infuriated, once again demanded that Ayama stop, but this time threatened to beat her son to death. Ayama climbed down and faced her old tutor. Though age had weakened his body, and his past disgraces had stripped him of whatever arms and armor that he might have once borne, he was still a Dragon-Blood, possessed of the power of the Elemental Dragons. His anima flared with whipping tendrils of thorny vines as he went after Rutendo with a simple whip. Ayama interposed herself between Odaask and her son, taking the vicious blows he landed even as leaves and branches rained down from above.
A column of sunlight broke through the trees, illuminating Petgrana in golden light. Suddenly light began to radiate from Ayama as well, flaring up into arcs of azure and amber forming the sigil of the Unconquered Sun, two blue winged serpents intertwined across its face. The slashes left by the whip vanished as Ayama stood before V’neef Odaask defiantly. Behind her, Sunlight Pierces the Canopy manifested himself in support of the newborn Solar. Odaask, knowing that he could not withstand both an Anathema and a disobedient god, turned and fled, never to be seen again.
The village of Petgrana exists to this day, though it is not the same place it once was. It is now a place of healing, and nearly legendary among the residents of the East. Sunlight Pierces the Canopy acts as the village’s patron god, and hides its presence from all, except those who are truly in need or who are deemed worthy. The little god now has the priestesses he craved, though he still attempts to tempt Ayama into his service by dangling his knowledge of the forgotten lore of the First Age in front of her. The villagers of Petgrana, who now comprise mostly healers and their charges, look upon Ayama as their savior, and have taken to revering the Unconquered Sun. The barbarians in the forest surrounding Petgrana have declared the place taboo, and only approach if they themselves are in need of healing. Peace has come at last to the village.
But there is not peace in Ayama’s heart. She still recalls the vision granted her by the Unconquered Sun, and is plagued by thoughts that there is an even greater purpose waiting for her. And she also knows that somewhere in Creation, V’neef Odaask still lives, burning with hatred from his betrayal and humiliation. She knows that he might well try to regain favor with the Empire by sending the Wild Hunt to her village, to destroy her and all she has created.
Character Name: Ayama, the Divine Gift to End Suffering Caste: Zenith Anima: Two entwined winged snakes in front of the symbol of the Unconquered Sun in shades of brilliant blue turning to gold at the edges. Motivation: To cure the diseases of creation and heal its peoples. Intimacies: Petgrana, Rutendo (son), Healing Arts
Notes:
Languages - Old Tongue, Riverspeak, (missing native language or 1 learned language)
Total XP Earned: 27
Spent XP: 15
Unspent XP: 12
Appearance
Skin: medium brown (non-metallic bronze)
Hair: dark brown with golden highlights
Eyes: light brown/hazel with flecks of gold
Height: 6 feet tall
Build: sturdy
The storm had passed, but it was three more days before the children were allowed to return to Grandfather’s hut, as everyone was put to work cleaning up the thick mud that had flowed into homes, and repairing leaky roofs. The ground was still soft in many places as the children collected in front of the porch, several of them sporting dirt-caked feet and hands.
Grandfather already had the scroll in hand as he shuffled out the door, its ornate case left inside. “I thought today would be a day for a little more excitement,” he announced, unfurling the scroll as he sat down. “A story about battle, and betrayal, and standing against impossible odds. How does that sound to you?”
Several cheers went up, mostly from the boys. Grandfather flashed a grin full of large teeth, then turned his attention to the scroll.
“Our story begins,” he intoned, “far from here, in the lands where North meets East…”
☼ ☼ ☼
There are many maps in Creation. Some are old, others new. Some are very meticulous, inked with care by master artisans, while others are little more than charcoal scratches on torn parchment. Some show places that are not mentioned on others, whether by virtue of ignorance or deliberate concealment. This is an accepted truth of living in Creation – no one map can chart such a vast land.
Among these many maps, a scholar could find some detailing the area of rolling plains that lay between the River of Tears and the Silver River. Some of those maps might show a small mark to the north and west of Rubylak, showing the label of ‘Kryptos’. But on other, more recent maps, this mark does not appear. But the city did exist, once, not so long ago. This is a tale of both a city and a man, and how both rose from destruction into rebirth.
While it lived, Kryptos was remarkable in the affairs of Creation for one reason – the Lion’s Pride. The Pride was a mounted mercenary company, with a reputation that extended far beyond their corner of the world. They were noted for their loyalty to a contract, and their unwillingness to abandon those who had paid for their services, even under the direst of circumstances. Their loyalty was so admired that their presence had averted wars – not because of their prowess in battle, which was considerable, but because the opposing generals were loath to send such noble warriors to their deaths.
The Lion’s Pride was led for many years by Jon-Dar, a seasoned veteran of many campaigns. He had raised his eldest son, Kaliel, to take his place once he chose to retire. But Fate chose a different path for Jon-Dar and his clan. The leader of the Pride was caught in an ambush, along with his wife and his younger sons, and none survived. Thus leadership of the Pride was thrust upon a grief-stricken Kaliel, who was also faced with the responsibility of caring for his young sisters. Despite adversity, Kaliel rose to the challenge, assuming the title of Captain and leading the Pride wisely and well.
It came to pass that the Lion’s Pride were hired by a warlord to the south, who had ambitions against the Confederation of Rivers. It was no great secret that the Realm was supporting this warlord’s plans, and the jade talents that were sent to Kryptos bore the Imperial seal, but this was of no great concern to Kaliel. The contract was clear, as was their duty.
The campaign went on for some months, and as time passed Kaliel realized that his losses were growing. Their forces were being outmaneuvered and driven back, and even worse, word had come that reinforcements were being sent from Lookshy to back up the local Confederation garrisons. Though he had no intention of abandoning his contract, he did feel a sense of relief when the orders came down that they were to withdraw back to the warlord’s lands.
They were ordered to ride in support of a column of the warlord’s own infantry as they moved through the mountains that separated the warlord from the rest of the Confederation. It was supposed to be simple, but Kaliel knew that nothing in war was simple. Sure enough, his outriders reported that the enemy had outflanked them, and were waiting in the pass. Kaliel met with his commanders in his tent that night.
“I do not like how this is playing out,” said Sergeant Brusk, his second in command. “This conflict feels as though it was destined for failure. If the infantry cannot make it through the pass, the reinforcements from Lookshy will arrive and we will be annihilated.”
“I am aware of the gravity of the situation,” Kaliel replied. “But we have no choice. Those reinforcements are only hours away.” He looked about the table, and frowned. “Strike camp. We move in a candle-mark.”
Kaliel listened to orders being shouted outside, his heart heavy. At first he has assumed that the opposing general from the Confederation was a Dragon-Blood, and had outmaneuvered the Pride simply due to his superior tactical knowledge and power. But suspicion had been growing in him of late that the enemy’s ability to anticipate him was not due to Terrestrial magic, but simple base treachery. Someone in the warlord’s army, perhaps.
The army was ready to move by dawn. They came into the pass, and the Lion’s Pride surged forward, hoping to break through the blockade. The tactic was a success, and the calvary pushed through, forming a passage through which the warlord’s infantry could pass. Suddenly, Kaliel heard a shout.
“We are betrayed!”
Kaliel wheeled his horse. He saw some of his own cavalry move into the gap they had created, and form a line holding back the infantry. Each of them bore a length of colored ribbon around their arm, which had not been there before.
Rage filled Kaliel’s heart. Betrayal! From his own people! To dishonor him, and to betray those they had vowed to serve… they would pay in blood!”
“LION’S PRIDE!” he roared. “We will open the way! To the very Gates of the Underworld! CHARGE!!”
His horse galloped back into the gap – and for Kaliel, time stopped. All he could feel was the warmth of the sun on his face, and the approval it carried. He basked in the rays of the sun as hours seemed to pass. He blinked…
“KALIEL!” shouted Sergeant Brusk. “The army is through! Come!”
Kaliel looked around. Arrayed about him were the bodies of dozens, blood staining the ground everywhere he looked. His bloody axe was in his hands, the edge having grown so dull from heavy use that it was little more than a large bludgeon. He realized that he had held the pass alone, and on foot.
Slowly, he walked to his horse and gathered the reins. He mounted and rode with his sergeant out of the pass.
It was described to him later. How he stood in the pass, and he killed, and he killed. How he was surrounded by light, and finally by a shower of golden chrysanthemums.
The Pride was broken. Most of the mercenaries left rather than fight under the command of an Anathema. Only those soldiers who had been born and raised in Kryptos stood by his side. Their contract completed, Kaliel gathered what forces he had left, and began the long journey home.
But they arrived to a city that was no more.
In their absence, an army from the House Tepet Legions had arrived at the garrison of the Lion’s Pride, and attempted to commandeer supplies. When they met with resistance, the entire town was put to the torch. Their sorcerers had even managed to bind and destroy the local wilderness god, who was in charge of the herds of mammoth and caribou that provided the town with sustenance. Those who had not been slain had been dragged away in chains, including Kaliel’s sisters, Kassandra and Kalliope. Did the Tepet Legions choose that time to arrive, knowing that the Pride was many thousands of miles away? Had the warlord’s provocation of the Confederation of Rivers been engineered to provide the Empire justification for eliminating a potential rival in the region? None can say for certain.
Kaliel turned his knowledge of leading armies to marshaling the populace to rebuild. The people willingly followed his lead, and in his honor renamed the town Chrysanthemum, after the golden flowers that manifested in Kaliel’s aura. His remaining soldiers christened themselves the Chrysanthemum Knights, and Kaliel became known as the Auric Lion. Respect and awe soon turned to worship, and Kaliel was able to use the power given him by their devotion to speed the rebuilding of the city and to help restore the natural balance that had been destroyed by the death of the local spirit. Soon, he vowed to himself, when his city was secure again, he would have his vengeance.
Name: Kaliel, the Auric Lion
Concept: Mercenary
Caste: Dawn
Motivation: Kaliel seeks to reunite the world under the banner of the Unconquered Sun, redeeming the Terrestrials by returning them to their proper role, and reforging Creation into a more Perfect world, i.e. one under his and other Solars' control once again.
Many in the village remarked at how the young children in the village were working harder and faster than ever before in order to get their chores done early enough to be able to gather at the home of the wise woman and her strange husband. But no one raised a voice in protest; the work was getting done, after all, and the children were getting more of an education from the old man’s stories than they would have received otherwise. And the parents, who of course dream of a better life for their children, held secret hopes that their own children might rise beyond the life of a simple farmer or herder.
Thus the adults watched in amusement as children from all over the village ran through the streets in the hot afternoon sun, making their way to the tiny dwelling at the edge of town. The children gathered expectantly in the dirt outside Grandfather and Grandmother’s house, whispering excitedly to each other as they jostled for the best seats.
