THIERRI BOUCHER
UNIVERSALITY WHITE COURAGE (June 30th)
TOTEM: PHOENIX
Associated virtues: Courage, Zeal. Associated vice: Pride. The Phoenix is an Epitome, and one of the most powerful signs in the Hazlani Zodiac. As a White sign it is associated with the sun, fire, and air. Because of its association with rebirth it is associated with converts to the True Faith and with martyrs. When appearing as a solar (birthdate) sign, it often points to a heroic life purpose and an early death. Sometimes this “death” is metaphorical and involves a transition to some other very different status or occupation. As a totem it indicates a man of what has been termed the “natural aristocracy”—one disinclined by nature to subservience, and who feels himself deserving of respect. Virtually all men with this totem have strong wills and aspiring natures. It has secondary associations, as a totem, with both the arcane and divine. Those with the Phoenix totem tend to have pale hair and eyes, to be taller than the average (but not heavier), and often have a prominent scar on the face or scalp.
UNION BLACK OBEDIENCE (November 1st)
SOLAR SIGN: NAKED MOLE RAT
Associated virtues: Obedience, Diligence. Associated vices: Gluttony, Envy. The Naked Mole Rat is somewhat negative as both a solar sign and as a totem. As a Black sign it is associated with the moon, earth, and water. As a solar sign it indicates a life of misplaced priorities and devotion to dubious causes. As a totem it indicates a man intensely conscious of public opinion, who regards conformity with social norms as not only a duty but a pleasure. Those who bear this totem generally devote themselves to one cause or charismatic leader, which they support with blind enthusiasm. They make few or no friends who do not share this enthusiasm, and often have great difficulties in social situations except when talking to a co-enthusiast. They are generally honest and hard-working, but can easily be led into bad habits by social pressures. They are prone to over-eating and sleeping poorly. Men of this totem generally have poor posture, bad eyesight, and buck teeth.
PROFESSOR EVARISTE LEMERCIER
PRESERVATION GREY COURAGE (March 3rd)
TOTEM: BOAR
Associated virtues: Courage, Diligence. Associate vices: Gluttony, Lust. The Boar is generally considered a rather positive sign, especially as a totem. As a Grey sign it is associated with Venus, water, and air, as well as with birth, death, and divinity. As a solar sign it represents turning toward the past and a life spent preserving or reviving customs and attitudes of days gone by (the farther back the better, generally). As a totem it represents a person of hidden depths, often bluff and hearty to external appearance but with wisdom or even cunning well-concealed beneath it. Boars tend to be genial unless seriously provoked, at which point their anger is truly frightening; they enjoy the pleasures of the table and the company of women, and are not above making fools of themselves for a pretty face. Boars usually have dark eyes and complexions and are almost always heavily built.
CHAOS GREY DILIGENCE (December 9th)
SOLAR SIGN: LOCUST
Associated virtue: Diligence. Associated vices: Gluttony. The Locust is considered a somewhat negative sign, especially as a solar sign. As a Grey sign it is associated with Venus, water, and air, as well as with birth, death, and divinity. As a solar sign it represents a life spent pursuing one’s own aims to the detriment (often unintentional) of one’s social class or family. As a totem it generally represents someone remote and not easily moved by emotion, who will do his duty as he sees it—neither more nor less. They are capable of being industrious, but only rarely show much initiative or enthusiasm—and when they do, it is usually turned toward the destruction of some enemy or opposing cause, which they will pursue tirelessly until their aims are achieved. Locusts almost always have grey eyes and are thin as young men, though often obese in old age.
ALICE BLACKWOOD
JUSTICE RED COURAGE (February 17th)
TOTEM: FOXGLOVE
Associated virtue: Courage, Diligence. Associated vices: Pride, Wrath. Foxglove is considered an ambivalent sign as a totem and a positive sign as a solar sign. As a Red sign it is associated with evening, Mars, fire, earth, and the arcane. As a solar sign it represents a life of constant exertion almost always rewarded with success. As a totem it represents a headstrong woman with a strong streak of self-righteousness; at best a Foxglove is a tireless defender of those weaker than herself, at worst she is so convinced of her rectitude that she tramples over anyone weaker-willed than herself. A Foxglove may be led by someone with sufficient wisdom to convince her or sufficient cunning to manage her, but she cannot be overawed into obedience save by the very strongest personalities...and not for long even then. Women with the Foxglove totem tend to have reddish hair, dark eyes, and wide mouths.
SOLAR SIGN: SUBMISSION GREY WISDOM (July 25th)
POPPY
Associated virtue: Wisdom. Associated vices: Sloth, Envy. The Poppy is considered a neutral sign; it is one of the most common totems of northern and central Hazlan. As a Grey sign it is associated with Venus, water, and air, as well as with birth, death, and divinity. As a solar sign it points to a life without extremes of fortune, good or bad; tranquility at best, stagnation at worst. As a totem it represents a woman who is patient and kind; it usually also indicates shyness, or at least reserve, and Poppies tend to be distant emotionally from all but their closest friends and family. Women with this totem often have a strong religious sensibility and tend to have unusually vivid and even prophetic dreams. Those with this totem tend to be weak-willed; they fall into bad habits and addiction easily. Women with this totem tend to be of the average stature, with grey or blue eyes, and are usually pretty if not beautiful.
RICHARD BLACKWOOD
DELEGATION WHITE HONESTY (June 4th)
TOTEM: UNICORN
Associated virtues: Honesty, Zeal. Associated Vices: Pride. The Unicorn is an Epitome, and one of the most powerful signs of the Hazlani Zodiac. It is positive as both a solar sign and as a totem. As a White sign it is associated with the sun, air, and fire. As a solar sign it indicates the patronage of benevolent but largely unseen persons or forces, whether material or spiritual. As a solar sign it indicates a man of unusual moral courage and kindness. They are not natural leaders—the Unicorn generally prefers to keep to himself and not interfere with others' business—but they are almost always well-loved by those who know them, and sometimes find themselves drafted into a position of leadership because of their reputation for honesty and wisdom. They are often pious, and only rarely interested in the arcane. Men of this totem are often highly idealistic, and tend to withdraw into themselves if their ideals are betrayed too often by those around them. Men of this totem are often quite tall, and usually have pale complexions.
