RangerWickett
Legend
Also, why the fork am I allowed to say naughty word?
ZEITGEIST [ZEITGEIST] The Continuing Adventures of Korrigan & Co.
gideonpepys
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
Session 253, Part One
Seobriga & Slate
Lauryn Cyneburg brought Conquo into the outskirts of Seobriga, shrouded by an invisibility spell. She warned him to be cautious, nonetheless, as the spell would not silence him, but for the time being neither of them could see anyone around. The huge golem climbed a nearby building to get his bearings and saw four Ob lanterns dotted about the city. Unlike those in Flint, these were purpose-built wooden structures. He could also see something going on in the light of one of those towers: a huge public gathering by the look and the sound of it. Conquo knew Seobriga reasonably well, and thought that it was the square where he and the unit had first arrived, searching for Tinker Oddcog.
He decided to take a closer look, and was about to set off when Cyneburg suggested she teleport them there. Conquo was enthusiastic about this, and asked her to take him straight into the wooden lantern tower. Cyneburg refused. “We don’t know if it could take your weight.” How about a nearby roof, then? “Again, who knows if that’s safe. I’ll bring us close to the square at ground level, if it’s all the same to you.” They bickered a bit more and Conquo thought, ‘she’s worse than Xambria’. In the end he gave up: “If that’s all you could do, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
They teleported to a trash-filled alleyway at the edge the square. Their arrival caused quite a din, as the rubbish was displaced noisily, but the nearby citizens did not appear to notice. All of the streets leading to the square were crowded with people, facing the square intently, despite not having any clear view. The reason for this soon became apparent, when both Conquo and Cyneburg received the same mental broadcast as everyone else – a moving image of what was happening in the square:
Wearing a leather mask over his hideously deformed face, Bruse Shantus himself stomped a long row of prisoners, flanked by a pair of king-bred tyrannosaurs draped in royal raiment, and accompanied by Brakken of Heffanita, whose telepathic projection this must have been. Other Berans of note were present, Zarkava Ssa’litt and Kenna Vigilante among them, and the square was also crowded with orc soldiers. All seemed to be under the sway of the hivemind.
“Don’t look away, citizens!” bellowed the Bruse. “These savages before us were given a chance to obey our laws, but they rejected us. Disobedience is an uncivil serpent, and we must strike off its head before it poisons us. Let all who would resist our unity smell the blood spilled today, and know we shall come for them soon!” Brakken then handed him a ceremonial greatsword.
“This is too dangerous,” said Cyneburg. “You can’t go up against all of them!”
“Then I will focus on the lanterns,” said Conquo. “We’ll stop the Ob from burning the city and come back to free the people later. Can you teleport me to the towers?”
Cyneburg shook her head. “I blew most of my dailies fighting you guys. I’m pretty drained right now. I need to save some juice to get you home.”
Just then, as the Bruse began to approach the prisoners, hefting the greatsword threateningly, a prisoner at the centre of the line stood, even though she had to awkwardly heave up two goblins who were manacled to her. It was the gnoll, Glaucia Evora, and she spat her words at the Bruse:
“We were never a nation of obedience, tyrant! We were a nation of justice. On this killing field, you might cut us down, but our blood will water a new crop of revolution. Better a savage than a slave.”
The Bruse snarled in reply, “You have volunteered to die first, executore!” The crowd roared with relish. This is what they had come to see!
Conquo looked down at Cyneburg. “Sorry, but she’s a friend. Got to help now.”
“Wait!” hissed Cyneburg. “Give me a second!”
Korrigan found himself lying under loose floorboards. They lifted easily, only for the space to be filled by an avalanche of stale hay. He struggled up through it, and found himself in a hayloft above a stable – and quite a grand one at that. He recognised it as the royal stables in the grounds of Torfeld Palace. A couple of young grooms were tending the horses, but they didn’t see him. He opened the upper door and flew out into the night.
It was strange to be without Kai after all this time. He made a mental note that a couple of the powers he drew from Kai were not available to him (as Kai enabled him to access all the planes, not just those he was attuned to himself).
There was an Obscurati lantern tower right here on the palace grounds, planted with some effrontery on the enormous oval lawn. This one was a simple wooden structure, not like the ones in Flint. It did not appear to be guarded, but rather than investigate it straight away, Korrigan decided to head back into the stables and get some answers, which he extracted from the stable-hands, once he’d freed them from the hivemind. It wasn’t clear whether the two young lads were more surprised to be free, or that their king was now addressing them. They told them that Viscount Price-Hill was in charge here in Slate, and that he was resident in the palace. Korrigan told them to lay low, and if possible not to leave the stable. Then he went to check out the lantern tower.
Inside, he found large barrels of oil which he quickly identified as being identical to the oil currently burning with a sepia light designed to dampen emotions. There didn’t appear to be any pipes or mechnisms connecting this lamp up to another site; no refinery like the one they had discovered in Flint. So no means of turning this lamp into a killing machine. Korrigan sent his mind’s eye up into the sky and saw about nine more lamps dotted about Slate. All were of similar construction. The Ob had no plans to use Slate as part of their scorched-earth contingency.
Still, to reclaim his capital, he needed to address the hivemind situation, and free Viscount Price-Hill.
Before he could even begin to formulate a plan of action, he received a coded sending from Lauryn Cyneburg:
“Conquo is in trouble here, your majesty. Can you or any of the others be spared?”
Slate could wait. They had good friends in Seobriga. Korrigan gave the signal for his extraction, and reappeared on Cauldron Hill.
As Wondermaker fiddled with the dial on the top hat, he said, “The duplicants in Seobriga are far from the city centre. The Berans are alert to such technology!”
All of a sudden, Korrigan was off again, hoping he would arrive on time. …
Seobriga & Slate
Lauryn Cyneburg brought Conquo into the outskirts of Seobriga, shrouded by an invisibility spell. She warned him to be cautious, nonetheless, as the spell would not silence him, but for the time being neither of them could see anyone around. The huge golem climbed a nearby building to get his bearings and saw four Ob lanterns dotted about the city. Unlike those in Flint, these were purpose-built wooden structures. He could also see something going on in the light of one of those towers: a huge public gathering by the look and the sound of it. Conquo knew Seobriga reasonably well, and thought that it was the square where he and the unit had first arrived, searching for Tinker Oddcog.
