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(Cydra) The Final City
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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 7504993" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p>“It's all over!” the street preacher cries. He stands, arms spread wide, wearing dark red and black. His hair is as wild as his eyes. “The world has ended!” The crowd moving past largely ignores him, but now and again another person joins those standing near him, watching him, listening to him. Most of them are destitute and unfortunate; some are diseased or crippled. Others are fit in body, but weak in mind. “It isn't going to end, it already has! It isn't in the middle of ending, it already has!” His voice rises and falls in a rhythm that is almost hypnotic. Some of those watching him walk away after a few moments, but others, enthralled, remain, and slowly his crowd grows. “The fall of the empire was a sign- but not the first sign! No, it was the last sign, and now the curtain has fallen!”</p><p></p><p>He pauses, febrile eyes taking in those closest to him. “But it isn't too late for you! Listen to me, follow me, and I will lead you to a new world- a better world! One that isn't hopeless, one whose final elements aren't falling into oblivion! Stay here, and there is no hope, but follow me, and I will lead you to Paradise!”</p><p></p><p>We will see more of this man. Oh yes. </p><p></p><p>But we won't see those who follow him again, except as faces sketched on posters of the missing. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>In the waning days of the Sword Empire, generations after the death of Thrush, as the artificial bonds that tied the world-spanning empire together, a desperate decision was made at the highest levels. Because of the many rebellions springing up, because of the many independence movements, it was deemed necessary to remove maps from the public sphere. They presented too great of a risk of those rebellions spreading, of allowing revolutionaries to plan and find allies and bind together their own followers into armies, and given the network of long-distance transportation methods available to those who knew how to use them and where they led, maps were confiscated, burned, removed from libraries and homes, excised from books, cut out of tapestries.</p><p></p><p>From then on, maps were, and remain, state secrets. </p><p></p><p>Even those showing small areas were forbidden to the public. A map of the streets of the city? Unthinkable. One that shows an entire isle or continent? Inconceivable. Only at the highest levels of the imperial bureacracy or military apparatus, or in the most secret places, were maps allowed to survive.</p><p></p><p>Of course, a few slipped through the cracks. Not many, but a few. Hidden in private libraries, held by secret societies or adventurers, these few maps have great value. </p><p></p><p>Except, of course, that now most people would not even recognize a map for what it is. </p><p></p><p>That is a part of the culture of Fandelose. Just so you know. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>“Hmmm,” Mad Max says. </p><p></p><p>He is at the Fandelose Brewery, and has just gotten his mug filled. The beer- made from rice, Fandelose's primary grain- is thin and yellow, but available, which is the best thing this side of delicious. He takes a deep drink, wipes his mouth with his left hand, and takes another look around. </p><p></p><p><em>Where the hell is Hungus?</em> he wonders. </p><p></p><p>He has not seen his friend in several days. The two of them- as well as their other adventuring buddies- don't have a regular meeting place, exactly, but had been frequenting the brewery over the last week or two. It had been a convenient place to join up, since they're pretty nearly all heavy drinkers. But there has been no sign of him, or of Dzedz or Flint, for some time. </p><p></p><p>Grumbling, Mad Max scans the crowd for anyone he does know. There's a remarkably tall young human with a scraggly beard- obviously the best he can grow at that age- that is dyed blue. And there's a halfling sitting a table away from his who is wearing a <em>sha shi,</em> the cross-body sash that designates one as a monk of the Manticore Monastery. Next to him, talking animatedly, is a berobed human who has the distinct look of some kind of mage. Mad Max doesn't know any of them, but, should he need to recruit a whole new party... </p><p></p><p>He keeps looking. Most of the people drinking here are farmers, merchants, craftsmen. Few are armed, fewer still armored. But- he squints- there is one man in the corner, looking lost, who seems... familiar. Mad Max sidles closer to get a better look. </p><p></p><p>“Drolc!” he exclaims. </p><p></p><p>The half-orc looks up at him and smiles. “Hullo!”</p><p></p><p>Happily, Mad Max pulls up a stool. “I was just looking for some of my adventuring buddies! Good to see you!” He pulls out his pipe, packs the bowl with pipeweed, and sets it alight, then passes it to Drolc. The half-orc declines, but the halfling in the <em>sha shi</em> glances their way at the smell. Max gestures him over, and both he and the mage talking to him move over to join him.</p><p></p><p>“You look like adventurers,” Max declares. “That's a funny coincidence, because I'm looking for some adventurers.”</p><p></p><p>The blue-bearded youth turns his head at that. “Is that hempflower?” he calls. “Can I get in on that?”