AUTONOMY WHITE WISDOM (September 26th)
SOLAR SIGN: SNOW OWL
Virtues: Wisdom, Courage. Vices: Gluttony, Envy. The snow owl is neutral as a solar sign, and neutral or slightly positive as a totem. As a White sign, it is associated with the sun, air, and fire. As a solar sign it indicates a life isolated from one's original social milieu, and often isolated from society in general. As a totem it indicates a man who prefers his own company to that of others, one prone to introspection and to seeking solitude. They are generally quite courageous if roused, but prefer to avoid interpersonal conflict whenever possible. They often have few friends, and those they do have are often kept at arm's length; they are drawn to arts such as architecture and tattooing, and often achieve the excellence only obsession can create in their chosen field. Snow Owls tend to have pale complexions and large, pale eyes.
PROFESSOR CHARLES DEVEREUX
DELEGATION WHITE DILIGENCE (June 3rd)
TOTEM: STORK
Associated virtues: Diligence, Honesty. Associated vices: Envy, Sloth. The stork is regarded as a somewhat positive sign, especially in eastern Hazlan, where they are more common. As a White sign it is associated with the sun, fire, and air. As a solar sign it represents continuity with the past and continuation of one's family traditions. As a totem it usually represents a man devoted to home and family; the Stork will often wander far in the course of his business, but his heart remains with those he leaves behind. Storks are generally good-natured, pleasant, and accomodating—sometimes to a fault, as they tend to give in too easily to the demands of others and can often be manipulated into doing things that are unwise or simply wrong (usually by playing on their better feelings, rather than by intimidation—they are not very easy to browbeat, but are very subject to attacks of conscience). Storks are generally tall and slender, often with a large nose.
FORBEARANCE GREY HONESTY (APRIL 30th)
SOLAR SIGN: TROUT
Associated virtues: Honesty. Associate vices: Greed, Gluttony. The Trout is a neutral sign, both as a solar sign and as a totem. As a Grey sign it is associated with Venus, water, and air, as well as with birth, death, and divinity. As a solar sign it represents constant striving to maintain the place was born into. As a totem it represents a man who is notable for his calm demeanor and adaptability. Men with this totem are generally quiet, sharp observers and with a good eye for the main chance. They can, however, often be tempted into unwise risks by the prospect of material gain, and are somewhat prone to biting off more than they can chew, especially in business or at the gambling table. Trout are generally slender, grey-eyed, and with sparse body hair.
PROFESSOR REMY LESSARD
DUALITY WHITE DILIGENCE (January 14th)
TOTEM: CRANE
Associated virtues: Diligence, Wisdom. Associated Vices: Envy. The Crane is ambivalent as a solar sign and positive as a totem. As a White sign it is associated with the sun, fire, and air. As a solar sign it indicates longevity and prosperity - so long as the life isn't tragically cut short. As a totem it represents a diligent man who believes very strongly in justice. Men of this totem are intensely loyal to their friends, and do their best to watch over them, though often from afar. They prefer to keep things peaceful and try to avoid violence, but should not be underestimated if they are forced to fight; they are often discreet, but will not sit by and do nothing against wrongdoing. They tend to be graceful and elegant, and are often possessed of keen insight into human nature, but they can also be deceptive. This symbol also bears strong ties to the divine. Men of this totem are usually quite handsome and tall, with elegant features.
JUSTICE GREY COURAGE (February 3rd)
SOLAR SIGN: GREYHOUND
Associated virtues: Courage, Diligence. Associated Vices: Envy, Gluttony. The Greyhound is fairly positive both as a solar sign and as a totem. As a Grey sign it is associated with Venus, water, and air, as well as with birth, death, and the divine. As a solar sign it indicates a life of many responsibilities and constant exertion, generally well-rewarded. As a totem it represents a man who is energetic and decisive. Men of this totem tend to be single-minded and hard-working; they dislike inactivity and are always quick to find or invent something to do if they find themselves idle. They are notable for their physical courage. They usually easy-going, but tend to be impatient and can be hard to work with for others of less energy and dedication. Men of this totem are generally tall, thin, and fleet of foot.
The Shattered City: Cutscenes
- Nathan of the FoS
- Fiendish Enforcer
- Posts: 5246
- Joined: Fri Nov 28, 2003 3:39 pm
- Location: San Francisco CA
- Nerit
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 637
- Joined: Sat Aug 15, 2009 12:22 am
- Location: The Eternal Autumn
- Contact:
Vignettes
Vignettes: Exeat
Her leather sandals padded down the worn stone steps to the catacombs. The Last Redoubt was a much larger place than had ever been written about, and it held far more secrets.
The nun, aged nearly nineteen with a straight nose and sharp chin, recounted the passages to the wooden door. Left, right, left, down the half-flight, right... She had memorized a route in the charts to surpass the guards at the other doors. Goddess knew what they held, right? She did, and so did the nun.
The torches gave the empty stone smell an acrid touch to the nostrils, and made the entire trek a flickering vision of dull orange and grey and black.
There it was, at the end of the corridor, reinforced with iron. The young woman approached, candle in hand. She had only been here once before, when they'd put the prisoner inside.
"Lamia?" she whispered.
Silence. The nun rapped on the door with her knuckles, her ear pressed against the surface.
"Sister? Aletheia?"
Someone stirred from within.
"It's Nerit!"
Heavy feet scuffed the stones behind the door, heavy with the weight of scraping chains.
"Why would you call me that..." a soft voice groaned. Yet its once-light lilt was now raw.
Nerit gripped the candle and tried to peer through the tiny, barred square at the top of the door. "They revoked your name...Aletheia," she choked. "I came to see you."
"Yes," it said.
"I miss you." Nerit couldn't see into the darkness of the cell.
The prisoner was silent, in which Nerit could only hear the sound of her own breath and heartbeat. She tried not to remember the screaming, and the blood running down Aletheia's long neck, fanning out into darkened blotches over her green habit. This was not how she wanted their meeting to go.