Eventually, the door creaked open, and Grandfather shuffled out. He was draped in a heavy shawl, and a cap made of wool perched on his head. “Spirits above!” he exclaimed. “Why aren’t you dressed properly? You’ll catch your death of cold!”
The children looked at each other. The day had been hot, though not oppressively so since summer was coming to a close. Most of them were dressed in simple linen tunics and sported bare feet.
“Why, didn’t anyone tell you?” Grandfather continued. “Today we are journeying to the fabled North, where it is always winter, and there is nothing but ice and snow as far as the eye can see. Why, even the cities are built from ice.”
The children’s eyes grew wide. “Will we meet another one of the heroes you’ve been telling us about?” asked one.
“Indeed we will,” Grandfather replied. “But first, who wants some hot tea?"
☼ ☼ ☼
This was, quite possibly, the farthest south Berta had ever been. She understood that the caravan was headed toward a town called Rubylak, but she had no concept of how long that would take. The wagon she huddled in, surrounded by other girls and boys of varying attractiveness, was desperately uncomfortable. She took scant comfort from the fact that she was the prettiest of the lot, as tired and haggard as they all were. Berta was vain, but the caravan overseers had repeated this opinion over and over, with leers and unveiled longing in their eyes. She shuddered thinking about it and inched closer to the boy that she had decided was attractive enough to complement but not compete with her own beauty. So far no harm had come to her or the others, for her verbal skills had been enchanting enough to keep the worst of the Terrestrial guards away from them. When she wasn't so miserable that she couldn't think straight, she tried to keep them all distracted by telling stories and rallying their flagging spirits. None of them had any delusions about their eventual fates, but Berta was able to keep them from dwelling on it.
The wagons were, at present, quiet, save for the sounds of wind and occasional whimpers of her fellow occupants. Berta could hear the jingle of harness, creaking leather and low swearing from the Dragon-bloods. She made out occasional words – there was a disagreement, concern over the speed of their journey against worries about raiders, and about a lion, of all things. It was past midnight, but she was unable to sleep. Most of the others in the wagon were sleeping fitfully, but no one was talking, at least. Berta let her mind drift back to a time when life still held promise...when Matre had been the one telling the stories.
"You were the most beautiful baby the tribe had ever seen." The fire crackled in their hearthroom of their home, glowing on the faces gathered around it. Matre sat in the chair of honor against the pile of furs and hides, furthest from the entrance. Berta was three seats away, after Oomatre and Tante. Her younger sister Jonustra sat after her, with the men forming the other side of the circle: Patre, Vadre and Broedst, the only male child and the youngest in the family. Berta thought that her whole family was handsome, but even at the age of eight, she was developing a vanity that told her Matre was right. She was the prettiest girl in the tribe. Jonu, at 6 was a sweet child with the more traditional black hair of most of the tribe members, and Brodi, at 4, was a dark haired boy with dark eyes that sparkled with his toddler's sense of humor. Both of the younger children were sturdier built than Berta, though Berta had no trouble keeping them in line when she chose.
Tante coughed softly, bringing Berta's wandering attention back to Matre's story. "Many of the oldest women of the tribe, the hearthmothers, told me that you were too fragile to survive our way of life. They advised me to leave you as a sacrifice to the Mother Goddess of Childbearing and plead with them for a stronger child next time around." Matre paused. Jonu and Brodi had their eyes fixed on Berta, as if they couldn't believe her good luck at still being alive. She was a very delicate-looking girl, sometimes called 'frost flower' by others of the tribe's adults. "But I was unable to do so after you were placed in my arms and our eyes met for the first time." Taking a swallow of her tea, Matre continued. "There was something in your eyes even then, and I knew that I would find a way to keep you with me and make you useful to the tribe. I knew you would never hunt, like some of our women do, nor would you do any of the excavating or the other outdoor chores - the freezing winds would have stripped you of life even though I had not offered it up."
"What did you do, Matti?" asked Brodi, even though he knew the answer. He shared a family tendency to fill silent pauses with his own voice, even if it was only to ask questions he knew the answers to.
"Yes Matti, what?" Not content to let Brodi have his moment, Jonu chipped in. She was usually a quiet girl, but if Brodi spoke first, she had to as well.
Tante and Oomatre chuckled under their mammoth wool mufflers. Matre smiled. "Why I taught her to be as useful at indoor tasks as she was decorative to indoor surroundings, mi kindres." And she had done just that. While Berta still had much to learn, she was able to make a simple hearthfire, prepare simple items for meals, play the small flute that was common to her people ,and she had a charming talent for conversing with anyone. When she was old enough, she had been put in charge of her two younger siblings, and frequently visited others in their campsite. Even at the tender age of eight, she was often asked to look after not only younger children, but to keep company those who were too old or unwell to hunt or help the excavation.
Berta smiled at Matre. "Thank you for the story," she remarked, with the perfect amount of respect and humility such personal stories deserved. "Who will tell the next?" And so the evenings passed most nights in her family's yurt. The older adults would take turns with the telling of tales, and each night as the youngsters were nearing bedtime, Berta would be given permission to tell the final tale of the evening. She made up stories and so practiced her skills which proved useful outside her family group. When the fire was banked for the night and the elders had lit their pipes, Berta would crawl under the pile of hides and furs she shared with her siblings and fall asleep listening to the sound of the icy northern winds.
The wagons rumbled along the road as Berta reminisced. She took stock, again, of the other captives - mostly blond, like her, and none of them with the stocky build of the heartiest northerners. She wondered if the others had been told that they were the prettiest children in their tribes as she had been. If so, did they wonder now that life would be better had they not been quite so beautiful? What would they do if they had a second chance against the Guild bastards that had bargained for their lives? Berta refused to cry, though she squirmed into a more comfortable position and wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. Berta switched her thoughts to the ridiculousness of the Immaculate Philosophies and the idea that the Dragon-Blooded were the only ones with the keys to perfection. As a storyteller, she knew that what passed for perfection often masked deep flaws which troubled every hero, and from the Terrestrials she had observed in the camps, they could hardly have been the mighty heroes that had overthrown the Anathema. As a storyteller, she also knew that there were two sides to every story, yet every tale regarding the Terrestrials was blatantly one-sided and weighted heavily in their favor.
The Iselsi monks were persistent, Berta had to admit. Until they had shown up the year she had turned fourteen, the archaeologists had paid only very sketchy obeisance to the Immaculate Philosophies. With the monks came the Noble Insights and the Diligent Practices; with their arrival, the Dragon-Bloods had suddenly remembered that they had other obligations in addition to unearthing the First Age city which lay buried somewhere in the near-permafrost of the mountain. Suddenly, the tribesfolk were admonished to cut the traditional gifts to the local gods and spirits that had kept them safe for so many generations. Attendance at the monthly readings of the Immaculate Texts were mandatory; although there were generally four readings a month, attendance was required only at one. The tribesfolk who attended more frequently found bonuses and perks not offered to others, who may have performed harder at their duties.
The children, whom had mostly been left to the hearthmothers and a few young women like Berta, were encouraged to attend storytelling hours held by the monks. These story hours were filled with stories glorifying the ancient Dragon-Blooded and the Scarlet Empress especially. The hearthmothers were allowed to stay with the children until they felt safe leaving them with the monks, since the monks were well aware of how long it could take to get the "barbaric northerners” to trust them.
The cold on the road to Rubylak, if you could even call it a road, was harsher than she remembered the weather being even as far north as Crystal was. As far as she was concerned, the slavers had dressed them scandalously, probably out of a perverted sense of humor. Luckily for the lot of them, Berta had been able to talk the Terrestrials out of a few extra blankets and convince them to leave the wagon flaps closed unless they were stopped. With only slippers for footwear and weak wine for sustenance, not a single captive was even able to think of running away, let alone accomplish an escape.
She should have seen it coming, she told herself. She should have seen how the will of the people began to weaken in the face of the constant barrage of indoctrination. How they came to accept the Immaculate Philosophy as truth, and began to see their Terrestrial overseers as divinely mandated. How they meekly accepted demands that they worker harder and longer, and that they pay more and more in taxes and tribute. But then Patre was killed in an accident during the excavation, and young Brodi, barely a man himself, was forced to take his place. Soon Matre and Jonu were also in the pits, while Oomatre and Vadre, too old to work, were isolated with the other elders, discarded and forgotten. Berta was spared the work in the excavation, but now she told her stories for men and women from the Realm, and only the stories they allowed. Secretly, however, she would tell the old stories to her kin late at night.
Soon the demand for tribute grew so great that none could meet it, no matter how many seals and snow bears were hunted. That was when the people from the Guild started to come, and when people began to go missing. No one had any delusions about what had happened, but none dared speak out. There were whispers that their masters risked much by trading slaves with the Guild instead of their own Empire, but this was small comfort to those whose relatives went missing. Berta was not surprised the day they came for her – she had expected it for some time, though she had held out hope she might be overlooked. After all, slaves were used to work, and she was ill-suited for manual labor. It was a lie she told herself so that she would not be reminded of what else slaves were made to do.
The argument among the slavers had ceased, and they now rolled on, the bumps and jostles telling her that they were on a road much less frequently traveled. She risked a peek outside through a tear in the thin fabric covering their wagon, and saw that the sky above was illuminated with the colored lights that she had heard could only be seen in the North. Legends state that the lights were a reflection of the colored lanterns lit in Yu-Shan to celebrate whenever a god rose to the top of the ranking in the Games of Divinity, and that the fact that they could only be seen in the North was proof that their land and their people were closer to Heaven than all others. Crawling back under her blankets, Berta decided she hardly felt close to the gods right now.
Suddenly, the wagon stopped, and there were shouts all around. Panic rose among the slaves in the wagon as they heard the sounds of bowstrings, and then the clash of steel on steel. They saw a lurid orange glow through the fabric cover overhead as the wagon behind them caught fire. They heard the screams and shouts of the people they knew were shackled inside that cart. Soon the noise diminished. Voices were shouting all around, voices they did not recognize. They heard a man being dragged on the ground, pleading – Berta recognized his voice as the caravan master.
“House Cynis sends its regards,” someone said, and then there was the sound of a blade slicing, and the caravan master’s pleas were silenced. “Take inventory,” the man said. “But keep the damage to the stock minimal.”
Soon an Imperial soldier appeared in their wagon, followed by another. “Looks like we picked the right wagon to inventory,” said one with a leer.
“Remember what the Captain said,” warned the other. “Best only take one.”
Berta saw the men grab the young boy sitting next to her, the one she had chosen to complement but not compete with her own looks. Obviously, these men knew they would be punished if they chose the best of the lot for themselves, so they’d chosen the one that was comparatively less desirable. As they began to pull at what little clothing he was wearing, she suddenly felt a strange warmth, and the terror in her heart subsided. Her gaze went to the open flap of the wagon, and it seemed to her as though the Northern lights suddenly rushed into the wagon and surrounded her in a protective cocoon.