He decided to take a closer look, and was about to set off when Cyneburg suggested she teleport them there. Conquo was enthusiastic about this, and asked her to take him straight into the wooden lantern tower. Cyneburg refused. “We don’t know if it could take your weight.” How about a nearby roof, then? “Again, who knows if that’s safe. I’ll bring us close to the square at ground level, if it’s all the same to you.” They bickered a bit more and Conquo thought, ‘she’s worse than Xambria’. In the end he gave up: “If that’s all you could do, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
They teleported to a trash-filled alleyway at the edge the square. Their arrival caused quite a din, as the rubbish was displaced noisily, but the nearby citizens did not appear to notice. All of the streets leading to the square were crowded with people, facing the square intently, despite not having any clear view. The reason for this soon became apparent, when both Conquo and Cyneburg received the same mental broadcast as everyone else – a moving image of what was happening in the square:
Wearing a leather mask over his hideously deformed face, Bruse Shantus himself stomped a long row of prisoners, flanked by a pair of king-bred tyrannosaurs draped in royal raiment, and accompanied by Brakken of Heffanita, whose telepathic projection this must have been. Other Berans of note were present, Zarkava Ssa’litt and Kenna Vigilante among them, and the square was also crowded with orc soldiers. All seemed to be under the sway of the hivemind.
“Don’t look away, citizens!” bellowed the Bruse. “These savages before us were given a chance to obey our laws, but they rejected us. Disobedience is an uncivil serpent, and we must strike off its head before it poisons us. Let all who would resist our unity smell the blood spilled today, and know we shall come for them soon!” Brakken then handed him a ceremonial greatsword.
“This is too dangerous,” said Cyneburg. “You can’t go up against all of them!”
“Then I will focus on the lanterns,” said Conquo. “We’ll stop the Ob from burning the city and come back to free the people later. Can you teleport me to the towers?”
Cyneburg shook her head. “I blew most of my dailies fighting you guys. I’m pretty drained right now. I need to save some juice to get you home.”
Just then, as the Bruse began to approach the prisoners, hefting the greatsword threateningly, a prisoner at the centre of the line stood, even though she had to awkwardly heave up two goblins who were manacled to her. It was the gnoll, Glaucia Evora, and she spat her words at the Bruse:
“We were never a nation of obedience, tyrant! We were a nation of justice. On this killing field, you might cut us down, but our blood will water a new crop of revolution. Better a savage than a slave.”
The Bruse snarled in reply, “You have volunteered to die first, executore!” The crowd roared with relish. This is what they had come to see!
Conquo looked down at Cyneburg. “Sorry, but she’s a friend. Got to help now.”
“Wait!” hissed Cyneburg. “Give me a second!”
*
Korrigan found himself lying under loose floorboards. They lifted easily, only for the space to be filled by an avalanche of stale hay. He struggled up through it, and found himself in a hayloft above a stable – and quite a grand one at that. He recognised it as the royal stables in the grounds of Torfeld Palace. A couple of young grooms were tending the horses, but they didn’t see him. He opened the upper door and flew out into the night.
It was strange to be without Kai after all this time. He made a mental note that a couple of the powers he drew from Kai were not available to him (as Kai enabled him to access all the planes, not just those he was attuned to himself).
There was an Obscurati lantern tower right here on the palace grounds, planted with some effrontery on the enormous oval lawn. This one was a simple wooden structure, not like the ones in Flint. It did not appear to be guarded, but rather than investigate it straight away, Korrigan decided to head back into the stables and get some answers, which he extracted from the stable-hands, once he’d freed them from the hivemind. It wasn’t clear whether the two young lads were more surprised to be free, or that their king was now addressing them. They told them that Viscount Price-Hill was in charge here in Slate, and that he was resident in the palace. Korrigan told them to lay low, and if possible not to leave the stable. Then he went to check out the lantern tower.
Inside, he found large barrels of oil which he quickly identified as being identical to the oil currently burning with a sepia light designed to dampen emotions. There didn’t appear to be any pipes or mechnisms connecting this lamp up to another site; no refinery like the one they had discovered in Flint. So no means of turning this lamp into a killing machine. Korrigan sent his mind’s eye up into the sky and saw about nine more lamps dotted about Slate. All were of similar construction. The Ob had no plans to use Slate as part of their scorched-earth contingency.
Still, to reclaim his capital, he needed to address the hivemind situation, and free Viscount Price-Hill.
Before he could even begin to formulate a plan of action, he received a coded sending from Lauryn Cyneburg:
“Conquo is in trouble here, your majesty. Can you or any of the others be spared?”
Slate could wait. They had good friends in Seobriga. Korrigan gave the signal for his extraction, and reappeared on Cauldron Hill.
As Wondermaker fiddled with the dial on the top hat, he said, “The duplicants in Seobriga are far from the city centre. The Berans are alert to such technology!”
All of a sudden, Korrigan was off again, hoping he would arrive on time. …
gideonpepys
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
Session 253, Part Two
The Master & the Apprentice
Before the Bruse could take more than a couple of steps towards Glaucia, there was a sudden series of explosions from within the square and without. The crowd began to panic; the mental broadcast was disrupted. Conquo wanted to see what was happening and swiftly climbed the building in front of him.
A giant ‘S’ hundreds of feet across had been lit on the ground in the square. More harmless, arcane pyrotechnics were causing the panic in the side-streets. Across the square from him, Conquo saw another figure standing on the rooftops: windswept, with a billowing black cloak, broad-brimmed black hat and black mask. The Bruse saw him too, and gestured towards him; soldiers levelled their rifles; the figure ducked out of sight, only for another to take advantage of their distraction, and the chaos around them, to leap into the centre of the square and attack the Bruse himself.
This newcomer was an elderly eladrin man, with what appeared to be an arm made from salt. “I am Sor Daeron, and I defy the Obscurati!” he cried. “Tell Kasvarina to come and face me!”
The Bruse laughed, and his tyrannosaurs attacked the eladrin.
“Korrigan is on his way,” said Cyneburg, appearing alongside. “Let’s go!” She vanished, and reappeared in the square, where she began to free the prisoners.
Conquo leapt off the rooftop and thumped a t-rex. This thing was a lot bigger than the ones Conquo had faced before; it didn’t seem fazed by his blow and bit him back. The two huge foes ending up wrestling with one another. Recognising Conquo, even in his enlarged form, the Bruse gave an order. Soldiers atop the lantern began to make adjustments. More soldiers at the foot of the lantern began firing on Conquo in unison. There were so many of them, and their volley was so sustained, that they threatened to slowly chip away at his rock-hard form. Glaucia struck them with a pillar of radiant fire, forcing them to break formation.
Sor Daeron didn’t trouble himself with details such as who his new allies were – while fending off the dinosaurs, to anyone who cared to listen, he said, “We should do something about that lantern!” At once, the mysterious masked man tight-rope-walked across to try to stop the soldiers from activating it, but second later the dull brown glow became a bright, strobing red and white. All who saw it felt their blood boil, and the red mist descending.