"Did they...did they do anything to you?"
"Yes."
The inquisitors told her she'd recover, but never survive. Nerit had only been there to transcribe the creature's words; she didn't know it would go so wrong.
"Unlock the door, Sister." The voice was more like it used to be, lilting. Except it dripped with honey.
"You know I can't."
Such a creature was able to break the wizards' wards and leap at the nearest thing: a defenseless inquisitor acolyte. The Shield of Ezra wasn't fast or strong enough.
"Sister, don't lose faith," Nerit encouraged, though her voice wavered. "The Guardian of the Mists will forgive you. You did nothing!"
"Unlock the door, Sister."
"I don't have the key."
The prisoner repeated itself, louder.
"I'm sorry—"
The door suddenly rattled with the full impact of a body slamming into it. Nerit jolted back.
Pallid fingers grabbed the bars at the cell window. An equally pale mouth squeezed itself between the long, feminine fingers. It grinned, flashing sharp canines.
"I can smell your blood," it moaned, loud enough to echo.
Nerit stepped further away.
The mouth receded, replaced with a shining, slanted eye. It twitched and blinked more like that of a dire raptor.
"Please," Nerit forced herself not to cower under its gaze. "Aletheia?"
"My blood is tainted," the prisoner said, and it sounded more like the Aletheia Nerit remembered now. The grey eye softened.
"So is mine," Nerit blurted. "Ezra will forgive!" She came forward to place her hand on the wooden door.
"No, Ezra will destroy the Legions! I am the Legion, Nerit, and you—"
Aletheia cut off. Her head whipped to the side, her pointed ear tilted toward the door's small window. "Do you hear that?" she—it—said silkily. "Mmm, I hear him calling me. He says—he says we can be together, you and I."
"What?"
"If you let me out." The grin returned. "Heretic."
_________________________________________________
Nerit stared at the arrangement of food on her plate. If she kept calm, her poise intact, the many people around her might not devour her. Don't show fear.
One of the small people next to her spoke. She smiled vaguely, she offered a platitude, as if they had not just cut themselves. But that wasn't so unusual, was it?
This place reminded her of Aletheia. Neither the Fledgling or the Master had escaped the vast temple (more fortress) at Nevuchar Springs, last she'd heard. She had forgotten the chaste companionship of her sylvan sister, praying together, walking together. Those young years had passed away with a nose stuck in dusty tomes.
Nerit was not one of the proselytizers like most of the anchorites. There were a few scribes to do the fervent research and recording, if not to determine the date of the Fall of Night, then to learn how to destroy the Legions. No doubt what she and her fellow monastics determined through divinatory means were tested on the monstrosties below.
_________________________________________________
"You wanted to see me, Mother?" The nun inclined her veiled head.
The Sentire appraised Nerit from over her spectacles. "As you well know, Sister Doherty, I established this monastery to better serve the blessed Bastion."
"Yes, Mother."
"He was generous enough to give us the space to call home, to do our works and stay the hand of destruction for yet a few more years."
"Yes, Mother." Nerit folded her hands behind her.
"Yet you, my dear Sister, have been moonlighting as a pamphlet writer?"
Nerit's spine went rigid. "No, Mother—"
"Then, praytell, what is this?" Her wrinkled hands dropped a folded piece of parchment onto her desk, which would have been comical had the situation been different. It's a piece of paper on a pile of more paper, Ma'am.
"I did not publish them, Mother."
The Sentire tapped the side of her head with a bent and spotted finger. "Ah, putting ink to paper is publishing, Sister."
Nerit willed herself not to grimace, though she couldn't help a flush from reaching her cheeks. One of the other scribes had found her work and snitched. "Mother, I never—"
"You never thought perhaps you were doing harm?" The Sentire smiled a knowing, condescending smile. "Let me put it this way. You have been here for over a decade, Sister. I know you through and through." At this Nerit pursed her lips, distinctly disagreeing. "You are a devout follower. But your mind wanders. We are not here to debate the divinity of our Lady of the Mists. We are here as the wall against the tide of night! All your effort must be in determining our defenses. Distracting drivel like this should be left to the atheists of Ste. Mere des Larmes. Which is precisely why I mean to send you there."
Nerit blinked. She couldn't be serious...at a time like this?
The Sentire raised her old, padded bones from her chair and leaned forward on her desk. "You are just the anchorite we need to find the key to the Legions, Sister. You will have to brave the evil that grows out in the world and bring back their Mordentish mysteries. Since you are so intrigued by their philosophies, you will be able to decipher and translate it for us."
_________________________________________________
Nerit's smile grew as she held the scroll containing Bastion Raine's seal. No one could have predicted it. Her carriage bounced along the road from King's Crossing Station. No one would have believed it. The stars were aligned, she thought. An omen, indeed.
Her leather sandals padded down the worn stone steps to the catacombs. The Last Redoubt was a much larger place than had ever been written about, and it held far more secrets.
The nun, aged nearly nineteen with a straight nose and sharp chin, recounted the passages to the wooden door. Left, right, left, down the half-flight, right... She had memorized a route in the charts to surpass the guards at the other doors. Goddess knew what they held, right? She did, and so did the nun.
The torches gave the empty stone smell an acrid touch to the nostrils, and made the entire trek a flickering vision of dull orange and grey and black.
There it was, at the end of the corridor, reinforced with iron. The young woman approached, candle in hand. She had only been here once before, when they'd put the prisoner inside.
"Lamia?" she whispered.
Silence. The nun rapped on the door with her knuckles, her ear pressed against the surface.
"Sister? Aletheia?"
Someone stirred from within.
"It's Nerit!"
Heavy feet scuffed the stones behind the door, heavy with the weight of scraping chains.
"Why would you call me that..." a soft voice groaned. Yet its once-light lilt was now raw.
Nerit gripped the candle and tried to peer through the tiny, barred square at the top of the door. "They revoked your name...Aletheia," she choked. "I came to see you."
"Yes," it said.
"I miss you." Nerit couldn't see into the darkness of the cell.