“Stop!” she shouted. To her surprise, both men immediately drew back.
“Tell your captain that no one in this caravan is to be harmed,” she told them. She had no idea where the audacity to order these men around had come from, but to her surprise both soldiers nodded and exited the wagon. All around her, everyone was shrinking back, pressing their backs against the walls of the wagon… but they were all looking at her, not at the soldiers.
“What is wrong?” she asked. “They will leave us alone now. Why are you afraid?” Then she looked down, and saw that she was surrounded by a corona of light, which had unfolded around her like a rainbow-colored cascade of geometric shapes, opening like a flower.
☼ ☼ ☼
“Goodness!” Grandfather said, shrugging off his shawl. “When did it get so hot out here?” He mopped his head with his woolen cap as he stood. “Well, children, we’ll see you again next time. You should be heading home for dinner.”
“But wait, Grandfather!” one of the girls cried out. “What happened to Berta? Did she escape? Did she free the others? Did the Dragon-Blooded get her?”
“That part of the tale will have to wait,” he said with a wink.
The children gathered at Grandfather’s house as early as the possibly could the next day, rushing though their chores at an alarming speed. They chattered impatiently amongst themselves until the door finally opened, and Grandmother slowly emerged.
“And what are all of you doing out here?” she asked. “Grandfather!” she called back into the house. “Were you expecting the little ones today?”
Grandfather shuffled his way to the door. “Well, I can’t imagine what they would want today,” he said, barely suppressing a grin.
“Grandfather!” several of the children cried out in exasperation. “We want to know what happened to Berta!”
“Oh, that!” he said. “Very well then, hold on a moment.” He turned and shuffled back into the house, and finally, after what seemed like entirely too long, he emerged at last with a scroll in hand.
“So,” he groaned, settling into a chair, “where were we… ah, yes of course…”
☼ ☼ ☼
"Sergeant, what is a merchant train doing burning in my domain?" Kaliel shaded his eyes. The smoke was rising from the road normally used by merchants on their way from Crystal to Rubylak. This being the off-season, the road was little used these days, and seldom patrolled. Suddenly a flare, reminiscent of the aurora, emerged from the wagon in the center of the road.
"Well, since they don't have your permission,” Sergeant Brusk replied, “perhaps we should find out, my lord. Guard, move out!"
Some distance away, a different conversation was taking place. "Well, little snow princess, now that we know you are Anathema, we can rest assured no-one will ever care that we ambushed this caravan." The Dragonblooded captain of House Cynis stepped closer to the young woman crouched in the back of the wagon. The covering had been removed, and the other slaves taken out, so that the Anathema was left isolated. The captain’s anima flared with reddish flames, igniting small pieces of paper and the remains of a parasol. The woman's Caste mark was prominent, the circle and dot of the Eclipse glowing through disheveled blonde hair. She tried again to speak, but his companion shoved his sword close to her throat, distracting her. Her blue eyes hardened, and then opened wide in surprise.
"So, you just realized how strong I am, little flower?" The Terrestrial posed momentarily, khatar held pointed at her. "No Anathema can defeat me."
"More likely, she saw your death before you did, wormspawn." The deep voice rumbled. The Dragonblood turned his head just in time to see the ax sweep toward him, but it was too late. Spears launched over the shoulders of his killer, emerging like quills from the bodies of the soldiers.
Golden wings flowed from the shoulders of the man with the axe, blossoms falling from the folds to sparkle on the ground for a moment before dispersing. He casually kicked the body to the side, and held out his hand to the woman.
"I am Kaliel. May I have the honor of leading you from this place to more comfortable surroundings?"
“Y-Yes, of course,” she replied, extending her hand. She felt as though she was still trying to catch up to the whirlwind of events that had transpired in the past few minutes.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” the man said. “I am Kaliel, known in these lands as the Auric Lion. I am a Solar Exalt, like yourself. My men and I will take care of you and the other slaves.”
One of Kaliel’s men brought over the Cynic captain’s horse, a fine animal that did not seem perturbed by the lingering aura still surrounding him. Looking it over approvingly, Kaliel then handed the reins to Berta. “Do you ride?” he asked.
“Well enough,” she replied, and climbed into the saddle. The animal was larger than what she was accustomed to, but was mercifully patient with her. Looking around, Berta saw that Kaliel’s men were unshackling the other slaves and helping get the wagons turned to head overland. The bodies of the slaves that had died in the burning wagon were being loaded on another, but the bodies of the slavers and the Realm soldiers were being stripped and then dragged to the side of the road.
“What is your name, Sun-Child?” Kaliel asked.
“I am…” she paused. Somehow, giving her birth name of Bertaleiva Eisblume seemed wrong. She realized that it was because that name was tied to her old life, a life that was lost to her forever. Even if she could somehow return to her tribe, the Immaculate monks would realize what had happened and simply enslave her again. And if she resisted, and her power emerged again… then her own people would probably help with the execution. She glanced up at the sky, still filled with the shifting colors of the aurora.
“I am Zanka Odokari,” she said at last.
Kaliel nodded. “I am less familiar with some of the northernmost dialects of Skytongue, but in High Realm your name would translate as ‘Beguiling Flower of Dancing Lights’, am I correct?”
“Indeed. So, where are we bound, Kaliel the Auric Lion?”
“To the city of Chrysanthemum,” he said. “To home.”
۞
Zanka ended up staying in Chrysanthemum, as did almost all of the other rescued slaves. Many of them took jobs in the town – a few of the hardier ones were recruited into the Chrysanthemum Knights. All of the locals were glad for the infusion of fresh blood, especially ones as comely as these former slaves, and a number of them were betrothed within a few months of their arrival. Zanka herself was hotly pursued by many, but she demurred. Most thought it was because she was courting the attention of Kaliel, a rumor she allowed to persist even though it was false. The people’s respect for the two Solars was enough to discourage them from interfering with the alleged ‘courtship’, which cut down on the number of suitors Zanka had to fend off.
Still, life was not easy. Kaliel had explained how the Tepet Legions had destroyed the local spirit which had watched over the lands around his city, which left the land wild and unregulated. Kaliel himself had stepped forward to fill that role as best he could, but while he had great skill at organizing and leading men, he could not calm the wind nor compel the herds of caribou to remain within range of the city’s hunters.
Zanka also found she was growing restless. Her Exaltation had opened up a new world to her, as had meeting another of her kind. She had always suspected there was more to the stories of the Anathema than the Terrestrials had let on, and she was living proof of this. After all, she had not become a demon, nor lusted after blood, had she? She felt that she could help others understand this, to understand that somewhere along the way the Solars had been misjudged. But she could not do this from Chrysanthemum.
She tried to speak to Kaliel about this. “You and I are meant for greater things than hiding in a small town and rescuing the occasional slave,” she said. “All of Creation awaits us. I suggest we travel to the East – I have heard they are more welcoming of our kind there, and are no friends of the Scarlet Empire.”
“I have responsibilities here,” was all he said in reply.
One day, however, alarms began to ring throughout the city, and runners came to find Kaliel. Zanka followed him to the main gate, and found him looking out over the parapet beyond the gate. A huge creature stood there; it looked something like a man, but was ten feet tall, and looked as though it was made of glacial ice mixed with twisted, water-logged tree branches.
“I am Blizzard That Topples the Oak!” the creature bellowed. “I challenge the lord of this domain!”
Kaliel looked down at the raging elemental for a moment, then turned and made his way down the stairs. “Brusk, bring my axe,” he said.
As they neared the bottom of the stairs, they heard a voice call out from above. “And what would you challenge him for?” Zanka asked.
“The spirit who once held these lands is long dead,” he answered in a voice that sounded like an icy wind racing through treetops. “In her absence, the lesser spirits have become chaotic and unruly. Clearly, the new lord is not up to the task of keeping them in line. I will have no such difficulty.”
“I am certain that is true,” replied Zanka, “but I have never known a spirit of the air who wished to administer a city full of humans.”
“I care not for your city,” Blizzard growled.
“Oh, but you cannot have one without the other, for the lord of this land is also lord of this city.” Zanka paused for a moment. “Come to think of it, that places you in quite a conundrum, doesn’t it? If you ignore your duties to the city, then you could be censured by the Celestial Bureaucracy, and possibly deposed. But if the Terrestrial Exalts of the Immaculate Order catch an elemental trying to claim dominion over mortals…”
Blizzard That Topples the Oak growled. From the tone, Zanka could tell that this little god had tangled with the Order before, and had not come out victorious.
“Might I suggest an alternative?” When Blizzard did not protest, she continued. “I believe that the current lord of this domain would be willing to concede the point that he is ill suited to the task of keeping those unruly lesser spirits in line. What if I were to convince him to cede to you control of his territory, save for the land upon which this city rests, and a distance of a half-mile from the walls in all directions. In addition, an additional mile beyond that will be considered neutral territory between you.”
“So, I control the land, and he keeps his city?” Blizzard growled.
“Precisely, and neither Bureaucracy nor Order can protest this. In addition, as a token of good faith between you, I am sure that if you were to help provide for the sustenance of the town – say by keeping the weather mild and encouraging the herds to come within bowshot of our hunters, things of that nature – then the townsfolk might be willing to extend to you certain offerings beyond what would be expected. Of course, should the Empire come snooping around, we would deny any such arrangement for your protection as well as ours.”
“Let us see what your lord says first,” Blizzard That Topples the Oak said.
Zanka descended the stairs to where Kaliel and Brusk waited. “Your intervention was not necessary,” Kaliel said.
“Not all problems need be solved with the blade of an axe. Let him have the land. You avoid a fight, your people don’t have to struggle to survive, he gets the worship he craves, and you have a powerful ally should the Realm return here. Your city would practically run itself.”
“You’re using this as an opportunity to get me to agree to accompany you to the East, aren’t you?”
She smiled. “Never pass up the chance when Fortune smiles upon you.”
Name: Beguiling Flower of the Dancing Lights
Concept: Entertainer
Caste: Eclipse
Campaign: Jesse's World
Nature: To break the stringent bonds of the Immaculate Order.
Great story! So did Kaliel and Zanka's players work together for the backstory, or was that a bit of the first session?
No, their players worked that out between them. Similarly, the meeting between Ghost and Ayama (coming next!) was worked out in advance between myself and Ayama's player. The grand meeting of all four was something I cooked up entirely on my own. Actual game play doesn't start until after this.
Our Storyteller wanted to start the campaign with our group already together and knowing each other, but only having been together for a couple of months. Thus we were asked to provide not only background stories for individual characters, but to explain how we all met.
It worked for purposes of the game - it let us move into the action and the plot quickly without having to create an artificial 'warm-up' phase for our characters to get to know each other. From my perspective as a writer, however, it was a bit of a challenge, because it deprived me of that valuable 'warm-up' phase for our characters to get to know each other (and, by extension, allow the readers to know them, too).