The Bruse struck Conquo with his ceremonial greatsword. It wedged in Conquo’s jagged hide and was torn from his hands. One of the tyrannosaurs chomped down on Sor Daeron, but he let it take his salt arm, before teleporting away. His salt arm then regrew. The masked man made a fighting retreat from the lantern tower, swinging out and down in style to join Cyneburg in helping to free the prisoners. The orcs fired at him as he went, but he had clearly read Kenna Vigilante’s How Not to Get Shot.
Once he was clear, Conquo lifted the t-rex he was wrestling clear off the ground and hurled it bodily at the lantern tower! The wooden structure couldn’t withstand the impact and collapsed. Any orcs inside that might have survived did not survive the thrashing of the wounded tyrannosaur as it struggled to get up.
Glaucia charged at the Bruse ferociously, no longer bound by any sense of loyalty to him. But the Bruse was a formidable opponent and fended her off. The gnoll then snarled at Brakken, who was standing around uselessly, “Since when have you been a lackey to this blithering fool? I thought you valued your freedom?”
This gentle nudge was all it took to free Brakken, whose mind had always been resilient to hiveminds; the Ob must have taken pains to ensure his domination. But now he was free, and looked around, as if taking in the scene for the first time.
Orcs charged Conquo, mobbed him. Even acting in concert, they didn’t pose much of a threat, but they were able to distract him enough for the Bruse to get in a resounding blow with his horns. Conquo punched him back, and then grabbed him.
One of the t-rexes remained uninjured and this one attacked and grabbed Glaucia, thrashing her from side to side in its huge jaws. Brakken called it to heel and it dropped her and stood, snorting and licking its chops. “Don’t harm it,” said Brakken, “and it will remain calm.”
Not so the other t-rex, which had struggled free of the wreckage of tower and now attacked Conquo in defence of its master. Conquo threw the Bruse at the orcs.
Sor Daeron, outmatched by the Bruse and the dinosaurs, focused his efforts on the troops. Glaucia too. Brakken gave a piercing whistle and Feroz answered his command, charging into the square to defend him.
Unable to reach Conquo to attack him immediately, the Bruse bellowed in frustration and trapped the golem in a psychic labyrinth, preventing him from moving – the city suddenly became a confusing maze of irregular geometry that Conquo could barely navigate. Then the Bruse ordered his troops to open fire on the pacified tyrannosaur. Freed, it gave an enraged cry, stomped Brakken into the dirt and threw itself on Conquo, who was now battling both of them.
This new, improved and enlarge version of Conquo was tough – even tougher than the original version – but he wasn’t as skilled a fighter as other members of the unit. He would win by brute force alone, and in the tyrannosaurs and the Bruse, he had met his match. He might take out one of them, perhaps two, but in the end, he would be defeated. Cyneburg could see all this, and she cried out, “Where the hell is the king?!?”
“I’m doing my best!” came the telepathic response: Korrigan was streaking across the rooftops of Seobriga, having taken possession of a duplicant in yet another hayloft. He’d kept an eye on the fight as best he could, and was almost, but not quite, there.
The Bruse joined the dinosaurs in mobbing the golem. Feroz attacked one of the tyrannosaurs, but it shrugged him off. Sor Daeron tried to help, but he was exhausted. Conquo began to stagger back under the weight of three foes. Their thrashing was dangerous to be around and Brakken, Glaucia, Cyneburg, Sor and the masked stranger withdrew from the square.
Conquo knocked out one of the tyrannosaurs and grabbed the Bruse, who now tore off his leather mask, revealing the fleshless bovine skull beneath. “Master Nicodemus told me to say you brought this upon us. We could have been civilized, but you force us to become savages!” Heedless of Conquo’s stony form, the minotaur tried to bite his face off, shattering his own teeth in the process.
Now Conquo heard Korrigan’s voice in his head. “How are you doing? Do you need healing immediately?”
“I can… manage… for a couple of… seconds,” Conquo replied.
The king covered the final distance in the form of a lightning bolt, arriving with his holy sword raised above the ugly head of the Bruse. He was about to strike him down without a word, as he had never respected him, and a salient rejoinder was almost beneath his dignity, but in the end he could not help saying at least, “You are not fit to rule Ber.” Then he felled the minotaur.
Of course, the Bruse was sustained by the Blood of Ostea, but that only lasted for a moment, as Conquo began to use him as a club to beat the tyrannosaur. “Who bites someone?” said the golem, outraged.
Now Korrigan bestowed healing upon Conquo, and said, “Finish the job." While Conquo finished off the last t-rex, Korrigan turned to their allies and thanked them individually, saving the masked man til last.
“Hello, Damata,” he said. Damata Griento took off his hat and gave a low bow.
End of Session
The Master & the Apprentice
Before the Bruse could take more than a couple of steps towards Glaucia, there was a sudden series of explosions from within the square and without. The crowd began to panic; the mental broadcast was disrupted. Conquo wanted to see what was happening and swiftly climbed the building in front of him.
A giant ‘S’ hundreds of feet across had been lit on the ground in the square. More harmless, arcane pyrotechnics were causing the panic in the side-streets. Across the square from him, Conquo saw another figure standing on the rooftops: windswept, with a billowing black cloak, broad-brimmed black hat and black mask. The Bruse saw him too, and gestured towards him; soldiers levelled their rifles; the figure ducked out of sight, only for another to take advantage of their distraction, and the chaos around them, to leap into the centre of the square and attack the Bruse himself.
This newcomer was an elderly eladrin man, with what appeared to be an arm made from salt. “I am Sor Daeron, and I defy the Obscurati!” he cried. “Tell Kasvarina to come and face me!”
The Bruse laughed, and his tyrannosaurs attacked the eladrin.
“Korrigan is on his way,” said Cyneburg, appearing alongside. “Let’s go!” She vanished, and reappeared in the square, where she began to free the prisoners.
Conquo leapt off the rooftop and thumped a t-rex. This thing was a lot bigger than the ones Conquo had faced before; it didn’t seem fazed by his blow and bit him back. The two huge foes ending up wrestling with one another. Recognising Conquo, even in his enlarged form, the Bruse gave an order. Soldiers atop the lantern began to make adjustments. More soldiers at the foot of the lantern began firing on Conquo in unison. There were so many of them, and their volley was so sustained, that they threatened to slowly chip away at his rock-hard form. Glaucia struck them with a pillar of radiant fire, forcing them to break formation.
Sor Daeron didn’t trouble himself with details such as who his new allies were – while fending off the dinosaurs, to anyone who cared to listen, he said, “We should do something about that lantern!” At once, the mysterious masked man tight-rope-walked across to try to stop the soldiers from activating it, but second later the dull brown glow became a bright, strobing red and white. All who saw it felt their blood boil, and the red mist descending.