The prisoner was silent, in which Nerit could only hear the sound of her own breath and heartbeat. She tried not to remember the screaming, and the blood running down Aletheia's long neck, fanning out into darkened blotches over her green habit. This was not how she wanted their meeting to go.
"Did they...did they do anything to you?"
"Yes."
The inquisitors told her she'd recover, but never survive. Nerit had only been there to transcribe the creature's words; she didn't know it would go so wrong.
"Unlock the door, Sister." The voice was more like it used to be, lilting. Except it dripped with honey.
"You know I can't."
Such a creature was able to break the wizards' wards and leap at the nearest thing: a defenseless inquisitor acolyte. The Shield of Ezra wasn't fast or strong enough.
"Sister, don't lose faith," Nerit encouraged, though her voice wavered. "The Guardian of the Mists will forgive you. You did nothing!"
"Unlock the door, Sister."
"I don't have the key."
The prisoner repeated itself, louder.
"I'm sorry—"
The door suddenly rattled with the full impact of a body slamming into it. Nerit jolted back.
Pallid fingers grabbed the bars at the cell window. An equally pale mouth squeezed itself between the long, feminine fingers. It grinned, flashing sharp canines.
"I can smell your blood," it moaned, loud enough to echo.
Nerit stepped further away.
The mouth receded, replaced with a shining, slanted eye. It twitched and blinked more like that of a dire raptor.
"Please," Nerit forced herself not to cower under its gaze. "Aletheia?"
"My blood is tainted," the prisoner said, and it sounded more like the Aletheia Nerit remembered now. The grey eye softened.
"So is mine," Nerit blurted. "Ezra will forgive!" She came forward to place her hand on the wooden door.
"No, Ezra will destroy the Legions! I am the Legion, Nerit, and you—"
Aletheia cut off. Her head whipped to the side, her pointed ear tilted toward the door's small window. "Do you hear that?" she—it—said silkily. "Mmm, I hear him calling me. He says—he says we can be together, you and I."
"What?"
"If you let me out." The grin returned. "Heretic."
_________________________________________________
Nerit stared at the arrangement of food on her plate. If she kept calm, her poise intact, the many people around her might not devour her. Don't show fear.
One of the small people next to her spoke. She smiled vaguely, she offered a platitude, as if they had not just cut themselves. But that wasn't so unusual, was it?
This place reminded her of Aletheia. Neither the Fledgling or the Master had escaped the vast temple (more fortress) at Nevuchar Springs, last she'd heard. She had forgotten the chaste companionship of her sylvan sister, praying together, walking together. Those young years had passed away with a nose stuck in dusty tomes.
Nerit was not one of the proselytizers like most of the anchorites. There were a few scribes to do the fervent research and recording, if not to determine the date of the Fall of Night, then to learn how to destroy the Legions. No doubt what she and her fellow monastics determined through divinatory means were tested on the monstrosties below.
_________________________________________________
"You wanted to see me, Mother?" The nun inclined her veiled head.
The Sentire appraised Nerit from over her spectacles. "As you well know, Sister Doherty, I established this monastery to better serve the blessed Bastion."
"Yes, Mother."
"He was generous enough to give us the space to call home, to do our works and stay the hand of destruction for yet a few more years."
"Yes, Mother." Nerit folded her hands behind her.
"Yet you, my dear Sister, have been moonlighting as a pamphlet writer?"
Nerit's spine went rigid. "No, Mother—"
"Then, praytell, what is this?" Her wrinkled hands dropped a folded piece of parchment onto her desk, which would have been comical had the situation been different. It's a piece of paper on a pile of more paper, Ma'am.
"I did not publish them, Mother."
The Sentire tapped the side of her head with a bent and spotted finger. "Ah, putting ink to paper is publishing, Sister."
Nerit willed herself not to grimace, though she couldn't help a flush from reaching her cheeks. One of the other scribes had found her work and snitched. "Mother, I never—"
"You never thought perhaps you were doing harm?" The Sentire smiled a knowing, condescending smile. "Let me put it this way. You have been here for over a decade, Sister. I know you through and through." At this Nerit pursed her lips, distinctly disagreeing. "You are a devout follower. But your mind wanders. We are not here to debate the divinity of our Lady of the Mists. We are here as the wall against the tide of night! All your effort must be in determining our defenses. Distracting drivel like this should be left to the atheists of Ste. Mere des Larmes. Which is precisely why I mean to send you there."
Nerit blinked. She couldn't be serious...at a time like this?
The Sentire raised her old, padded bones from her chair and leaned forward on her desk. "You are just the anchorite we need to find the key to the Legions, Sister. You will have to brave the evil that grows out in the world and bring back their Mordentish mysteries. Since you are so intrigued by their philosophies, you will be able to decipher and translate it for us."
_________________________________________________
Nerit's smile grew as she held the scroll containing Bastion Raine's seal. No one could have predicted it. Her carriage bounced along the road from King's Crossing Station. No one would have believed it. The stars were aligned, she thought. An omen, indeed.
You are ours, the wraiths whispered.
Alice winced as the spectre glided by her, brushing against her face. The flesh where it touched burned cold, the terrible sensation seeping into her veins. It did more than blacken her skin, it blackened the soul. The light in the room had long ago died, ebbed by the malevolent presence. She could feel it leeching hope away from her - or perhaps it was simply reality catching up to her. The horrible, birdlike wraith circled around, brushing Violette as it did so; she flinched, and gripped Alice’s hand tighter. Alice could see others circling, just out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t have the strength of heart to look.
“Don’t gives em the satisfaction,” Margery said, as if reading her mind.
“In not too long, I fear I’ll have no choice,” Alice replied, trying to sound jovial, but clinging to the smaller woman’s grip. Their circle had started standing tall, but it stood against a foe that sapped their courage and will to live. Violette no longer spoke, simply using all her strength to hold on to the other two women.
“Having regrets?” Margery asked. She sounded cantankerous more than anything, as she usually did when something happened. But even she was starting to slow down.
I regret... the wraiths whispered.