</p><p></p><p>“Sure.” Max offers him the pipe, and the fellow strides over to join them.</p><p></p><p>Introductions are made. The blue-bearded fellow calls himself Bluebeard (though his name turns out to be Tim); the halfling is Scotty Beandelver; the sorcerer, Zim Kairon; and Drolc reintroduces himself three times. Mad Max buys a round and passes his pipe.</p><p></p><p>Before long, this group has gotten drunk and high together (except for Drolc), and rather forgotten all about going adventuring.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The Manticore Monastery and the Pan Lung School are the city's two rival organizations of monks. The Manticore Monastery teaches the way of shadow; the Pan Lung School, the way of the open hand. Every spring, the two dojos have a large, public, semi-ceremonial battle in the streets. </p><p></p><p>Of course, monks from the rival schools fight a lot more than just the one time each year. Promising young Manticore monks attempt to ambush and defeat Pan Lung warriors, demonstrating the superiority of their techniques, while those from the Pan Lung School seek to prove that their fighting style can overcome the sneakiness of the way of shadow. Often, small groups of tegh monks engage each other throughout the year. </p><p></p><p>“That's why I want to find Master Lo,” Scotty explains with a hiccup. “He's out in the woods somewhere, secluded. They say he knows special secret techniques, and that he will teach them to those worthy enough to find him. He was brought up in the Manli- Manticore Monst- Manticore Monastery, just like me.” He belches. </p><p></p><p>“That sounds like a good adventure!” Zim says, recalling how this whole meet-up started.</p><p></p><p>Mad Max takes another puff off his pipe. “Sure, I guess. Is there treasure?”</p><p></p><p>“The treasure,” Scotty explains, “is the techniques he teaches.”</p><p></p><p>“Hmm.” </p><p></p><p>“Come on, we might as well try to find him!”</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>But, of course, things never go smoothly for a drunken band of adventurers.</p><p></p><p>En route to the city gates, they are ambushed by a group of young martial artists from the Pan Lung School. Before they know it, fists and feet are smashing into them. Scotty's <em>sha shi</em> marks them as Manticore Monastery allies. </p><p></p><p>The youths are no match for Mad Max; he is, by now, a relatively experienced warrior, and once enraged, he largely shrugs off their blows. And in his rage, he shows no mercy to them. Screaming wildly, he lays about him with his heavy maul, crushing bones and mashing flesh. </p><p></p><p>In turn, the monks switch to their most dangerous, most lethal techniques. And when the battle is done, although Scotty is bruised and beaten, their new sorcerer ally lies on the cobbles of the street with his neck at an angle that is clearly not correct for his anatomy. </p><p></p><p>“Gods damn it,” Scotty growls.</p><p></p><p>“Sad,” Drolc agrees. </p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> Oh all right, let's check in with Dzedz.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 7504993, member: 1210"] “It's all over!” the street preacher cries. He stands, arms spread wide, wearing dark red and black. His hair is as wild as his eyes. “The world has ended!” The crowd moving past largely ignores him, but now and again another person joins those standing near him, watching him, listening to him. Most of them are destitute and unfortunate; some are diseased or crippled. Others are fit in body, but weak in mind. “It isn't going to end, it already has! It isn't in the middle of ending, it already has!” His voice rises and falls in a rhythm that is almost hypnotic. Some of those watching him walk away after a few moments, but others, enthralled, remain, and slowly his crowd grows. “The fall of the empire was a sign- but not the first sign! No, it was the last sign, and now the curtain has fallen!” He pauses, febrile eyes taking in those closest to him. “But it isn't too late for you! Listen to me, follow me, and I will lead you to a new world- a better world! One that isn't hopeless, one whose final elements aren't falling into oblivion! Stay here, and there is no hope, but follow me, and I will lead you to Paradise!” We will see more of this man. Oh yes. But we won't see those who follow him again, except as faces sketched on posters of the missing. *** In the waning days of the Sword Empire, generations after the death of Thrush, as the artificial bonds that tied the world-spanning empire together, a desperate decision was made at the highest levels. Because of the many rebellions springing up, because of the many independence movements, it was deemed necessary to remove maps from the public sphere. They presented too great of a risk of those rebellions spreading, of allowing revolutionaries to plan and find allies and bind together their own followers into armies, and given the network of long-distance transportation methods available to those who knew how to use them and where they led, maps were confiscated, burned, removed from libraries and homes, excised from books, cut out of tapestries. From then on, maps were, and remain, state secrets. Even those showing small areas were forbidden to the public. A map of the streets of the city? Unthinkable. One that shows an entire isle or continent? Inconceivable. Only at the highest levels of the imperial bureacracy or military apparatus, or in the most secret places, were maps allowed to survive. Of course, a few slipped through the cracks. Not many, but a few. Hidden in private libraries, held by secret societies or adventurers, these few maps have great value. Except, of course, that now most people would not even recognize a map for what it is. That is a part of the culture of Fandelose. Just so you know. *** “Hmmm,” Mad Max says. He is at the Fandelose Brewery, and has just gotten his mug filled. The beer- made from rice, Fandelose's primary grain- is thin and yellow, but available, which is the best thing this side of delicious. He takes a deep drink, wipes his mouth with his left hand, and takes another look around. [i]Where the hell is Hungus?