The Bruse struck Conquo with his ceremonial greatsword. It wedged in Conquo’s jagged hide and was torn from his hands. One of the tyrannosaurs chomped down on Sor Daeron, but he let it take his salt arm, before teleporting away. His salt arm then regrew. The masked man made a fighting retreat from the lantern tower, swinging out and down in style to join Cyneburg in helping to free the prisoners. The orcs fired at him as he went, but he had clearly read Kenna Vigilante’s How Not to Get Shot.
Once he was clear, Conquo lifted the t-rex he was wrestling clear off the ground and hurled it bodily at the lantern tower! The wooden structure couldn’t withstand the impact and collapsed. Any orcs inside that might have survived did not survive the thrashing of the wounded tyrannosaur as it struggled to get up.
Glaucia charged at the Bruse ferociously, no longer bound by any sense of loyalty to him. But the Bruse was a formidable opponent and fended her off. The gnoll then snarled at Brakken, who was standing around uselessly, “Since when have you been a lackey to this blithering fool? I thought you valued your freedom?”
This gentle nudge was all it took to free Brakken, whose mind had always been resilient to hiveminds; the Ob must have taken pains to ensure his domination. But now he was free, and looked around, as if taking in the scene for the first time.
Orcs charged Conquo, mobbed him. Even acting in concert, they didn’t pose much of a threat, but they were able to distract him enough for the Bruse to get in a resounding blow with his horns. Conquo punched him back, and then grabbed him.
One of the t-rexes remained uninjured and this one attacked and grabbed Glaucia, thrashing her from side to side in its huge jaws. Brakken called it to heel and it dropped her and stood, snorting and licking its chops. “Don’t harm it,” said Brakken, “and it will remain calm.”
Not so the other t-rex, which had struggled free of the wreckage of tower and now attacked Conquo in defence of its master. Conquo threw the Bruse at the orcs.
Sor Daeron, outmatched by the Bruse and the dinosaurs, focused his efforts on the troops. Glaucia too. Brakken gave a piercing whistle and Feroz answered his command, charging into the square to defend him.
Unable to reach Conquo to attack him immediately, the Bruse bellowed in frustration and trapped the golem in a psychic labyrinth, preventing him from moving – the city suddenly became a confusing maze of irregular geometry that Conquo could barely navigate. Then the Bruse ordered his troops to open fire on the pacified tyrannosaur. Freed, it gave an enraged cry, stomped Brakken into the dirt and threw itself on Conquo, who was now battling both of them.
This new, improved and enlarge version of Conquo was tough – even tougher than the original version – but he wasn’t as skilled a fighter as other members of the unit. He would win by brute force alone, and in the tyrannosaurs and the Bruse, he had met his match. He might take out one of them, perhaps two, but in the end, he would be defeated. Cyneburg could see all this, and she cried out, “Where the hell is the king?!?”
“I’m doing my best!” came the telepathic response: Korrigan was streaking across the rooftops of Seobriga, having taken possession of a duplicant in yet another hayloft. He’d kept an eye on the fight as best he could, and was almost, but not quite, there.
The Bruse joined the dinosaurs in mobbing the golem. Feroz attacked one of the tyrannosaurs, but it shrugged him off. Sor Daeron tried to help, but he was exhausted. Conquo began to stagger back under the weight of three foes. Their thrashing was dangerous to be around and Brakken, Glaucia, Cyneburg, Sor and the masked stranger withdrew from the square.
Conquo knocked out one of the tyrannosaurs and grabbed the Bruse, who now tore off his leather mask, revealing the fleshless bovine skull beneath. “Master Nicodemus told me to say you brought this upon us. We could have been civilized, but you force us to become savages!” Heedless of Conquo’s stony form, the minotaur tried to bite his face off, shattering his own teeth in the process.
Now Conquo heard Korrigan’s voice in his head. “How are you doing? Do you need healing immediately?”
“I can… manage… for a couple of… seconds,” Conquo replied.
The king covered the final distance in the form of a lightning bolt, arriving with his holy sword raised above the ugly head of the Bruse. He was about to strike him down without a word, as he had never respected him, and a salient rejoinder was almost beneath his dignity, but in the end he could not help saying at least, “You are not fit to rule Ber.” Then he felled the minotaur.
Of course, the Bruse was sustained by the Blood of Ostea, but that only lasted for a moment, as Conquo began to use him as a club to beat the tyrannosaur. “Who bites someone?” said the golem, outraged.
Now Korrigan bestowed healing upon Conquo, and said, “Finish the job." While Conquo finished off the last t-rex, Korrigan turned to their allies and thanked them individually, saving the masked man til last.
“Hello, Damata,” he said. Damata Griento took off his hat and gave a low bow.
End of Session
RangerWickett
Legend
gideonpepys
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
I was saving the Bruse's bite until Korrigan got there - to target something more fleshy! But I'd used my patented 'random reinforcement mechanic' where you roll a dice each round to see if back-up arrives (with the size of the dice depending on the likelihood). In this case it was a d6. Korrigan would get there on a 6 in the 1st round; 5-6 in the second; 4-6 in the third, and so on.
It took him until round 6 to get there! By this time I was worried that Conquo would drop the Bruse so I had the crazy minotaur gnaw on a golem, which did more damage to him.
But the delay did add a lot of tension to the encounter, especially when things were getting tough for Conquo and all Korrigan had to do was roll a two or higher...
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gideonpepys
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
Session 254, Part One
Somewhere in the Yerasol Archipelago
Uru was the only unit member to find himself transferred into a heavy-duty, solid Pemberton Industries duplicant. The duplicants designed by Wondermaker employed the kind of new-fangled, half-living, ‘bio-tech’ approach made possible by the new world bond with Mojang. Unoccupied, they looked like twisted wire mesh in a vaguely humanoid form. They responded more subtly to occupation, but provided less protection than the metal exoskeleton of the Pemberton model.
So Uru was slightly less stealthy in duplicant form, but as his abilities relied as much, if not more, on a magical manipulation of shadow itself, the difference wasn’t major.
Little Jack had not transferred with him. Objects and items did transfer, but Little Jack had been badly damaged by Pemberton, and Uru hadn’t had time to fix him. However, his ghostly occupants had transferred – Winkin, Blinkin & Nod, and the many other spirits whom he had rescued during their travels throughout Lanjyr.
Just as he had during his test run, Uru heard gnollish voices. He took to the ceiling of the cave he occupied and made his way towards them (answering Leon’s unintended question about the rats in Cherage as he went). There was a group of gnolls in a rough stone passageway, clustered tightly in the dim glow of rudimentary spark-gap lighting similar to that Pemberton had employed in his volcano lair on Isla dolas Focas. They were very still, and chanting the same phrases over and over. Uru might not have been able to understand them, were it not for the help of a Beran spirit who knew their guttural language: “It is best for the master. It is good for the master. This is a sign of our loyalty. It is best for the master. It is good for the master…” They were clearly locked in a hivemind.