“I am neither so blessed nor so unfortunate that I should have no regrets at twenty-six,” Alice answered, staring at the ground as several came to mind. “But if you refer to staying with you, I do not.”
“I coulds have held em off long enough,” Margery grumbled, nudging at the trapdoor with her foot. The Hospice of the White Dove, like many of the newer Hospices of Hala, had precautions for when the darkness came. They’d managed to secure those patients who couldn’t escape below; now they remained to keep the undead from taking them. The wraiths had done little but circle around them, but even their presence was proving lethal.
“True or not, we can hardly leave now,” Alice said. Margery nodded, satisfied. It was a practical answer, and Margery liked practical.
“Someone must be coming,” Alice murmured, more to bolster her own spirits than anything.
No escape... the wraiths whispered.
---------------
”There’s something up above.”
Richard resisted the urge to look up as he pelted down the city streets, his unsheathed sword held out in front of him. He couldn’t see anything himself, but now it was hard not to imagine things, bat-like wings flapping in the sky waiting to swoop down on him. He must look like a madman, he thought, running with sharp objects and obviously trying not to look any direction but forward. But so long as he wasn’t arrested before he got where he was going, he didn’t care. He could see the signs of panic in the distance - people running and yelling for help - and it meant he was close.
“Can you, can you see Alice?” he asked aloud breathlessly, not pausing a minute in his sprint.
It’s too dark,” his sword echoed back, a voice that sounded as if traveling through water. “Foes ahead!
Richard managed to skid to a halt without falling on his sword, though it took him a moment to see what he was stopping for. Only a shimmer of blue in the air before him betrayed the wraiths, circling through the air like sharks in the water. They flew at him, he swung back, his sword flaring with light. He struck one, and frozen lightning exploded from the sword, crackling through the air and dispersing the others. ”Keep going!”
Richard obeyed, plunging through the sea of wraiths with all the speed he could muster. The specters were cold to the touch and sent chills up his spine, but it seemed not to harm him. He could see an opaque ball of them, now, clustered near the front of the Hospice. Steeling his nerves, he moved towards it, holding his sword at the ready. The spectres spotted him quickly, whispering harshly at his approach.
With a burst of speed, Richard lunged at the ghosts, bringing his sword around in a vicious arc. The wraiths burst forth, splitting apart and circling around before diving back towards him. A single figure remained, with blue eyes that burned like the heart of a flame
It cost him his sword. It nearly cost him his life.
Alice winced as the spectre glided by her, brushing against her face. The flesh where it touched burned cold, the terrible sensation seeping into her veins. It did more than blacken her skin, it blackened the soul. The light in the room had long ago died, ebbed by the malevolent presence. She could feel it leeching hope away from her - or perhaps it was simply reality catching up to her. The horrible, birdlike wraith circled around, brushing Violette as it did so; she flinched, and gripped Alice’s hand tighter. Alice could see others circling, just out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t have the strength of heart to look.
“Don’t gives em the satisfaction,” Margery said, as if reading her mind.
“In not too long, I fear I’ll have no choice,” Alice replied, trying to sound jovial, but clinging to the smaller woman’s grip. Their circle had started standing tall, but it stood against a foe that sapped their courage and will to live. Violette no longer spoke, simply using all her strength to hold on to the other two women.
“Having regrets?” Margery asked. She sounded cantankerous more than anything, as she usually did when something happened. But even she was starting to slow down.
I regret... the wraiths whispered.
“I am neither so blessed nor so unfortunate that I should have no regrets at twenty-six,” Alice answered, staring at the ground as several came to mind. “But if you refer to staying with you, I do not.”
“I coulds have held em off long enough,” Margery grumbled, nudging at the trapdoor with her foot. The Hospice of the White Dove, like many of the newer Hospices of Hala, had precautions for when the darkness came. They’d managed to secure those patients who couldn’t escape below; now they remained to keep the undead from taking them. The wraiths had done little but circle around them, but even their presence was proving lethal.
“True or not, we can hardly leave now,” Alice said. Margery nodded, satisfied. It was a practical answer, and Margery liked practical.
“Someone must be coming,” Alice murmured, more to bolster her own spirits than anything.
No escape... the wraiths whispered.
---------------
”There’s something up above.”
Richard resisted the urge to look up as he pelted down the city streets, his unsheathed sword held out in front of him. He couldn’t see anything himself, but now it was hard not to imagine things, bat-like wings flapping in the sky waiting to swoop down on him. He must look like a madman, he thought, running with sharp objects and obviously trying not to look any direction but forward. But so long as he wasn’t arrested before he got where he was going, he didn’t care. He could see the signs of panic in the distance - people running and yelling for help - and it meant he was close.
“Can you, can you see Alice?” he asked aloud breathlessly, not pausing a minute in his sprint.
It’s too dark,” his sword echoed back, a voice that sounded as if traveling through water. “Foes ahead!
Richard managed to skid to a halt without falling on his sword, though it took him a moment to see what he was stopping for. Only a shimmer of blue in the air before him betrayed the wraiths, circling through the air like sharks in the water. They flew at him, he swung back, his sword flaring with light. He struck one, and frozen lightning exploded from the sword, crackling through the air and dispersing the others. ”Keep going!”
Richard obeyed, plunging through the sea of wraiths with all the speed he could muster. The specters were cold to the touch and sent chills up his spine, but it seemed not to harm him. He could see an opaque ball of them, now, clustered near the front of the Hospice. Steeling his nerves, he moved towards it, holding his sword at the ready. The spectres spotted him quickly, whispering harshly at his approach.
With a burst of speed, Richard lunged at the ghosts, bringing his sword around in a vicious arc. The wraiths burst forth, splitting apart and circling around before diving back towards him. A single figure remained, with blue eyes that burned like the heart of a flame
- and time for Richard seemed to slow to a stop.
It cost him his sword. It nearly cost him his life.
"No, but evil is still being — Is having reason — Being reasonable! Mousie understands? Is always being reason. Is punishing world for not being... Like in head. Is always reason. World should be different, is reason."
Re: The Shattered City: Cutscenes
“I can tell when something is wrong, Professor,” Remy Lessard said, his polished brown shoes clicking down polished brown floors.