[/i] he wonders. He has not seen his friend in several days. The two of them- as well as their other adventuring buddies- don't have a regular meeting place, exactly, but had been frequenting the brewery over the last week or two. It had been a convenient place to join up, since they're pretty nearly all heavy drinkers. But there has been no sign of him, or of Dzedz or Flint, for some time. Grumbling, Mad Max scans the crowd for anyone he does know. There's a remarkably tall young human with a scraggly beard- obviously the best he can grow at that age- that is dyed blue. And there's a halfling sitting a table away from his who is wearing a [i]sha shi,[/i] the cross-body sash that designates one as a monk of the Manticore Monastery. Next to him, talking animatedly, is a berobed human who has the distinct look of some kind of mage. Mad Max doesn't know any of them, but, should he need to recruit a whole new party... He keeps looking. Most of the people drinking here are farmers, merchants, craftsmen. Few are armed, fewer still armored. But- he squints- there is one man in the corner, looking lost, who seems... familiar. Mad Max sidles closer to get a better look. “Drolc!” he exclaims. The half-orc looks up at him and smiles. “Hullo!” Happily, Mad Max pulls up a stool. “I was just looking for some of my adventuring buddies! Good to see you!” He pulls out his pipe, packs the bowl with pipeweed, and sets it alight, then passes it to Drolc. The half-orc declines, but the halfling in the [i]sha shi[/i] glances their way at the smell. Max gestures him over, and both he and the mage talking to him move over to join him. “You look like adventurers,” Max declares. “That's a funny coincidence, because I'm looking for some adventurers.” The blue-bearded youth turns his head at that. “Is that hempflower?” he calls. “Can I get in on that?” “Sure.” Max offers him the pipe, and the fellow strides over to join them. Introductions are made. The blue-bearded fellow calls himself Bluebeard (though his name turns out to be Tim); the halfling is Scotty Beandelver; the sorcerer, Zim Kairon; and Drolc reintroduces himself three times. Mad Max buys a round and passes his pipe. Before long, this group has gotten drunk and high together (except for Drolc), and rather forgotten all about going adventuring. *** The Manticore Monastery and the Pan Lung School are the city's two rival organizations of monks. The Manticore Monastery teaches the way of shadow; the Pan Lung School, the way of the open hand. Every spring, the two dojos have a large, public, semi-ceremonial battle in the streets. Of course, monks from the rival schools fight a lot more than just the one time each year. Promising young Manticore monks attempt to ambush and defeat Pan Lung warriors, demonstrating the superiority of their techniques, while those from the Pan Lung School seek to prove that their fighting style can overcome the sneakiness of the way of shadow. Often, small groups of tegh monks engage each other throughout the year. “That's why I want to find Master Lo,” Scotty explains with a hiccup. “He's out in the woods somewhere, secluded. They say he knows special secret techniques, and that he will teach them to those worthy enough to find him. He was brought up in the Manli- Manticore Monst- Manticore Monastery, just like me.” He belches. “That sounds like a good adventure!” Zim says, recalling how this whole meet-up started. Mad Max takes another puff off his pipe. “Sure, I guess. Is there treasure?” “The treasure,” Scotty explains, “is the techniques he teaches.” “Hmm.” “Come on, we might as well try to find him!” *** But, of course, things never go smoothly for a drunken band of adventurers. En route to the city gates, they are ambushed by a group of young martial artists from the Pan Lung School. Before they know it, fists and feet are smashing into them. Scotty's [i]sha shi[/i] marks them as Manticore Monastery allies. The youths are no match for Mad Max; he is, by now, a relatively experienced warrior, and once enraged, he largely shrugs off their blows. And in his rage, he shows no mercy to them. Screaming wildly, he lays about him with his heavy maul, crushing bones and mashing flesh. In turn, the monks switch to their most dangerous, most lethal techniques. And when the battle is done, although Scotty is bruised and beaten, their new sorcerer ally lies on the cobbles of the street with his neck at an angle that is clearly not correct for his anatomy. “Gods damn it,” Scotty growls. “Sad,” Drolc agrees. [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] Oh all right, let's check in with Dzedz. [/QUOTE]
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