To mitigate this a bit, I also had each player send to me a "Ten Things I Hate About You" list. This was a list of ten (or more) things about each character that the rest of the circle would have learned about them in the course of traveling with them for a few months. It could be personal habits, personality quirks, trivial knowledge, and so forth (and despite the title, they didn't all have to be bad things). The emphasis was to describe things that others would see or learn from being around the character for a while, rather than what the character might say about themselves. For example, Ghost's list includes the fact that he does not get along well with animals, and that he knows a surprisingly large number of songs and hums them quietly to himself. I then made use of these lists to help develop a sense of personality for each character when writing, and can drop in references to these things here and there.
Well, that was a long answer to a simple question, but I thought it was worth explaining why so much of the beginning of this Story Hour is background fiction and not game play, and I was also pretty proud of my "Ten Things" idea and wanted to share.
But anyway, now that Zanka and Kaliel are together, let's move back to the East, for another fateful meeting...
Grandfather finished his tale, and looked around at his young audience. “So, was it worth the wait, young ones?”
Several cheers went up, though one older boy in the back moaned that he’d wanted Kaliel to fight the elemental.
“Well, as Zanka said, not every problem is solved through battle,” Grandfather told him.
“I think that the next story shows that as well, Grandfather,” said Grandmother, poking her head out of the small window. “It’s still early – perhaps you should tell that one.”
“I’ll decide what to tell them and when, woman!” he said, shaking the end up the rolled-up scroll at her. Chuckling to herself, Grandmother retreated back into the house.
“Now, where were we?” Grandfather asked, turning back to his audience. “Ah, yes. I’d decided to tel you the next story, as it’s still early, and it’s a good example of the fact that not every problem is solved with violence…”
☼ ☼ ☼
Far to the East, across the Silver River from the forests of the Black Chase, there lay a small kingdom known as Lagan. This small land was known best for producing a goodly portion of the silver ore that was used by the Confederation of Rivers for their coinage, and the ports of its capital city, Lynnisbrook, were always busy with the comings and goings of the ore barges from Nexus. The ruler of Lagan was Lady Rinalta, who, though very young, was well-loved and well-respected by her people. This respect also extended to the people of the Linowan Nation who lived to the north, who gave her the name ‘Lady Silver’ and out of respect, had agreed not to raid the towns of Lagan or prey upon its citizens.
One day, however, Lady Rinalta fell ill from a strange disease that the local healers were unable to cure. Even healers hired from the Guild were powerless as the disease began to ravage her body, until she was weak and bedridden. Lady Silver held but one final hope as her strength began to wane; there were rumors that deeper in the forest lay something known as the Divine Gift to End Suffering, which was rumored to be able to heal any injury and cure any disease. Many were sent to find this Divine Gift, but either returned empty-handed, or did not return at all.
As the Lady’s condition worsened, ambassadors from the Realm arrived. They suggested that upon her death, the Linowan would no longer feel bound to honor their promise, and would begin raiding Lagan. The nation was poorly defended, they reasoned; though a part of the Confederation of Rivers, they were too small and remote to warrant the attention of Lookshy, what with more pressing concerns brewing to the south. The Realm ambassadors offered to negotiate with Queen Arkasi of the Linowan to ensure peace, and to send a garrison to help protect Lynnisbrook – with the blessing of Lady Rinalta, of course. But Lady Rinalta was unswayed. She reaffirmed her commitment to the Confederation and rebuffed the Realm. The ambassadors withdrew, willing to be patient.
Later that night, sleep eluded Lady Rinalta. She sat up in her bed, only to realize that someone was with her, sitting at the edge of her bed, inside the layers of translucent material that draped her bed. The figure, a man, was dressed in dark clothing and wore a mask.
“Whoever you are,” she said, “you have wasted your time. What little I had of value has been spent on healers and foolish ventures. If you have come to ravish me, I lack the strength to resist or cry for help, but I am so ravaged by this disease that you will gain little pleasure from it.”
“I have not come for jade, or for pleasures of the flesh,” the man said. “Though I may change my mind when you are well again.”
She chuckled despite herself. “Once, I might have entertained such improper thoughts myself, but the truth is that such things are beyond my reach now, and soon all my mortal needs will be left behind.”
“What of this Divine Gift you seek to cure you?”
“None have been able to find it,” Lady Silver sighed.
“I have heard tales of your plight, and this object you seek,” the man said. “I will find it for you, for it may be a challenge worthy of my skills.”
“I have nothing to offer you in payment,” Rinalta told the masked stranger.
“As I said, I have not come for jade.” The man told Lady Silver his price.
“You ask much,” she said. “My people may not bend their knee to the Scarlet Empress, but that does not mean that their beliefs are so different from those of the Blessed Isle.”
“Beliefs can change,” the man said. “If they are given the opportunity.”
“Very well,” Lady Rinalta agreed. “I agree to your price. Now, leave me. I grow tired at last.”
Resplendent Ghost of Midnight stood as Lady Silver slipped into sleep, and silently moved out through the window.
۞
Many days later and many leagues distant, the forest spirit Sunlight Pierces the Canopy languished within his temple, basking in the worship and adoration of his priestesses. His gaze fell upon his head priestess, a nubile young woman named Liandra. She had come seeking the village of Petgrana to find a cure for her betrothed’s strange ailment. Sunlight Pierces the Canopy had allowed her to find the village, and the healers in the village gifted her with knowledge; not only of the cure for her betrothed, but also that his ‘strange ailment’ was in reality quite common among those who worked in or frequented brothels. Liandra chose to remain in Petgrana.
The spirit was roused from his reverie when he sensed a presence approaching the area of the village. It was only one person, which it itself was odd as most who came seeking Petgrana came in small groups. He reached out with the eyes and ears of the forest under his command, but strangely, could sense nothing else about this intruder.
Within moments, Sunlight Pierces the Canopy was at the site of the incursion, but he sensed nothing present. Suddenly, he felt another intrusion into his domain, this one many paces away. He rushed there, only to again find nothing, and then feel the same presence in another place.
He paused to consider the nature of his enemy. He knew that he was dealing with only one being, though he was unable to sense anything more about them. He could tell that this entity moved with far more speed and agility that any mere mortal. He was clearly dealing with someone with skill and power, possibly a rival spirit or a God-Blood, or even one of the Exalted. Sunlight Pierces the Canopy remained still, and waited. Again and again he sensed quick incursions into his domain, as though someone were testing his defenses in multiple places. They were clever, but not clever enough – Sunlight Pierces the Canopy soon determined a pattern to the probing. He manifested where the next attack would come, and waited.
The trees rustled as something moved, and the spirit struck. The forest seemed to explode as branches whipped furiously and vines flew in to tear and strangle. When it was over, all that remained were a few scraps of flesh and armor that had once belonged to someone from the Empire.
Sunlight Pierces the Canopy had not sensed the lone figure who had slipped by during the height of the spirit’s attack, a dark, hooded figure that left no trace if its passage. So pleased was the spirit with its own cleverness that by the time he thought to check his domain again, Ghost was already in Petgrana, having assumed the role of a simple pilgrim.
For days Ghost searched the village for the Divine Gift to End Suffering, avoiding detection through a combination of skill, fortune, and his Solar abilities. His information had been infallible; he knew that the Gift lay within this hidden village, and the presence of a powerful guardian spirit only confirmed what he knew. But the inhabitants of Petrgrana fell mostly into two categories; those who were ill, and those who were treating them. He learned that the town’s patron spirit only allowed those deemed worthy into Petgrana. Few in the village held real power, save for the spirit’s handful of priestesses, who administered the town, and a reclusive individual named Ayama, apparently the village’s most gifted healer. Ghost had observed Ayama, and though impressed with her knowledge of medicine, saw nothing to justify the near reverence the other villagers had for her.
There was little of value in the village, and certainly nothing being protected to the extent that Ghost felt something as powerful as the Divine Gift would be. He had even searched the temple of the forest spirit, which had once been the home of an exiled Dragon-Blood Dynast, but to no avail. He questioned some in the village, not mentioning the Divine Gift by name so as not to arouse suspicion, but no one seemed to know where this artifact might be. He even went as far as to seduce one of the spirit’s priestesses, to no avail. Finally, he concluded that there were only two beings in the village who might know the location of the Divine Gift. Ghost knew he could not reveal himself to the forest spirit, who would likely grow enraged that Ghost had eluded him and become violent. This left only one choice.
۞
The morning found Ayama sitting with her son Rutendo, eating a simple breakfast. The time passed in silence, for Ayama was troubled. She had slept poorly these past nights, plagued by dreams that mirrored the vision she had received from the Unconquered Sun. She knew there was a message for her in these dreams, telling her she should be doing more to aid those in need, but what more could she do? She felt she had no one to turn to for answers. Her mentor was dead, as was her husband, and her son had his own responsibilities. Sunlight Pierces the Canopy would only try to use her troubled spirit to convert her. The only one who would understand what she faced as an Exalt was long gone, and even if he were there, he would be more likely to try to slay her as an Anathema than to offer counsel.
After a time, Rutendo rose and offered his farewells, for he and others from the village were going on a great hunt in preparation for the coming winter. He departed, leaving Ayama alone with her thoughts. She closed her eyes, meditating to try and bring herself some enlightenment.
Several minutes passed before Ayama realized that she was no longer alone. She opened her eyes and saw a man kneeling across from her, where her son had once sat. The man had red hair, and brilliant violet eyes, and looked as though he might be descended from one of the forest tribes to the north, though he dressed like someone from a city. He looked vaguely familiar, as though he had been in Petgrana for a few days. He had procured himself a bowl and filled it with rice from her pot, and was quietly eating. She was surprised that she had not heard him enter, much less sit down a few feet from her and serve himself breakfast. Her senses had become much more acute since her Exaltation, and little escaped her notice. She briefly wondered if this was a Dragon-Blood assassin from the Realm, but since he was making no moves to kill her, she decided she would play along.
“I regret that I have no fish left for you,” Ayama said. “My son had quite the appetite, I fear.”
“You need not apologize,” the man said. “Your son will need his strength for the hunt. I did not wish to disturb you, and you do not seem the type to refuse a meal to a visitor.”
“And who might that visitor be?”
“I am Resplendent Ghost of Midnight,” he replied, “and I have come because I am seeking something of great value.”
“We have little of value here,” Ayama said. “We are but a simple village of healers.”
“A simple village that is hidden from the eyes of the outside world, and protected from intrusion by a powerful forest spirit,” Ghost observed.
“Though not as well protected as Sunlight Pierces the Canopy would like to think, apparently.”
Ghost smiled. “We all have our talents. Yours is healing, mine is being in places I am not supposed to be in.”
“I can see that,” Ayama said. “Very well, what is it you seek?”