“At my age everything is always wrong,” Marchand-Renier replied, barely bothering to keep his files in order as he strode back to his office. “My lungs are acting up again, my eyes are getting worse, the University remains staffed by idiots, and the entire city is in the midst of collapsing like a house of cards. And you have seen fit to embroil yourself right back into the insanity that constantly plagues us. Wasn’t the Expedition enough for you, my boy?” he sighed, with almost a pleading air to it.
“I was a child then. A liability. Not this time.” Lessard’s face hardened in determination, before eyeing the older man again. “Professor, please don’t make me ask Christophe what’s going on. Watching him try to lie is painful for everyone.”
“You know us all far too well,” Sebastian murmured, as he unlocked his door. “Could have been a part of the family.” He listlessly tossed his folder onto his desk before sitting down.
His office looked just as any proper academician’s should, filled to the brim with bookshelves and carved wooden furniture. The walls were spruced up with daguerreotypes, most taken by Remy himself. The desk was replete with inks and pens and parchment, along with a decanter of brandy, a vice Marchand-Renier had been indulging in more heavily over the years. Indeed, the moment he sat down, he poured out a pair of glasses, offering one to the pale blonde man across from him. Lessard leaned forward and took it, setting it down neatly in front of him.
“The problem with selling your soul,” Sebastian said, folding his hands in front of him as he leaned back in his chair, “is the bill invariably comes due.” He shook his head. “I’ve lost, my boy. It was a losing bet from the start.”
“What happened? Are you in danger?” Remy asked, with some alarm. Marchand-Renier gave a humorless chuckle. The younger man looked ready to leap up from his chair and start shooting at imaginary assassins.
“I always was. Perhaps more so now, perhaps less.” Marchand-Renier shrugged, uncaring. “The Brotherhood finally found an offer to Jacqueline’s liking. I doubt anyone knows the true details beyond them and Herself, but I’m given the impression it is quite an enticing one. All she need do in exchange is keep one little mouse from spoiling their soup.” He rubbed his fingers against his brow, setting his head to rest against his arm. “I can’t protect us anymore, Remy. Too much of my strength was on loan from her.”
“Professor...” Lessard sadly reached out and placed his hand on Marchand-Renier’s arm, in a gesture of understanding. “It’s been almost ten years, sir. It’s enough. Let someone else fight now.”
“I did it so no one else would have to,” Sebastian snapped, sitting up straight and grabbing his brandy.
“I’d have done the same for you in an instant, sir,” Remy said, with a small, sad, ironic smile on his face. “I’m sure the others feel the same way.”
“Then you’re a fool. I’m an old man,” Marchand-Renier replied bitterly. “Very well, we can all fling ourselves into the fires of hell to save each other, and save the Brotherhood the trouble!”
Sebastian slumped in his chair, setting his face in his hands. Lessard stood up, walking around the desk to set a comforting hand on the older man’s shoulder.
“I’m tired, my boy,” Marchand-Renier said.
“At my age everything is always wrong,” Marchand-Renier replied, barely bothering to keep his files in order as he strode back to his office. “My lungs are acting up again, my eyes are getting worse, the University remains staffed by idiots, and the entire city is in the midst of collapsing like a house of cards. And you have seen fit to embroil yourself right back into the insanity that constantly plagues us. Wasn’t the Expedition enough for you, my boy?” he sighed, with almost a pleading air to it.
“I was a child then. A liability. Not this time.” Lessard’s face hardened in determination, before eyeing the older man again. “Professor, please don’t make me ask Christophe what’s going on. Watching him try to lie is painful for everyone.”
“You know us all far too well,” Sebastian murmured, as he unlocked his door. “Could have been a part of the family.” He listlessly tossed his folder onto his desk before sitting down.
His office looked just as any proper academician’s should, filled to the brim with bookshelves and carved wooden furniture. The walls were spruced up with daguerreotypes, most taken by Remy himself. The desk was replete with inks and pens and parchment, along with a decanter of brandy, a vice Marchand-Renier had been indulging in more heavily over the years. Indeed, the moment he sat down, he poured out a pair of glasses, offering one to the pale blonde man across from him. Lessard leaned forward and took it, setting it down neatly in front of him.
“The problem with selling your soul,” Sebastian said, folding his hands in front of him as he leaned back in his chair, “is the bill invariably comes due.” He shook his head. “I’ve lost, my boy. It was a losing bet from the start.”
“What happened? Are you in danger?” Remy asked, with some alarm. Marchand-Renier gave a humorless chuckle. The younger man looked ready to leap up from his chair and start shooting at imaginary assassins.
“I always was. Perhaps more so now, perhaps less.” Marchand-Renier shrugged, uncaring. “The Brotherhood finally found an offer to Jacqueline’s liking. I doubt anyone knows the true details beyond them and Herself, but I’m given the impression it is quite an enticing one. All she need do in exchange is keep one little mouse from spoiling their soup.” He rubbed his fingers against his brow, setting his head to rest against his arm. “I can’t protect us anymore, Remy. Too much of my strength was on loan from her.”
“Professor...” Lessard sadly reached out and placed his hand on Marchand-Renier’s arm, in a gesture of understanding. “It’s been almost ten years, sir. It’s enough. Let someone else fight now.”
“I did it so no one else would have to,” Sebastian snapped, sitting up straight and grabbing his brandy.
“I’d have done the same for you in an instant, sir,” Remy said, with a small, sad, ironic smile on his face. “I’m sure the others feel the same way.”
“Then you’re a fool. I’m an old man,” Marchand-Renier replied bitterly. “Very well, we can all fling ourselves into the fires of hell to save each other, and save the Brotherhood the trouble!”
Sebastian slumped in his chair, setting his face in his hands. Lessard stood up, walking around the desk to set a comforting hand on the older man’s shoulder.
“I’m tired, my boy,” Marchand-Renier said.
"No, but evil is still being — Is having reason — Being reasonable! Mousie understands? Is always being reason. Is punishing world for not being... Like in head. Is always reason. World should be different, is reason."