Uru let them be and crept on through a network of tunnels and side-rooms full of supplies, passing more clusters of gnolls, all chanting in the same way, until the tunnels eventually opened out into an enormous, echoing chamber, which Uru took to be a hangar of some kind. It echoed to the sound of an argument:
Gradiax the Steel Lord, in his great, draconic form, lay belly-up in the centre of the hangar, limbs, neck and tail chained. The great beast was more-or-less unconscious, but twitched and moaned spasmodically. Around him were four senior ghost councillors, all of whom Uru recognised: Shuman Larkins and Glaz du Sang Magi focused their efforts on a huge, sharp shaft of steel that now hovered, suspended telekinetically, some distance above the restrained dragon’s breast: a failsafe, no doubt, lest he escape. The other two councillors were bickering loudly: they were Charles Ormond, who bounced around excitedly, yelling at Uru’s old host, Gran Guiscard, who he had last seen running screaming into the night on Mutravir. How he had met his end was not clear, but he was now objecting in the strongest terms to Ormond’s insistence that he join the host of ghost councillors that had already occupied Pemberton’s brain. Also standing by, looking disconsolately at his restrained master, was Pardo – the real Pardo this time, not a duplicant.
“When I agreed to continue my service to Nicodemus despite my condition,” Guiscard opined. “I was assured that I would not be required to undertake any services that compromised my dignity. I have no intention of squeezing into a confined space with dozens of other councillors!”
“You would not be squeezing, you fool!” cried Ormond. “You are a ghost! An infinite number of us could enter his mind and there would still be room for more! He has not yet succumbed to our satisfaction; he still resists; Nicodemus would have him turned. Will you be the one to say you failed him?”
“Why should I go next? I don’t see any reason why you can’t get in there.”
“My skills are needed out here! What use are you? I have no idea why Nicodemus even offered you a place on the council, you jumped up troubadour! Do as I say or face the consequences!”
While this argument raged on, Uru assessed the situation, wondering how best to deal with it. He checked out the chains binding the dragon. They looked solid. He looked for machines in the hangar that could be put to good use, but all he found was welding equipment and the control panel for an enormous hatch overhead.
He turned his attention back to the ghosts. Would he have enough authority over these spirits to free Pemberton? He had been able to free Cyneburg, but not Harkover. He decided to start small: stole close to Pardo and said, “Pardon me, Pardo!” before he banished the councillors possessing the gnoll. It worked! They could not help but do his bidding.
Simultaneously, he released the ghostly entourage, to shove the steel spike aside, out of harm’s way. Larkins and Magi gave a cry of anger and alarm, and they and Ormond prepared to attack. But Uru was faster. His crossbow could only load three shuriken at a time – one for each of them. He hoped to injure them all and then hide, but things went better than expected: Three shots; three wails; three vanished ghost. Guiscard recognised Uru as his erstwhile tormentor, gave a high-pitched scream and ran away all over again (failing to grasp the possibilities now open to him).
Uru turned to Pardo and said in gnollish, “I have come to free the Steel Lord. Help me with these chains.”
Somewhere in the Yerasol Archipelago
Uru was the only unit member to find himself transferred into a heavy-duty, solid Pemberton Industries duplicant. The duplicants designed by Wondermaker employed the kind of new-fangled, half-living, ‘bio-tech’ approach made possible by the new world bond with Mojang. Unoccupied, they looked like twisted wire mesh in a vaguely humanoid form. They responded more subtly to occupation, but provided less protection than the metal exoskeleton of the Pemberton model.
So Uru was slightly less stealthy in duplicant form, but as his abilities relied as much, if not more, on a magical manipulation of shadow itself, the difference wasn’t major.
Little Jack had not transferred with him. Objects and items did transfer, but Little Jack had been badly damaged by Pemberton, and Uru hadn’t had time to fix him. However, his ghostly occupants had transferred – Winkin, Blinkin & Nod, and the many other spirits whom he had rescued during their travels throughout Lanjyr.
Just as he had during his test run, Uru heard gnollish voices. He took to the ceiling of the cave he occupied and made his way towards them (answering Leon’s unintended question about the rats in Cherage as he went). There was a group of gnolls in a rough stone passageway, clustered tightly in the dim glow of rudimentary spark-gap lighting similar to that Pemberton had employed in his volcano lair on Isla dolas Focas. They were very still, and chanting the same phrases over and over. Uru might not have been able to understand them, were it not for the help of a Beran spirit who knew their guttural language: “It is best for the master. It is good for the master. This is a sign of our loyalty. It is best for the master. It is good for the master…” They were clearly locked in a hivemind.
Uru let them be and crept on through a network of tunnels and side-rooms full of supplies, passing more clusters of gnolls, all chanting in the same way, until the tunnels eventually opened out into an enormous, echoing chamber, which Uru took to be a hangar of some kind. It echoed to the sound of an argument:
Gradiax the Steel Lord, in his great, draconic form, lay belly-up in the centre of the hangar, limbs, neck and tail chained. The great beast was more-or-less unconscious, but twitched and moaned spasmodically. Around him were four senior ghost councillors, all of whom Uru recognised: Shuman Larkins and Glaz du Sang Magi focused their efforts on a huge, sharp shaft of steel that now hovered, suspended telekinetically, some distance above the restrained dragon’s breast: a failsafe, no doubt, lest he escape. The other two councillors were bickering loudly: they were Charles Ormond, who bounced around excitedly, yelling at Uru’s old host, Gran Guiscard, who he had last seen running screaming into the night on Mutravir. How he had met his end was not clear, but he was now objecting in the strongest terms to Ormond’s insistence that he join the host of ghost councillors that had already occupied Pemberton’s brain. Also standing by, looking disconsolately at his restrained master, was Pardo – the real Pardo this time, not a duplicant.
“When I agreed to continue my service to Nicodemus despite my condition,” Guiscard opined. “I was assured that I would not be required to undertake any services that compromised my dignity. I have no intention of squeezing into a confined space with dozens of other councillors!”
“You would not be squeezing, you fool!” cried Ormond. “You are a ghost! An infinite number of us could enter his mind and there would still be room for more! He has not yet succumbed to our satisfaction; he still resists; Nicodemus would have him turned. Will you be the one to say you failed him?”
“Why should I go next? I don’t see any reason why you can’t get in there.”
“My skills are needed out here! What use are you? I have no idea why Nicodemus even offered you a place on the council, you jumped up troubadour! Do as I say or face the consequences!”