“Many days northwest of here there is a city whose ruler is good and just, but she suffers from an ailment that no healer can cure. Her early death will have unfortunate consequences for the region, perhaps even the entire Confederation of Rivers. She has heard rumor of an object known as the Divine Gift to End Suffering, which could cure her. She has sent others to find this artifact, but to no avail. Now I have come. I know that the Divine Gift is somewhere in or near this village, and I suspect that either you or the forest spirit knows its location. I came to you first because I fear that Sunlight Pierces the canopy will be… less hospitable to me.”
Ayama smiled at Ghost. “And you thought that, if I did know where this artifact was, that I might simply give it to you?”
He returned the smile. “Actually, I had planned to remove it without anyone’s knowledge. This approach is somewhat unfamiliar territory for me.”
“At least you are an honest thief,” she laughed. “And I can do no less than mirror that honesty. I know what it is you seek, but unfortunately it is not something you can carry away from here. For you see, I am the Divine Gift to End Suffering.”
“You?” Ghost asked, astounded.
“It is not a title I choose to bandy about freely,” Ayama admitted, “but it is mine nonetheless.”
“I admit to some puzzlement,” Ghost said. “I have seen your work, and you are skilled, but nothing suggests that your methods are any more effective than the healers in any other city.”
“It is not the method, but the Will behind it that matters.” Ayama focused for a moment, and suddenly her caste mark flared to life, a brilliant golden-white circle. “As your host, I feel it only fair to warn you that everyone who lives here knows who and what I am, and so declaring me Anathema before the village will not avail you.” She paused, ready to act if this Ghost became violent. What she did not expect was for him to start laughing.
“And why would I call you that, Pillar of the Sun?” he chuckled. “That would be insulting to us both.” Ayama gasped as a caste-mark flared up on Ghost’s forehead, an empty circle of golden light tinged with purple.
“You are a Solar as well?” she asked. “I had not expected to meet another of my kind.”
“And I had not expected that the Divine Gift would be able to walk itself out of the forest,” Ghost replied. “Come, there is still time to catch your son before he departs to say your goodbyes.”
Ayama drew back. “I… I cannot leave here. These people…”
Ghost scoffed. “You are one of the Chosen of the Unconquered Sun!” he berated her. “No one can tell you where you may or may not go! These people have been taught well and can carry on without you. But there are others who need you, and since all of Creation cannot come here, you must go to them. Or did you plan to simply sit here until the Wyld Hunt came for you? Remaining unseen is the role of my caste, Ayama, not yours.”
She considered his words. It was true that many in Petgrana were skilled healers, and her own unique abilities were called upon only rarely. And it would certainly be harder for V’neef Odaask to find her if she was to depart, and it would be safer for the rest of the village as well. But more than anything, one phrase echoed in her mind - since all of Creation cannot come here, you must go to them.
Ayama bowed. “I must go to my son,” she said. “Will you do me the courtesy of washing up and gathering my belongings?”
۞
Several weeks later, Ghost and Ayama sat with Lady Rinalta in a large ampitheater, as preparations were underway for a play to be performed in honor of the miraculous recovery of Lady Silver.
The citizens of Petgrana had been saddened to see Ayama go, but understood her reasons. Only Sunlight Pierces the Canopy remained petulant as she said her goodbyes, and his mood darkened further when Ghost joined her on the way out of the forest.
The disease had proven difficult, but in the end Ayama prevailed. She discovered that the disease had been augmented by sorcery, and when she informed Ghost of this, he raised his suspicion that the Realm might have plotted all along to eliminate Lady Silver so that they could gain another toehold into Confederation territory. Ghost was hailed as the one who found the Divine Gift, though he took credit under the assumed name of Chuzei Tendo, for the name 'Resplendent Ghost of Midnight' was destined to garner an entirely different reputation. The true nature of the Gift was kept secret so that none would ask too many questions.
“What performance will we see?” Ayama asked as the torches on stage were being lit.
“They are playing Seven Roads to the Mountain,” Ghost replied.
“I am unfamiliar with that play.”
“I am not surprised,” said Lady Rinalta. “Its performance has been banned in the Scarlet Empire and its territories, and even in more liberated lands it has proven controversial.”
“Why?” Ayama asked.
“The story itself is a fairly typical romance,” Ghost explained. “There are, admittedly, many plays which are far better at telling that kind of story. But this one is unique because one of the supporting characters, the patron of the male lead, is a Solar Exalt. The play is most decidedly non-judgmental about this fact.”
Ayama’s eyes widened slightly. “I understand why this play would create such strife,” she replied. “But then why show it here? Will many not react with anger, and question your motivations, Lady?”
Lady Silver remained silent, but Resplendent Ghost of Midnight smiled. “It is a price she clearly feels is worth paying.”
This post represents the last of the background entries - after this, we'll be into actual, real game play.
And for those who know the Exalted material, the setting of this particular entry will be familiar - it's based off the free intro adventure you can download. We did actually play through that particular adventure, but we used the pre-gen characters provided - some of us had not played under a White Wolf system in a while, and some of us had never played at all.
People in the village waved and called out greetings as they saw Grandfather walking through town, leading their old brown donkey down the road, with a large sack draped across its hindquarters. One of the village youth, a tow-headed child with gangly arms, ran up to him.
“Where are you going, Grandfather?” he asked.
“To the mill,” he replied. “Grandmother needs more flour. Seems she has a notion to make sticky buns for you lot the next time you gather.”
“Will you be telling us about how the four heroes all met?” the boy asked.
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, that’s how these stories work, isn’t it? They all have to meet up now and go to heroic stuff together.”
Grandfather chuckled. “You are a clever one, aren’t you? Well, I suppose it was no great surprise, but yes, that is what the next tale in the scrolls is about.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the boy, “how does it end, Grandfather? Do they win?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be much fun if I spoiled the ending, now would it?” Grandfather laughed. “You run along and tell your friends to be there tomorrow, and be ready for some warm sticky buns.”
☼ ☼ ☼
The journey of Ghost and Ayama took them south from the city of Lynnisbrook, on the waters of the Silver River, where they booked passage on a Guild river barge carrying ore into Nexus. After many weeks, they reached the junction with the Yanaze River, and began their journey east.
An unexpected storm hit the river one evening, and in the tumult much of the barge’s food supply was lost over board. The captain was forced to make landfall on the northern bank at a small Guild town, in order to resupply. To their surprise, they found that the town’s stores were meager, even though it was past the full moon of Descending Earth, and at least one harvest should have been gathered.
“What is the cause of this misfortune?” Ayama asked the bureaucrat who oversaw the docks.
“We’ve received nothing from the outlying villages in the region for months,” the official explained. “Those we have sent to investigate have not returned.”
The barge departed the next morning, but without two passengers. Ghost and Ayama made their way further north, to investigate the cause of this strange disturbance. They came upon many small villages, all of which were empty and silent, and most were burned. There were signs of old violence, and at each village it seemed that the people, livestock, and grain stores were moved north and west with great speed. The fields had been set aflame behind them and the wells poisoned, leaving nothing of value behind.
Four days passed before they saw another mortal soul. A villager, wild-eyed and thin, bearing the marks of a lash upon his back, leapt out at them one afternoon as they passed through another abandoned village.
“Please!” he cried. “Listen to me! You must help!”
۞
Zanka smiled sweetly. “Whenever you are ready,” she said.
The man nodded in gratitude as he took another drink from the waterskin she had offered. They had traveled far from Chrysanthemum, taking horses across the tundra to Rubylak, then journeying by river craft down the Silver River and the River of Tears, but then they made their way overland, riding south and east toward Nexus. They were a day outside the village of Northeast Spoke when they found the half-starved man on the roadside.
“They came months ago,” he said at last. “Bandits, though they were well organized, or so we thought at the time. They called themselves the Eyes of the Hills. They swept into our village and subdued us without effort. All of us – men, women, children, the old and the sick – were driven out of our homes, along with all our food and animals, until we arrived at their camp in the hills. Many people from many other villages were there as well. There, they took the children and kept them separated from the rest of us, threatening to kill them if we did not work. One woman refused, and they carried out their threat against her daughter. No one else refused after that.”
“What work did they have you doing?” Kaliel asked, his grip tightening on his axe.
“Digging, mostly, and searching old tombs for treasure.”
“What kind of tombs?” Zanka asked. “Where?”
“In the hills north of here, in the Valley of Death. The Tomb of Five Corners…”
“I am not familiar with this place,” Zanka explained. “What is the Tomb of Five Corners?”
“Once, it was a tomb of five Anathema,” said the villager. “Or so the legend goes. It lay undisturbed for generations, for their demonic magic permeated the valley in which the tomb lay; this is why it was called the Valley of Death. But the tomb was overcome and looted decades ago by explorers from Lookshy, who laid claim to the First Age wonders within.”
“Why would these bandits go there now, if it was looted?” Kaliel wondered.
“Their leader, a man known as Barrow Black, had learned that while the tomb of the Anathema had been stripped bare, the hills surrounding the Tomb were filled with the crypts of their cultists, many of whom took with them treasures of their own. He seeks to collect this wealth.”
۞
“What purpose does he have?” Ayama asked. She was pacing back and forth while they spoke with the man, who has risked escaping from the camp of the bandits because he had no family of his own. Her thoughts were filled with images of terrified young children, penned in like animals, separated from their parents.
“The bandits I have heard talking say that he was once a ruler of a small kingdom far to the north,” he said. “Two years ago he initiated an occupation of Confederation lands, hiring mercenaries in an effort to expand his territory. But he was beaten back, his mercenaries were destroyed by treachery, and an army from Lookshy marched into his lands and razed his castle. It was after this that he took the name Barrow Black and built the remnants of his men into the Eyes of the Hills. They say he seeks to strike against the Confederation again, but this time to destroy, not conquer. I have even heard whisperings of agents from the Empire meeting with Barrow Black, and some of the supplies in the camp bear the seal of the Realm.”
“How many does he have?” Ghost asked from his perch atop a tree branch.
“It is difficult to say,” the man replied. “Perhaps five hundred, but more arrive each day. There are perhaps two or three times that number of villagers, but none dare raise a hand.”
Ghost and Ayama looked at each other, and nodded. “Rest with us tonight, friend,” Ayama said. “I will see to the wounds on your back. Tomorrow we will give you food and water. Continue on to the settlements at the edge of the river, and tell them what has happened. We will go and see what we can do to help.”
“But first,” Ghost said, leaping down to the ground, “tell us what this Barrow Black looks like.”
۞
Kaliel’s eyes narrowed, and it was an effort to keep his emotions from spilling out into his anima. “I know this man.”
“He is the warlord who hired you, is he not?” asked Zanka. “The one whose troops you were trying to defend when…” she did not finish the sentence, for she knew his betrayal by the Lion’s Pride still stung deeply.