- Nathan of the FoS
- Fiendish Enforcer
- Posts: 5246
- Joined: Fri Nov 28, 2003 3:39 pm
- Location: San Francisco CA
Re: The Shattered City: Cutscenes
Darkness, and the sound of thunder.
Straining to move, he found he could not, and realized with a certainty that surpassed rational confidence that he was enmeshed in a vision, a message from that other world where he was an occasional and reluctant visitor. There was another flash, as of lightning, and then a distant, dim illumination lit all around him and revealed his surroundings.
He stood on a plain, crowded with many others, all of them still as so many statues, but all alive and aware. The ground was darkly transparent, and others stood in another world beneath his feet; the sky was filled, too, with figures like him suspended in some crystal sphere overhead. As he cast his eyes upward a tendril of fire lanced from a dark, sinuous shape suspended in the heavens, and a human-like shape not far from him shivered and crumbled into ash.
Suddenly, the sensation of pressure, and then of movement, a violent wind which filled eyes and ears so that nothing else could be seen or heard, and then he alit elsewhere. For a moment, a moment only, there was the impression of a vast hand retreating; and somewhere high above the hand a single point of light winked—a star in the morning sky? Or a brooch at a woman’s breast?
A little way off, a gold-green clockwork knight lowered his sword, sparks spitting from his joints. There were others here, new neighbors, all dressed in the same metallic livery he wore himself, but he could not see most of them. The enemy, in purple and black, were more obvious but less clearly visible; they seemed to nest in shadows, and behind them a greater shadow hunched at the edge of the board and pawed restlessly at its pawns. One of them, crowned in violet flames and with a spot of fierce silver light emanating from one hand, turned toward him and pointed, addressing him in tones which could not quite be made to form themselves into meaning.
Awaking with a start, he found the fire gone out, the grate cold, and himself very stiff from sleeping in a chair; one star, very low and bright, sparkled from between two limbs of the tree outside his window. His watch read half-past midnight.
By dawn he was on the road to Port-a-Lucine.
Straining to move, he found he could not, and realized with a certainty that surpassed rational confidence that he was enmeshed in a vision, a message from that other world where he was an occasional and reluctant visitor. There was another flash, as of lightning, and then a distant, dim illumination lit all around him and revealed his surroundings.
He stood on a plain, crowded with many others, all of them still as so many statues, but all alive and aware. The ground was darkly transparent, and others stood in another world beneath his feet; the sky was filled, too, with figures like him suspended in some crystal sphere overhead. As he cast his eyes upward a tendril of fire lanced from a dark, sinuous shape suspended in the heavens, and a human-like shape not far from him shivered and crumbled into ash.
Suddenly, the sensation of pressure, and then of movement, a violent wind which filled eyes and ears so that nothing else could be seen or heard, and then he alit elsewhere. For a moment, a moment only, there was the impression of a vast hand retreating; and somewhere high above the hand a single point of light winked—a star in the morning sky? Or a brooch at a woman’s breast?
A little way off, a gold-green clockwork knight lowered his sword, sparks spitting from his joints. There were others here, new neighbors, all dressed in the same metallic livery he wore himself, but he could not see most of them. The enemy, in purple and black, were more obvious but less clearly visible; they seemed to nest in shadows, and behind them a greater shadow hunched at the edge of the board and pawed restlessly at its pawns. One of them, crowned in violet flames and with a spot of fierce silver light emanating from one hand, turned toward him and pointed, addressing him in tones which could not quite be made to form themselves into meaning.
Awaking with a start, he found the fire gone out, the grate cold, and himself very stiff from sleeping in a chair; one star, very low and bright, sparkled from between two limbs of the tree outside his window. His watch read half-past midnight.
By dawn he was on the road to Port-a-Lucine.
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
Re: The Shattered City: Cutscenes
Celeste looked about the room one last time, and lifted the vial. "I should be tempted to give a speech, were our schedule not so very exacting...as matters stand, mesdames and messieurs, I need only propose a toast. To Amity, and to Country! And to the duties owed to both. Do please care for me while I am absent, no?"
Down the hatch.
For a moment afterward, Celeste felt even giddier than she usually was, which could certainly be taken as a sign by more cynical commentators that something was wrong. The sensation was followed by a somewhat sickening feeling of vertigo, that came in alongside the giddiness and lingered long after. Minutes, or maybe seconds, passed; her blood ran cold, there was a sudden pressure in her chest, like someone tightening an iron band around her heart. She gasped, unbidden, for breath, yet she couldn't breathe. She wanted to cough, as if she'd inhaled water - she was too busy sucking air in to hack it out.
It was dark.... it was cold.
--------------
She was sitting on a warm, feathery bed, decked in peach-dyed comforters and pillows. The windows were drawn shut with warm colored curtains, and the room was painted in happy, childlike colors. All about her were the comforts of her childhood, or something akin to them - as if her childhood had been distilled down into its very essence. Over in that corner were her beloved toys, standing over there violins from her latest hobbies, her lovely book collection, her favored piece of art. The room was not, consciously, big enough to hold all these things, and yet anything Celeste tried to look for was there. Moreover, they almost seemed to move, leaning in towards Celeste, as if eagerly vying for her to pick them, pick them to play with. She was especially surprised to find one of the small tables seeming swaying near her bed. Were she one to ascribe motivations to an object, she would say it was offering her toast and tea.
Celeste took a moment or two to concentrate on how comparatively wonderful not choking to death was. She was human, after all. Or had been until recently. This accomplished, though, she came around to her purpose more quickly than most might have. It was surprisingly easy to engage with one's afterlife when the fate of a country demanded it, and when there was a distraction ten inches from every line of sight.
In this case, Celeste's duty involved patting a nearby stuffed bear adoringly on the head (its real-world counterpart having been reluctantly relocated to the family vault after she had realized that it was a priceless first-edition stuffed bear), and politely accepting refreshments from the table, being sure to thank it afterwards.
The table seemed... pleased. There really was no other word for it. The rest of the room seemed content to sit and wait on Celeste as she took her tea, though there was still that feeling of them eagerly seeking her attention. Apparently the objects in her room were far too polite to openly compete when she was eating, but they couldn't help give off that vibe. It was like being surrounded by eager, happy children. They just couldn't hide it.