While this argument raged on, Uru assessed the situation, wondering how best to deal with it. He checked out the chains binding the dragon. They looked solid. He looked for machines in the hangar that could be put to good use, but all he found was welding equipment and the control panel for an enormous hatch overhead.
He turned his attention back to the ghosts. Would he have enough authority over these spirits to free Pemberton? He had been able to free Cyneburg, but not Harkover. He decided to start small: stole close to Pardo and said, “Pardon me, Pardo!” before he banished the councillors possessing the gnoll. It worked! They could not help but do his bidding.
Simultaneously, he released the ghostly entourage, to shove the steel spike aside, out of harm’s way. Larkins and Magi gave a cry of anger and alarm, and they and Ormond prepared to attack. But Uru was faster. His crossbow could only load three shuriken at a time – one for each of them. He hoped to injure them all and then hide, but things went better than expected: Three shots; three wails; three vanished ghost. Guiscard recognised Uru as his erstwhile tormentor, gave a high-pitched scream and ran away all over again (failing to grasp the possibilities now open to him).
Uru turned to Pardo and said in gnollish, “I have come to free the Steel Lord. Help me with these chains.”
gideonpepys
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
Session 254, Part Two
Another Kind of Chain
No sooner had she been freed from the Vault of Heresies, the demoness Ashima-Shimtu was tracked down by Nicodemus. He told her she was free to roam his new world unmolested, free from domination. After all, he had her to thank for everything. Were it not for the Ashima-Shimtu’s offer of the sacrament of apotheosis five centuries ago, the Obscurati would never have been formed; the people of Lanjyr would never have been freed. She was escorted at all times by a pair of ghost councillors who were to ensure that no one accosted her. The only restriction Nicodemus placed on the demoness was that she must under no circumstances travel to Axis Island.
So Ashima-Shimtu went to Cherage, thinking to witness the glorious new age in the mastermind’s seat of power. Thus far she thought it seemed closer to the rule of the Demonocracy than the rumoured perfection of the celestial heavens.
While Ashima-Shimtu was in chains, she indulged in the idea of abandoning her evil nature and pursuing some form of noble redemption, but the demoness was having second thoughts now that she actually had the option to enjoy malevolence again. Her first taste of freedom in centuries was tempered with the cloying moral imperative of the Obscurati’s new world order, and she was uncertain if she actually had any choice in how to act.
She also found herself oddly affected by the propaganda that was present everywhere in Cherage. The Obscurati’s master of propaganda Gardienne du Cherage, had implemented a widespread campaign to teach the people of Danor the proper way to live in the new world, and slogans adorned the streets of Cherage, on posters and in newspapers:
“Visit Your Local Library for Detailed Tracts on the Proper Way to Live.”
“You Need Only Ask! The New World Will Provide.”
“Create Progress! Aid Your Fellow Man.”
“Reject Your Greed. Your Community is More Important Than You.”
“Know Your Talents. How Can YOU Best Help?”
“Is Your Neighbour a Threat to Order? Be Brave! Report Him.”
“This is the Best of All Possible Worlds.”
Struggling to understand her place in this world, Ashima-Shimtu followed thousands of other confused and yearning souls to the Cherage Rail Enclave. People knew that this was where undesirables went when they were to be carted away to the ‘re-education centres’. So prevalent and affecting was the Ob’s propaganda that many citizens had been filled with despair. Wishing to no longer be a burden on their community, they wanted their government to kill them.
The enclave was cast in a dull brown light, as a wayfarer lantern had been added atop the clock-tower. Enclave guards lined the edge of the platform to keep suicidal citizens from flinging themselves onto the line; disconsolate people crowded the streets, pressing forward to board the next train and be disposed of for the greater good: Yerasol veterans who never fitted back in to society following the war; single mothers whose children had died; orphans who had no one to guide them; desperate drug addicts who, perversely, were now helped by anyone they ask to help fund their habits. All of these people saw the ‘inspirational’ propaganda and determined that the way to help their fellow man was to cease to be a drain on society.
Ashima-Shimtu, wrapped in a fine robe of red silk, sat on a rooftop beside a withered old tiefling woman who went by the name of Ruby. Ruby shivered from fey pepper dementia. She became dependent on the drug to lift her spirits when the sun disappeared, but a few months ago when Av was shattered in the Gyre she could no longer get glimpses of the Dreaming. Normal life was too mundane for her to tolerate, and so she took ever increasing doses of the pepper, hoping to recapture the high that would never come. Instead, every time she smoked she would hallucinate that she was lashed with chains and pulled in a thousand different directions. This struck a chord in Ashima-Shimtu, and she wished to help the woman, though she did not know how. For the time being, she kept her close by, while she scrutinised the chaos all around her:
Gardienne du Cherage had now come to the enclave, and stood at the top floor of the clock-tower in front of the lantern, shouting at the suicidal masses, trying to undo the psychological damage she had inadvertently wrought. Ashima-Shimtu was fascinated to hear what the tiefling woman would say – these tieflings were an intriguing breed, she thought – so she was somewhat irked to see an invisible figure floating over the heads of the crowd and entering the ground floor of the clock-tower. It was another tiefling, whom she recognised, and his actions promised to disrupt Gardienne’s big speech…
Leon had woken up under a sheet behind some pallets in a disused warehouse in the dockside area of Cherage. He went out onto the street and tried to get his bearings, and figure out where it would be best to head. There were a few people around, but they couldn’t see him – or so he thought. A woman dressed in hoop-skirt, holding a parasol, despite the lack of sun, with a veil over her face and long gloves on her hands, walked right up to him and said, “You’ll find the lantern fuel depot in the clock-tower at the rail enclave.”
Taken aback, Leon scrutinised the woman and saw that she was composed of densely packed and intertwined rats! His surprise at this must have been loud enough for others in the telepathic network to register, as Uru replied, “El Extrano formed them into a hivemind and bribed them with cheese. Don’t you remember?”
Slightly mollified, Leon decided to follow this tip-off, and thus found himself at the enclave, where he determined to enter the clock-tower and disrupt the fuel lines if he could.
It didn’t take him long to figure out how to do so, but the depot was full of guards who might notice what he was up to when the valves started to turn. There wasn’t much he could do about the noise, but he plastered the illusion of an unmoving valve over the real one while he gingerly turned it (all the while wondering why they hadn’t thought to do it this way before).
Just as he was tightening the valve, there was a sudden noise behind him, and he cried out, as hooks imbedded in his flesh. Instinctively, he tried to teleport, but could not, and so found himself yanked bodily out of the depot, over the heads of the crowd and dashed onto the rail-line where he was pinned to ominously vibrating tracks.
Above him, chains writhing all around her, hovered the demoness, Ashima-Shimtu.
Despite his pain and fear, Leon studied Ashima-Shimtu for hivemind possession, and could see no sign of it. Before she could strike again, he cried out a reminder that it was he who had freed her from her prison and allowed her to go on her way.