“He is,” Kaliel said. “But when I accepted his jade to fight for him, he did not enslave men, kill children, or raze villages to the ground.”
“Of course not. You would never have agreed to fight for such a man. But it seems that whatever he once was, he has become something else.” She paused. “What shall we do?”
Kaliel hefted his axe. “Barrow Black now dances to new music. It is time to end the performance.”
۞
They looked over the crest of the hill at the sprawling encampment below. The smoke from dozens of cook-fires hung in the air, creating a haze in the valley containing the Tomb of Five Corners. They could see several small excavations dotting the hills surrounding them. A rough palisade wall encircled the campsite, with a number of openings ringing it, each manned by two bandits.
“The bandits are concentrated in the center, around the tomb itself,” Ghost observed. “The outlying areas are for the kidnapped villagers and livestock. The perimeter is poorly guarded – they rely too much on their wooden fence.”
“What is your plan?” Ayama asked.
He grinned. “You go and find where they are keeping the children…”
۞
“… I will deal with Barrow Black.”
Zanka looked up at Kaliel from where she sat. “And what am I to do once I find them? They are certain to be guarded, and I am no warrior like yourself.”
“When the time comes,” Kaliel replied, “you should not have to worry about guards.” He turned and began walking toward the encampment, his axe unslung and carried on one shoulder. He approached a pair of guards who sat lazily on a large boulder, playing a game of dice. Essence flowed as Kaliel invoked his powers, projecting an aura of authority and superiority.
“I need to address the villagers,” he commanded. The two guards, overcome by the Solar authority, immediately snapped to attention and led Kaliel into the encampment, showing him to a small communal area where several of the enslaved villagers were already gathered. As Kaliel mounted an empty crate near the center, people began to gather, curious about this heavily-armored newcomer.
“Attend me!” he cried out, letting his voice carry across the compound. “You have been brought here against your will, threatened with death for you and your progeny, and forced to work for the enrichment of another. Each night you have prayed for deliverance. I say to you now, that deliverance is within your grasp – you must only reach out and take it! Even now your children are being freed, and Barrow Black’s hold upon you vanishes! Take up your implements of labor, of enslavement, and turn them now to instruments of death, and of freedom!” Kaliel punctuated his last words by swinging his axe down into the chest of one of the guards who had led him there.
A resonant cry went up as the villagers picked up their picks and shovels and rushed at the few bandits who were nearby, quickly overwhelming them. By this time Kaliel’s anima had begun to burn, casting the warm light of the Unconquered Sun over all, but the villagers paid no heed to this as they began to surge toward the tomb at the center of the encampment, where Barrow Black awaited. Kaliel led the advance, his anima burning as he almost casually swept his axe through those who opposed him. The bandits were poor fighters and lacked the discipline to organize their defenses in the face of an unexpected insurrection, and so it was not long before the mob found themselves before the tomb’s entrance, facing a hastily-organized picket line of bandits with spears.
“Barrow Black!” roared Kaliel. “Your judgment is at hand! Face the justice of the Unconquered Sun!”
A figure emerged from the tomb, armored much as Kaliel was, but bearing a heavy, iron-studded club. “Foolish Anathema!” he laughed. “You have sacrificed the lives of children in the name of glory! I have already sent a messenger to tell my men to execute them!”
“Your messenger will find nothing but an empty cell, tyrant!” Kaliel roared, as the light emanating from him intensified and golden wings formed from the essence surround him. “Surrender or die!”
Barrow Black paled for a moment, for such was Kaliel’s terrible power that even seasoned warriors blanched in the face of its fury. But he then managed to regain his composure. “I choose neither.” The bandit lord whistled, and several more men came running out of the tomb, spears in hand, adding to those already positioned there.
“Will you risk the lives of these men?” Barrow Black taunted. “Will you throw them upon my spears for your cause?”
Kaliel was ready to answer, but paused when he heard a strange sound in the air, coming from both his left and right flanks. Then he saw two amber-colored blurs streak past the line of spearmen, one from each side, just under their chins. Blood fountained to the ground as the entire front line of spearmen collapsed, gurgling their death-cries through severed throats. Kaliel’s eyes followed the two blurs as they arced skyward and flew into the waiting hands of a man perched atop the tomb, balanced on a narrow stone spire. He saw the figure, a tall man wearing black, tuck the two strange boomerangs into his belt. The man was surrounded by a coronal aura similar to his own, though less intense, and Kaliel had trouble making out his features. Their gazes met, and the man looked down at him and gave a cheerful wave before leaping off the spire and vanishing. Seconds later, the boomerangs flashed by again from a different angle, taking out the second row.
Kaliel turned to a very pale Barrow Black and smiled grimly. “As I was saying…”
۞
Ayama could see the air at the center of the camp filled with golden light. She paused for a moment to reflect that she had not expected Ghost’s approach to be so direct and obvious, but no matter. It had had the desired effect; most of the bandits had gone running to investigate the source of the disturbance, leaving her unimpeded as she made her way through the camp.
The mongrel dog she was following paused, momentarily distracted by the scent of a haunch of rabbit left on a cookfire. Ayama walked up and scratched the hound’s ears.
“Please, lead me to the human pups,” she reminded him gently.
Tongue lolling to one side, the dog began to lope farther into the camp, followed by Ayama. They finally arrived at a fenced enclosure, a small palisade wall mirroring the one surrounding the camp. She could see no one around, but it was strangely quiet inside. Fearing she had arrived too late, Ayama hurried toward the single entrance.
She rounded the corner and came upon a most unusual sight. Dozens of children of varying ages were sitting quietly and attentively on the ground, their attention riveted on a pale, slender woman of extraordinary beauty. The woman was telling a story to the children, and even as she watched she could see that her tale was having a profound effect on them, not only calming their fears, but making them willing to follow her lead.
The woman finished her tale, and then noticed Ayama. “As I have explained to the guards already,” she said in a voice like silk and honey, “I have come to put the children at ease, and will keep them safe. You should go and help Barrow Black with this disturbance, as the other guards have already done.”
Ayama felt the power of the words wash over her, compelling her to accept their truth and act in accordance with the woman’s wishes. Ayama steeled her resolve and allowed the power to wash over her. She then noted the glow surrounding the beautiful woman, and the circular mark blazing on her forehead.
“I must decline your suggestion,” Ayama said. “However, I believe we have come here for similar purposes. The disturbance you mention is the work of my companion, and I have come to liberate these youth.”
The woman looked surprised. “Your companion? But I thought…” The woman waved her hand. “It is no matter. If what you say is true, then we should move quickly. The children have been calmed and will follow my direction, but the bandits may return at any moment.” She turned to the crowd of youth, still sitting attentively around her. “Now, children, go swiftly out the gate and head for the hills to the south. Elder children, attend to the littlest ones, and those too sick to walk. Should you see anyone bearing a weapon, run from them with as much speed as you can manage, and cry out for help.”
The children rose and began to push their way out of the gate, some with babes in arms. As they made their way out, Ayama heard the sound of a young girl weeping. She turned and saw a little girl, no more than two years of age, who had become separated from the others and become confused and panicked, and now sat against the far wall, tears streaking her dirt-caked face. Ayama immediately went to comfort her, and the woman, seeing this, returned her attention to the others.
So focused was the woman upon the exodus that she did not notice the single bandit who had come into the enclosure from a smaller gate at the rear. A bandit who now approached, weapon raised. As he came within steps of the woman, one of the youth heading for the gate turned and saw him, and gave a shout. The woman turned, barely moving out of the way as the blade of an axe whistled past her. She stumbled and fell to the ground, and a look of alarm crossed her face as the bandit stepped over her and raised his axe high overhead.
The blade came down, and Ayama was there, stepping in front of the blow. Light flared from her as the axe connected with her breastbone, and the head of the axe shattered, unable to penetrate her flesh. Ayama gave the bandit a sad smile.
“Did you think you could defile this place without consequence?” she asked, and then brought her heavy staff down upon the bandit’s head, crushing his skull. She turned and offered her hand to the radiant woman. The little girl, now soothed, came and stood at Ayama’s side.
“I believe we have more work to do,” she said.
۞
Black smoke from several fires filled the valley, and the air echoed with shout and cries as groups of villagers hunted down the remaining bandits and exacted their bloody revenge. In the center of the encampment, on a high pole, sat a severed head that could only be that of Barrow Black.
In the hills to the south, not far from where mothers were joyfully reuniting with their progeny, four people came together for the first time. They were strangers, yet felt as though they somehow knew each other, as though it had only been a matter of time before they met.
It was Zanka who spoke first. “Kaliel, I would like to introduce you to Ayama, the Divine Gift to End Suffering, of the Zenith Caste of Solar Exalted. Ayama, this is Kaliel, the Auric Lion, of the Dawn Caste.”
Kaliel nodded, then indicated the red-haired man at his side. “This is Resplendent Ghost of Midnight, of the Night Caste. Ghost, this lovely young woman is Zanka Odokari, the Beguiling Flower of Dancing Lights.”
“Well met,” Ghost said with a smile and a bow.
“It seems our task here is at an end,” Kaliel said. “I discovered Barrow Black’s horde within the tomb – there is more than enough there for these villagers to recover what they have lost. I have tasked some of the elders to see to the distribution.”
“And the weapons and armor that these bandits had purchased will go with them as well,” Ghost added, “to help them discourage others who might try to repeat this travesty. It seems, my iron-clad friend, that you have inspired them to more vigorously defend their freedom.”
Zanka smiled. “An auspicious beginning to what I can only assume was a preordained gathering. No, not a gathering, but a reunion, for I feel that we have been in each other’s company before, though not in the forms we now wear.”
“A Circle, then?” Ghost smiled sagely. “It seems impossible to believe, but I can’t deny your words ring true.”
“Where were you bound?” Ayama asked Zanka.
“To where the wind took us, though before encountering this trouble we were bound for Nexus.”
“As were we,” said Ayama. “Again, Fate works to interweave our paths.”
Note that from this point forward the updates will probably be shorter than they have been. I was trying to get the introductory stuff done quickly, but I'm going to pace myself a little more now.
The four Heroes of the Dawn made their way south; their destination was the very heart of the Guild; the city of Nexus. Though none had specific reason to choose that sordid place over any other in Creation, Ghost assured them that information flowed through the streets as readily as silver, and that it would not be long before their fated path was made plain.
But Fate, it seemed, could not wait. For mere days after departing the hidden encampment of the rogue warlord Barrow Black, the Chosen had settled in a small river town on the northern back of the Yanaze, awaiting the next ship bound for Nexus. Kaliel and Zanka found themselves looking across the mighty river at the far shore, where the Guild’s great city perched.
“It is an evil place,” Zanka said, shivering at the thought that had the Unconquered Sun not intervened, she would have been dragged into that city in chains and sold for pleasure.
“I will not argue with you,” Kaliel agreed, “but it is as Ghost says – it is a good place to start. With luck, we will not be there long.”