“A train approaches,” said Ashima-Shimtu, “Time is short. Why do you disrupt the workings of the Obscurati?”
Human geopolitics must not have been her strong point. Before Leon could reply, Gardienne du Cherage gave the order for her troops to open fire on whatever the demoness had pinned. The bystanders could not see him, but could clearly see that the demoness was focused on something, and her writhing chains told them exactly where he was. Immediately, Ashima-Shimtu hissed at them like a wild cat and flailed her chains in their direction, catching a couple with blows sound enough to floor them. Gardienne du Cherage belayed her order and the demoness turned back to Leon.
Leon used all his wiles and powers of persuasion to convince Ashima-Shimtu that all of her doubts and fears were due to this flawed, sunless world, which was not a world in which she could experiment with free will, and the power not to do evil. He and his friends – who had parleyed with her in the past and freed her from the vault – were now trying to fix what the Ob had done. Whatever Nicodemus might have told her, this was a mistake, one which he had no right to make and even less right to fix. (As he spoke, the rail lines began to thrum all the more urgently…)
Ashima-Shimtu nodded. “What the mortal says is right, Ashima-Shimtu sees that now, and for that she ought to free him and let these factions settle their affairs for themselves. Indeed, she would do so, were it not for the fact that she knows the man who speaks these words is a LIAR!” She pulled herself close and spat that word into Leon’s face, inspecting it for signs of the word she had carved into it many years ago. “Ashima-Shimtu will let the train do its worst.”
At that moment, Quratulain spoke telepathically to Leon: “Leon, if you are able, I need your help.” She began to fill him in on the precarious situation in Alais Primos, blissfully unaware of his equally dire predicament. Meanwhile, Ashima-Shimtu sniffed the air about him, as if searching for the source of this voice, which she could apparently hear. She seemed perplexed, suddenly full of doubt. As Quratulain finished her explanation, the demoness said, “The prisoner of ages recognises her cellmate. She desires to speak with her. The liar must bring her here now.”
Leon was desperately trying to focus on two conversations at once, all the while conscious of the growing vibrations in the tracks beneath him. He told Ashima-Shimtu he would do what he could, but quickly let Quratulain know that he did not have a quick fix for her. He could not think of a magical solution to her problem, or figure out how to get there without becoming subject to the same effect. But he passed on Ashima-Shimtu’s message, that she wished to speak with Quratulain.
Quratulain understood why at once (although she did not know that her sundered self had chosen to bond with the demoness, her feelings here on Lanjyr were very much in lockstep). But she had been dragged out of her duplicant shell by the Ob’s lantern, and could not swap with Leon, even if she wished to.
All of a sudden, a powerful blast of lightning struck the bell from above, smashing the lantern to pieces. Before reaching out to Leon, Quratulain had only half-heartedly made an appeal to the powerful father of her unborn child, never imagining he would hear her, let alone respond. But now he had! The Father of Thunder had reached across the sea and struck the bell from above. The purple light winked out. Suddenly, Quratulain and Aulus Atticus – and all the souls in the area around the final lamp – were snapped back into their bodies; in Quratulain’s case, her duplicant.
Sounds of sobbing echoed through the streets all around her, as the people of Alais Primos were freed from the hivemind and unified by their shared out-of-body experience.
Quratulain didn't care about any of that. She told Leon what had happened and they agreed to switch – for him to come to Alais Primos and for her to go to Cherage and speak with Ashima-Shimtu.
Another Kind of Chain
No sooner had she been freed from the Vault of Heresies, the demoness Ashima-Shimtu was tracked down by Nicodemus. He told her she was free to roam his new world unmolested, free from domination. After all, he had her to thank for everything. Were it not for the Ashima-Shimtu’s offer of the sacrament of apotheosis five centuries ago, the Obscurati would never have been formed; the people of Lanjyr would never have been freed. She was escorted at all times by a pair of ghost councillors who were to ensure that no one accosted her. The only restriction Nicodemus placed on the demoness was that she must under no circumstances travel to Axis Island.
So Ashima-Shimtu went to Cherage, thinking to witness the glorious new age in the mastermind’s seat of power. Thus far she thought it seemed closer to the rule of the Demonocracy than the rumoured perfection of the celestial heavens.
While Ashima-Shimtu was in chains, she indulged in the idea of abandoning her evil nature and pursuing some form of noble redemption, but the demoness was having second thoughts now that she actually had the option to enjoy malevolence again. Her first taste of freedom in centuries was tempered with the cloying moral imperative of the Obscurati’s new world order, and she was uncertain if she actually had any choice in how to act.
She also found herself oddly affected by the propaganda that was present everywhere in Cherage. The Obscurati’s master of propaganda Gardienne du Cherage, had implemented a widespread campaign to teach the people of Danor the proper way to live in the new world, and slogans adorned the streets of Cherage, on posters and in newspapers:
“Visit Your Local Library for Detailed Tracts on the Proper Way to Live.”
“You Need Only Ask! The New World Will Provide.”
“Create Progress! Aid Your Fellow Man.”
“Reject Your Greed. Your Community is More Important Than You.”
“Know Your Talents. How Can YOU Best Help?”
“Is Your Neighbour a Threat to Order? Be Brave! Report Him.”
“This is the Best of All Possible Worlds.”
Struggling to understand her place in this world, Ashima-Shimtu followed thousands of other confused and yearning souls to the Cherage Rail Enclave. People knew that this was where undesirables went when they were to be carted away to the ‘re-education centres’. So prevalent and affecting was the Ob’s propaganda that many citizens had been filled with despair. Wishing to no longer be a burden on their community, they wanted their government to kill them.
The enclave was cast in a dull brown light, as a wayfarer lantern had been added atop the clock-tower. Enclave guards lined the edge of the platform to keep suicidal citizens from flinging themselves onto the line; disconsolate people crowded the streets, pressing forward to board the next train and be disposed of for the greater good: Yerasol veterans who never fitted back in to society following the war; single mothers whose children had died; orphans who had no one to guide them; desperate drug addicts who, perversely, were now helped by anyone they ask to help fund their habits. All of these people saw the ‘inspirational’ propaganda and determined that the way to help their fellow man was to cease to be a drain on society.