It was then that the conversation of two sailors passing by caught their ears. These two, male and female, were garbed in the dress of the Guild.
“It was told to me by one of the Factor’s men themselves,” the male asserted. “Tunato has finally obtained a true artifact from the First Age.”
“He’s been searching for years,” the female replied. “What is it? Where did he purchase it from?”
“How should I know? I don’t meet with the Factor. It’s something called the Gentle Art of Persuasion, though – so I imagine that it’s not a daiklave.”
The two continued on their way. But Zanka had a strange look on her face, as though far away.
“What troubles you, Sister?” Kaliel asked.
“That artifact they spoke of…”
“Yes, the ‘Gentle Art of Persuasion’. What of it?”
“I think… that it was once mine.”
Soon the four Solars had gathered together, and Zanka relayed the overheard conversation. “The name of this artifact strikes a chord in my soul,” she explained. “A long-forgotten memory. This artifact was once mine, in the First Age.”
“Then we should get it back,” Ghost said, from his perch atop a wooden crate.
Ayama walked slowly around the group. “This Guild factor will likely contest her claim to ownership.”
“Let him contest all he wishes,” Ghost said. “It will avail him not.”
“And why would this Factor be so free with the knowledge of his acquisition?” Ayama persisted. “Would that not attract others wishing to take it from him?”
“Ah,” Ghost said, descending from his high perch with a flip, “he does not fear burglary. For Factor Tunato has never been successfully robbed.”
“How do you know this?” Kaliel asked.
“Because Factor Tunato is stationed in the town of Lynnisbrook, in the kingdom of Lagan to the north,” Ghost explained. “And it is a place I have been recently on other business.”
۞
The river transport pulled into the port at Lynnisbrook, and the four travelers took in the lay of the land. The city rose upon a hillside rising from the river bank, with the palatial estates of the wealthy looming down over the hovels below. At the top sat the palace of the ruler of Lagan, Lady Rinalta, who not long ago had been visited by Ayama and Resplendent Ghost of Midnight.
Ghost pointed to another large manor, on a slight rise all its own. “That is the estate of Tunato.”
“I do not see why we cannot simply bargain with this Factor to purchase the artifact,” Kaliel said.
“Because he will likely not part with it for any price,” Ayama explained. “Such things are symbols of status and prestige.”
“And you have heard the rumors yourself, repeated on the journey here,” Ghost added. “This man has never been robbed. Fate demands I act.”
“If that is the case,” Kaliel said, “then approaching this man socially will afford you the chance to scout your target before you strike.”
“You are as wise as you are large, my Northern friend,” Ghost said. “Perhaps there is a viewing we can get ourselves invited to.”
“That should prove easy enough,” Zanka said. “Just make sure you have proper attire.” She turned to Kaliel. “You may play the role of faithful bodyguard.” He only nodded in reply.
“I would know more of these tales of the Factor never being robbed,” Ghost said. “I will go and speak to those who would know of such things.”
“I will walk the markets,” Ayama said. “And learn the ways of the city. I suggest we meet here again at sunset.” With that, the four went their separate ways.
Zanka and Kaliel eventually found themselves at the Silvercap Tea House, where Zanka used her considerable skills to steer the local conversation to her whim. Posing as a scholar from the Blessed Isle who was researching First Age weapons, she and her ‘bodyguard’ eventually found themselves at the table of a Guild merchant named Jenko Saan. Though it was clear from the man’s lustful glances that his interest was in a discourse of a different kind, he hinted at having knowledge of Tunato’s recent acquisition. Through a perfectly balanced combination of medicinally enhanced teas and subtle innuendo, Zanka was at last able to get the merchant to reveal his secrets.
“I was one of the few the Factor invited to see them,” Saan said. “A private showing, shortly after he acquired them.”
“Could you arrange another viewing for a guest?” Zanka asked. But Saan shook his head.
“He keeps his treasures to himself, I fear – I understand that no one has been allowed to see them since. He is also not in the habit of entertaining at his home. But you said you were interested in weapons.”
“Many weapons of the First Age did not appear as such,” Zanka replied.
“If Tunato’s artifact is a weapon, then it is a poor one,” the merchant said. “They are nothing but a pair of fans. But if the lady is interested, I have a collection of rather impressive artwork back at my own residence.”
Zanka’s heart began to beat faster, as a flash of memory allowed her to picture the two fans, painted with some sort of dramatic scene. On the surface, of course, she remained perfectly poised, allowing only a slight flush to rise in her cheeks and bosom. Let him interpret that as interest, or arousal, and keep his tongue wagging.
“Could these fans not disguise a blade?” Zanka persisted.
“That is a possibility,” Saan conceded, “though when I envision weapons of the First Age, I picture the warstriders and energy cannons of Lookshy’s Seventh Legion.”
“Not all weapons are made for deployment against armies,” Kaliel commented. The comment drew a barely noticeable look of consternation from Zanka, a look that said you are playing the role of loyal bodyguard. Loyal bodyguards do not interject their observations. To the merchant, however, Zanka only smiled. “I, too, often find myself snared in the path your mind has taken. One expects everything from the First Age to be grand and awe-inspiring – my escort here is good enough to remind me that this is not always the case.”
“The only thing I saw about those fans that was unusual is that they were made of gold, but a very strange gold – brighter than I expected.” Saan smiled and placed his hand atop Zanka’s. “Much like the way you have brightened this room with your presence.”
The Quill of Heaven smiled demurely. “It would be of great benefit to my work if I could at least speak with this Tunato. You say he does not entertain at his home. Does he attend the functions of others?”
“Yes, of course. His position demands it, if nothing else.”
“Is there such an event coming up? Perhaps you could escort me to one.”
Saan’s face lit up, then fell. “In truth, my lady, I must depart tomorrow morning with the latest shipments of ore, and so have had to decline any social invitations. However, I believe there is a reception occurring tomorrow night at Lady Rinalta’s estate, which the Factor is sure to attend, and to which you could probably get invited easily, given who the guest of honor is. But that does leave both of us free this evening.”
For a moment, Zanka considered inquiring further about the ‘guest of honor’, but the merchant’s tone implied that if she truly were a visiting scholar from the Realm, she would already know who it was, and so to question him now would invite suspicion. Besides, she had what she needed from him, and was growing tired of every curve of her body being scrutinized.
“Alas, my heart breaks,” she said to him. “For I have already made an appointment this evening to consult with a local sage on another line of inquiry. The man is most difficult to reach, and I would be remiss in my duties to the Empire if I were distracted from my work.” She smiled. “As tempting as that distraction may be.” She rose, and extended a hand. “With the Dragon’s Blessing, perhaps we shall meet again.”
۞
Meanwhile, far from the Silvercap Tea House, Ghost found himself in conversation with a man in a dark corner of a disreputable alehouse. As was customary, no names were exchanged, though Ghost knew the man he spoke with was of some prominence among those criminals not affiliated with the Guild.
“So, what is the truth of these rumors surrounding the Factor?” Ghost asked.
“Are you contemplating adding your name to the list of those who have tried and never returned?” the man asked, eyebrows arched.
“It may be worth my time,” Ghost yawned.
“If that is the case,” the man replied, “then perhaps I can be of assistance. We have sent ten of our own into that house, and none have returned. Of their fates, we know little. Of the house itself, we know more. Were you aware that he manor in which Tunato lives was built before the Shogunate?”
Ghost’s eyes glittered. “Such a grand dwelling from that time might easily have its own defenses,” he observed. “Perhaps the reason for the lack of success until now.”
“True, but it also means that records detailing the home’s interior are bountiful. I can provide you with a map of the home as a favor, including places that it is likely the Factor has placed valuables. If you are successful where my own have failed, bring me the spoils and I will considered the favor repaid.”
“I will bring you all that you wish, save one item,” Ghost stated.
“The artifact, I presume? Very well – I would have difficulty finding a buyer for that item in any case. But you seem confident in your ability to deliver. Do you have a reputation to match this bravado?”
“I am Resplendent Ghost of Midnight.” A breach of protocol, to be sure, but circumstances demanded it – until his fame was such that he was recognized on sight, at least.
The man nodded in approval. “I have heard of you,” he said, “and not just from your aid to Lady Rinalta. For your reputation to have come this far north speaks of your skill.” He pulled a roll of parchment out from under his tunic. “Your map.”
“What can you tell me of the manor?” Ghost asked.
“The large room with the bay window on the first floor is likely his business offices,” the man said, “and probably where he keeps his most prized possessions. But I can tell you that the windows are unbreakable; one of our own apparently learned this when he tried to dive into one. There is a cistern on the roof, though I do not know the size of the pipes leading into the house.” The man looked evenly at Ghost. “I hope you can bring me something that is worth ten men.”
۞
Ayama wandered the many stall of the market, eyes and ears open to the activity around her. She had quickly gained a sense of the local gossip, none of it terribly relevant to her at this time, but useful nonetheless. She was also able to identify some of Tunato’s household staff by their livery. She noted with some interest that these people strode about the market with an air of arrogance and superiority that was surprising for common servants. She followed a pair of servants for a little while, hoping to overhear something, but the pair spoke little to each other, and seemed disinclined to communicate with the others in the market beyond what their business required.
As the servants strode brusquely away from a local baker’s stall, Ayama heard a woman tending an apple cart nearby mumble, “What a shame…”
“A shame?” Ayama asked, picking up an apple and examining it.
“My poor sister,” she said. “Was just released from that man’s service. Tunato’s, I mean.”
“What was the reason?”
“Spirits know why,” she replied. “He replaced his entire household staff two weeks ago. No warnings, no reasons. And those new people…” she shook her head. “Never seen them in the city before. And they… move strange.”
Ayama glanced over to see if she could detect this oddity herself, but the pair of servants had vanished into the crowd. She could recall that they were paler than most in the city, but nothing unusual about their gait. “My sympathy for your sister.” She filled a small bag with apples and handed over a half-yen. “Tell me, where may I find the shrine to the city’s god?”
“Far side of the market, take the main road up the hill, turn left at the moneylenders, and keep walking,” the merchant said. “But it’s not the right time of year for his observances, so you’ll find no one there.”
“I am meeting a friend there,” she explained.
Ayama found the shrine with little difficulty. The altar, as the merchant had said, was not attended by anyone, and a thick layer of dust and grime covered it. Ayama knelt and began cleaning the altar off.
She heard a voice behind her a few minutes into her task. “Excuse me, what are you doing in here?”
“It’s filthy in here,” Ayama replied without turning. “Filth spreads disease.”
“I would call it dusty at best.”
“I am eccentric in my beliefs on such things.”
“I see.” The person behind her sat down. “So, what is your story?”
“I came here with my companions, who seek information,” Ayama replied. “Unfortunately, I have no connections to persons who can provide this information, so I have spent my day exploring this city. I decided to come and pay my respects to the spirit of this city, and found his shrine in this state.”
“I mean no offense,” the man said, “but your story is not very entertaining, especially with all of the details you are leaving out.”
“Is it common for two people who have just met to exchange explicit details about their lives?” The Resplendent Sun wiped her hands on a cloth, and then rose and turned. “I am Ayama.”
The man who was behind her also rose. He seemed not terribly remarkable, appearing much like any other native of the region, yet his presence seemed to grab one’s attention. He appeared middle-aged and well-groomed, with well-worn sandals suggesting frequent travel. “I am the Storyteller,” he said in greeting. He extended his arm, indicating they should both sit.
“Storyteller. I begin to understand your interest in details.”
“I hear many stories. I make my home in the marketplace, listening to the stories. Some stories I tell, and others I do not. Some stories I am paid to tell.”
“I’m sure you make some good coin with your tales.”
“My coin is interesting at times,” Storyteller said. “For example, I receive a most interesting payment to tell the tale of a Guild Factor who cannot be robbed.”
Ayama’s brows rose. “It so happens that my companions were interested in hearing more of this tale, and the factor attached to it.”
“You had the look of someone who had heard that story. Of course, most stories have a kernel of truth, but are not entirely accurate. I’m sure you understand such things.”
“I am familiar with the concept,” Ayama replied. “If my companions were interested in hearing some of your tales, where could we find you?”
“I am always around,” Storyteller replied. “But for some of the stories I have to tell, you and your companions may not be able to meet the price. The Factor pays me well, and in ways that few others can.” With that, the Storyteller rose and walked out of the shrine.
She rose and returned to the harbor, where her three companions had already gathered. They found an alley away from the bustle of the docks, and regaled each other of tales of their exploits, and the information they had gathered.
“I still do not understand why Tunato would replace his entire staff,” Kaliel said. “The expense would be staggering, not to mention having to train them all without the experience of more senior members of the household.”
“Unless he was not given a choice in the matter,” Ghost observed. “Ayama tells us that the factor’s staff is seen as odd by the locals, and that they behave with arrogance unusual for common servants. Perhaps these are foreigners that have been imposed upon the Factor by an outside agent – to keep an eye on him, perhaps. Possibly part of the payment rendered for the Gentle Art of Persuasion; it could be that our factor has two masters now. I do know that he acquired the fans sometime within the last six weeks, though he has apparently been reluctant to reveal the exact date.”
“Because doing so could connect him with some other event which might identify where the artifact came from,” Ayama surmised. “Perhaps…”
But the attention of the others had been drawn by a ship now puling in to port. This sleek vessel was no ore barge, but a military galley flying the colors of the Scarlet Empire. Ghost peered at a smaller banner flying under the Imperial flag.
“House Cathak,” he said. “Odd. Most of the Imperial Navy is commanded by Peleps.”
“But what is a vessel from any Great House, let alone a military vessel, doing here?” Zanka asked, not bothering to hide her contempt.
They watched as a party disembarked from the ship. A scale of Realm soldiers fell into formation, escorting a woman in red jade armor. The daiklave at her side was peace-bonded. The procession began its march up the hill toward the palace. A significant crowd had gathered, but from what they could gather from whispered conversations nearby, it was not an entirely unexpected event.
“That would be the Cathak, I presume,” Ayama said.
“They’re here for negotiations,” Ghost said.
“Indeed,” Zanka agreed. “Enough military strength to show they take this seriously, but not to be too threatening.”
“I thought you told us that Lady Rinalta is an ally of the Confederation,” Kaliel said.
“She is,” Ghost said, “but she is also Queen here, and thus at times must not appear to take sides, or may even be forced into unpleasant arrangements. She is also not the only source of power in this land.” The Nightbringer paused. “It occurs to me that servants who had been born on the Blessed Isle and then brought here would not only appear foreign in their mannerisms, but might tend toward a certain elitist attitude toward the ‘barbaric locals’.”
“You think that Tunato has allied with the Realm?” Zanka asked. “It would be a plausible explanation.”
A few discreet inquiries in the crowd told them more of the arrival of the Realm. The reaction to the Imperial presence was mixed, those in favor observed that with events in the southern reaches of the Confederation drawing Lookshy’s attention, it left this part of the world poorly defended. With the Bull of the North campaigning against the Linowan, who were not so terribly far from Lagan, some felt that there was need for a stronger military presence, no matter whose banners they flew. Silver, after all, spends the same no matter who holds it.
Ayama regarded her allies. “We should speak with Storyteller on these matters.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Storyteller said, as he walked around the corner. “You have been listening to many stories this evening. Come; let us go somewhere where we may talk.” He glanced at Kaliel, whose hand was still on the haft of his axe. The Lightbringer slowly released his grip. Storyteller turned, and led the others to an out of the way but respectable tavern with a sign depicting two crossed picks. They found a table already prepared for them, with a pitcher of fine ale in the center.
“Kaliel I know by reputation,” Storyteller said. “Both before and after, if you are curious. The same goes for Resplendent Ghost of Midnight, and Ayama I have met.” He looked purposefully at Zanka.
“Storyteller, this is Zanka Odokari, Beguiling Flower of Dancing Lights,” Ayama said. Storyteller bowed and kissed her hand.
“Mistress,” he greeted her.
“Only if you are very fortunate,” Zanka replied pleasantly. “Zanka will suffice.”
“Do not feel badly,” Ghost interjected. “She turned me down as well.”
“So,” Storyteller asked, settling back with his ale. “What would you have of me?”
“First, I would know – are you the god of this city?” Kaliel asked.
“Oh, no, I am not him,” Storyteller replied. “He never leaves Yu-Shan except for the day of his observances. I am a teller of stories.”
“I understand there is a particular story which you are well compensated to spread,” Ghost said. “We would be interested in hearing the details behind that tale.”
“The core of the tale is true,” Storyteller said. “Tunato has never been successfully robbed.”
“And why is that?”
“That tale will cost you the next round.” Storyteller said. “No one who has attempted to steal from Tunato’s estate has emerged from the house alive. I do not know all their fates, but within the past month two have tried, and both were stopped by the guards. However, they were subdued, not killed – what happened to them after that, I cannot say.”
“Cannot say because you do not know, or because you are forbidden by your compact with Tunato?” Ghost inquired.
“Because I do not know. It is not a story that is told.”
“If we are speaking only of stories that are being told,” Ayama said, “I expect there are many about Tunato’s recent change of staff.”
“There are many stories about his staff,” Storyteller replied. “Both his literal staff, and the more vulgar euphemism, I’m afraid.”
“Does Tunato pay you to spread those stories as well?” Zanka asked, amused.
“No, he does well enough on his own. As to his servants, there are tales that they are all foreigners, or demons. Of course, many in Creation will equate the one with the other.” Storyteller paused. “Some of the quieter tales say that Tunato had his new staff prepared before he dismissed his old staff.”
“Suggesting he had this planned for some time,” Kaliel concluded.
“There is more. It is said that some of the old staff were not dismissed. Truly, some were never seen again by their families.”
Ghost frowned. “There is one thing I do not understand. Tunato has paid you well to spread his tales. Yet you have been quite forthcoming with us. What exactly is he paying you, and what payment do you expect from us?”
The entity called Storyteller smiled. “Tunato has compensated me with a rare coin indeed. What he believes to be merely a First Age manor is in fact a manse. His bargain with me allows me access to a portion of the Essence flow harnessed by this manse; the rest goes to him, though he is not aware of it. The geomancy of the manse was constructed in such a way to augment the mercantile efforts of the owner; though Tunato is not attuned to the manse, it does recognize him as the owner, thus some Essence naturally flows to him. Now, I am somewhat aware of why you have come here, and I believe that you are capable of making me a better offer.”
“How could one live in such a place and be unaware of it?” Zanka asked, incredulous.
“Geomancy is a lost art,” said Storyteller sadly. “And mortals are not sensitive to the flows of Essence. Before Tunato sought me out, I was subsisting on tiny scraps of worship from the marketplace. I do not even receive the annual observances any more. Once I realized the treasure he unknowingly sat upon, well, the temptation proved too much. I’m sure he felt he was getting the better part of the bargain.”
“So,” Ghost said, grinning, “if the people of this city were to suddenly experience something of a spiritual revival in regard to you, I assume that this would exceed the payment you receive from Tunato’s manse?”
“For example,” Ayama said, “If someone were to compose a work regaling the people about the City of Many Stories, and encouraging travelers far and wide to seek this city out.”
“I believe that would do nicely,” Storyteller said.
“Easily done,” Zanka said with an easy wave.
“Forgive my ignorance of such matters,” Ghost said to Storyteller, “but does your access to the manse’s Essence give you control over its defenses?”
“The manse has no defenses other than the guards Tunato has hired. Of course, the materials of the building itself are far more durable than normal, and the windows, as I believe you have heard already, are composed of adamant.”
“With the envoys of the Scarlet Empress here in Lynnisbrook,” Ayama asked, “is it possible that Tunato will be entertaining soon?”
“Tunato himself has not entertained nearly as much as he used to in the past three months, not that he was well-known for doing more than what was required of his position before that.”
“Is it likely that he will be invited to some sort of function at Lady Rinalta’s palace?” Zanka inquired.
“Almost a certainty. In fact, he is attending such a function tonight.”
“And do the guards become less vigilant when their master is away?”
Storyteller shook his head. “The opposite, in fact. Tunato typically takes one of his house guards with him to functions to act as a bodyguard; the remainder compensate for the loss of manpower by increasing their watchfulness.”
“How many guards are there?” Kaliel asked.
“I am not certain. I would guess between four and ten for a house that size.”
“More than enough to handle any normal burglar,” Ghost commented.
“But not nearly enough to oppose the Auric Lion,” Zanka said with a satisfied smile.
But Kaliel and Ayama frowned at this. “It is likely that there is at least one Immaculate monk on board the Imperial galley,” Ayama said, “if not in the Cathak’s escort. Drawing attention to the fact that there are Solars in the city is certain to draw their ire, and prompt them to send several more monks to this city, possibly even a Wyld Hunt. They tend to obliterate any who have associated with the Anathema.”
“And I am not well versed in being subtle in such matters,” Kaliel admitted. “And even without the Immaculates, there is the Cathak. She would not have been gifted that daiklave and that red jade armor if she did not know how to use them. And there is no way to know what weaponry they have available to them on that galley.”
“Thus it is in our interest, and the interest of Lagan, that we do not allow Tunato or his men to suspect our nature,” Ghost finished. “It would appear this is my calling. Which, of course, is what I wanted in the first place.”
“I have one final question for you, Storyteller,” Zanka said. “How do we know that the story of our conversation will not be spread, as you have spread Tunato’s tale?”
“Because there is no value in telling the story until it is concluded,” he replied.
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