Ashima-Shimtu, wrapped in a fine robe of red silk, sat on a rooftop beside a withered old tiefling woman who went by the name of Ruby. Ruby shivered from fey pepper dementia. She became dependent on the drug to lift her spirits when the sun disappeared, but a few months ago when Av was shattered in the Gyre she could no longer get glimpses of the Dreaming. Normal life was too mundane for her to tolerate, and so she took ever increasing doses of the pepper, hoping to recapture the high that would never come. Instead, every time she smoked she would hallucinate that she was lashed with chains and pulled in a thousand different directions. This struck a chord in Ashima-Shimtu, and she wished to help the woman, though she did not know how. For the time being, she kept her close by, while she scrutinised the chaos all around her:
Gardienne du Cherage had now come to the enclave, and stood at the top floor of the clock-tower in front of the lantern, shouting at the suicidal masses, trying to undo the psychological damage she had inadvertently wrought. Ashima-Shimtu was fascinated to hear what the tiefling woman would say – these tieflings were an intriguing breed, she thought – so she was somewhat irked to see an invisible figure floating over the heads of the crowd and entering the ground floor of the clock-tower. It was another tiefling, whom she recognised, and his actions promised to disrupt Gardienne’s big speech…
Leon had woken up under a sheet behind some pallets in a disused warehouse in the dockside area of Cherage. He went out onto the street and tried to get his bearings, and figure out where it would be best to head. There were a few people around, but they couldn’t see him – or so he thought. A woman dressed in hoop-skirt, holding a parasol, despite the lack of sun, with a veil over her face and long gloves on her hands, walked right up to him and said, “You’ll find the lantern fuel depot in the clock-tower at the rail enclave.”
Taken aback, Leon scrutinised the woman and saw that she was composed of densely packed and intertwined rats! His surprise at this must have been loud enough for others in the telepathic network to register, as Uru replied, “El Extrano formed them into a hivemind and bribed them with cheese. Don’t you remember?”
Slightly mollified, Leon decided to follow this tip-off, and thus found himself at the enclave, where he determined to enter the clock-tower and disrupt the fuel lines if he could.
It didn’t take him long to figure out how to do so, but the depot was full of guards who might notice what he was up to when the valves started to turn. There wasn’t much he could do about the noise, but he plastered the illusion of an unmoving valve over the real one while he gingerly turned it (all the while wondering why they hadn’t thought to do it this way before).
Just as he was tightening the valve, there was a sudden noise behind him, and he cried out, as hooks imbedded in his flesh. Instinctively, he tried to teleport, but could not, and so found himself yanked bodily out of the depot, over the heads of the crowd and dashed onto the rail-line where he was pinned to ominously vibrating tracks.
Above him, chains writhing all around her, hovered the demoness, Ashima-Shimtu.
Despite his pain and fear, Leon studied Ashima-Shimtu for hivemind possession, and could see no sign of it. Before she could strike again, he cried out a reminder that it was he who had freed her from her prison and allowed her to go on her way.
“A train approaches,” said Ashima-Shimtu, “Time is short. Why do you disrupt the workings of the Obscurati?”
Human geopolitics must not have been her strong point. Before Leon could reply, Gardienne du Cherage gave the order for her troops to open fire on whatever the demoness had pinned. The bystanders could not see him, but could clearly see that the demoness was focused on something, and her writhing chains told them exactly where he was. Immediately, Ashima-Shimtu hissed at them like a wild cat and flailed her chains in their direction, catching a couple with blows sound enough to floor them. Gardienne du Cherage belayed her order and the demoness turned back to Leon.
Leon used all his wiles and powers of persuasion to convince Ashima-Shimtu that all of her doubts and fears were due to this flawed, sunless world, which was not a world in which she could experiment with free will, and the power not to do evil. He and his friends – who had parleyed with her in the past and freed her from the vault – were now trying to fix what the Ob had done. Whatever Nicodemus might have told her, this was a mistake, one which he had no right to make and even less right to fix. (As he spoke, the rail lines began to thrum all the more urgently…)
Ashima-Shimtu nodded. “What the mortal says is right, Ashima-Shimtu sees that now, and for that she ought to free him and let these factions settle their affairs for themselves. Indeed, she would do so, were it not for the fact that she knows the man who speaks these words is a LIAR!” She pulled herself close and spat that word into Leon’s face, inspecting it for signs of the word she had carved into it many years ago. “Ashima-Shimtu will let the train do its worst.”
At that moment, Quratulain spoke telepathically to Leon: “Leon, if you are able, I need your help.” She began to fill him in on the precarious situation in Alais Primos, blissfully unaware of his equally dire predicament. Meanwhile, Ashima-Shimtu sniffed the air about him, as if searching for the source of this voice, which she could apparently hear. She seemed perplexed, suddenly full of doubt. As Quratulain finished her explanation, the demoness said, “The prisoner of ages recognises her cellmate. She desires to speak with her. The liar must bring her here now.”
Leon was desperately trying to focus on two conversations at once, all the while conscious of the growing vibrations in the tracks beneath him. He told Ashima-Shimtu he would do what he could, but quickly let Quratulain know that he did not have a quick fix for her. He could not think of a magical solution to her problem, or figure out how to get there without becoming subject to the same effect. But he passed on Ashima-Shimtu’s message, that she wished to speak with Quratulain.
Quratulain understood why at once (although she did not know that her sundered self had chosen to bond with the demoness, her feelings here on Lanjyr were very much in lockstep). But she had been dragged out of her duplicant shell by the Ob’s lantern, and could not swap with Leon, even if she wished to.
All of a sudden, a powerful blast of lightning struck the bell from above, smashing the lantern to pieces. Before reaching out to Leon, Quratulain had only half-heartedly made an appeal to the powerful father of her unborn child, never imagining he would hear her, let alone respond. But now he had! The Father of Thunder had reached across the sea and struck the bell from above. The purple light winked out. Suddenly, Quratulain and Aulus Atticus – and all the souls in the area around the final lamp – were snapped back into their bodies; in Quratulain’s case, her duplicant.
Sounds of sobbing echoed through the streets all around her, as the people of Alais Primos were freed from the hivemind and unified by their shared out-of-body experience.
Quratulain didn't care about any of that. She told Leon what had happened and they agreed to switch – for him to come to Alais Primos and for her to go to Cherage and speak with Ashima-Shimtu.
Andrew Moreton
Adventurer
I can only hope to remember the Rat Hive mind when I get this far
gideonpepys
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
It is there in the text. I can’t take any credit.
SanjMerchant
Explorer
I wouldn't care how thoroughly my allies briefed me. A bunch of rats impersonating a humanoid by filling up a set of clothes is freaky.
Oh, and I'm glad I finally got back to reading this. To answer your question, I'm just enjoying the great yarn you guys are spinning.
Also, not sure which to be more freaked out by: Gupta as an angry goddess literally un-personing someone on the spot or the ease with which Rumdoom decides that he should just shoot both, just in case.
And finally, every time I've read the Cherage scene, especially the potential ending where Ashima goes off into the not-sunset to liberate more of Danor, I imagine the painting "Liberty Leading the People," but with Ashima swapped in for the title character.
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