Elevenses completed, Mlle. Viardot sat up, giving the room a marginally more thorough inspection, duty taking at least equal precedence with comfort. This involved getting off the bed and playing with as many items as she found along the way, yes, but it was as complete as she could muster, all the same. At one point, just in case:
"M. Boucher! Coo-ee! I've--ahem--I've come for a visit! ...Shall I just remain where I am, or is something more complex required that we may effect a meeting? I assure you, I am quite a novice at this, sir!"
The room in itself was both larger than Celeste's actual bedroom and yet felt quite small. The toys and collections and clutter conspired to leave the room feeling a bit cluttered, but it was a nostalgic clutter. It felt safe, and happy. Beyond the four-poster bed there was a dresser, a wardrobe, a foot cushion, and a table with which to attend to her makeup - no mirror, oddly enough. There were a pair of curtains, drawn shut, presumably to keep the light out of her sleeping eyes, and a door. Most rooms had one, and this was no exception. It was not terribly describable, and currently it was shut.
The room seemed to lean in eagerly at her words, as if practically jumping to help. Of the man addressed, however, there was no sign.
As pleasant as all this was, Celeste reflected, she would have plenty of time to enjoy it when she was permanently dead. The circumstances required adventure, and for Celeste, opening a door felt suitably adventuresome.
Gratitude held sway first, though. Celeste turned to the room in general, addressing its various inhabitants as a whole. "Thank you, friends! Your kindness has been most deeply appreciated. Destiny calls, however! Never fear, I shall return one day...or perhaps it may seem like only moments. Ah, never matter...au revoir, friends!" With that, she tried the door.
The door stuck for a few moments, and it took a concentrated effort on her part to get it open. It finally creaked open with a forceful shudder, rather loud in comparison to the relative quiet of the room itself. The hinges squeaked a bit as they swung open. Behind her, she swore she heard the latch to her window catch, as if something were trying to open it.
The door opened up into a long wooden hallway, laid down with rich red carpet. Behind her, she could feel the palpable radiation of disappointment from her books and toys. The room almost seemed to turn a shade greyer, and the furniture gave a crestfallen sag. Sympathetic, Celeste blew a kiss to the assembled knicknacks, gently closed the door behind her, and set off down the hall, alert as could be for someone with alertness issues.
------------
The hallway lead down into something that registered in her mind as "the Center" of her metaphysical household - her mind couldn't register her exact path through the building, simply impressions of where she was going. Impressions of rooms, hallways, at one point a grand staircase. She arrived at a room that was much more austere than the bedroom she had left behind, though still decorated quite tastefully. The tables were simple, but made of gorgeous mahogany; the carpet was unpatterned but functional, the walls mostly undecorated save for a few maps and portraits. Unlike before, there was nothing from her past that she recognized here, though it still looked as though it could have been part of her estate. Like the bedroom before it, the curtains to all the windows were drawn shut. The furniture here did not seem to eagerly clamour for her attention, instead radiating a feeling of mature welcome, like an older servant.
The hallway behind her still seemed to eagerly hope for her return. There was also another hallway, leading further on; it looked familiar, but seemed to radiate a chill as if a window had been left open. There was, finally, a third door, that was covered from top to bottom in deadbolts and heavy chains.
As she explored the room and looked around, she could hear scratching from one of the curtain covered windows, like a tree branch clawing against glass.
Celeste had read a book about alienism once--
No, wait, scratch that.
Celeste had skimmed the first three chapters of a book about alienism once, and remembered something about unhealthy suppressed impulses in even the most well-adjusted of personalities. As this particular dream-mission did not necessarily entail confronting them... Celeste nodded respectfully at the deadbolted door. "You, sir, I shall...save for later." She had been going to say "will not enter", but that would hardly have been polite.
The windows, however, did warrant some attention, implying as they did somebody trying to gain her attention. Gingerly, in case peeking outside one's consciousness involved more "unspeakable horror" than "stark nothingness", Celeste moved to the appropriate wall and drew back just a corner of the curtain.
Mirrors stared back.
Whomever had served this room as a glazier had installed square, silver mirrors in place of glass. The large panels reflected the entire room behind her, but oddly, not Celeste herself. The window was latched shut.
This prompted some musing. On the one hand, somebody could well have been trying to get in. On the other, somebody unpleasant could have been trying to get in. As Celeste had recently acknowledged, she was rather new to this. The spirit of curiosity warred with the spirit of caution, and a compromise was reached. Keeping the curtain half-drawn, Celeste tapped out "Shave and a Haircut" on the mirrored glass, and waited expectantly for the "Two Bits". At least she could figure out whether or not something intelligent was out there.
All was silent for a moment, and then the mirror-windows suddenly and violently rattled, as if something was trying to force its way in. A moment later, the mirrors blinked and looked at her. It wasn't a rational impression, but that was the only way to describe it. Celeste suddenly felt the inescapable sensation of being watched.
Celeste shut the curtain and tied it closed, with stunning efficiency. Well, that was that.
As it stood, though, that third corridor had given her the distinct impression of having a window cracked. Having enjoyed many well-spun metaphors in books, Celeste acknowledged that this could be an unpleasant condition to have in one's mind--and if everything went to plan, she would not be so uniquely present in it for very long.
Circumstances, again, invited proactivity. Operation Draft Prevention commenced with some ceremony, as she strolled briskly down the unexplored corridor, making sure her gloves were on tight as she walked. Once again, she felt the feeling of the furniture watching her depart, although this set hid its disappointment better. One of the coat racks seemed to lean into the corner of her eye, as if to offer her something warm for the trip. Celeste accepted it, of course.
------------------
The corridor was not, as a rule, much different physically than the others, and yet something about it felt cold - colder in ways beyond the temperature. The further she walked, the greyer it became; the colors were no dimmer than others, but something about it felt dark and colorless. Eventually she made it into another room, large, and empty. The furniture was covered in white sheets, like funeral shrouds. Compared to the rooms before, the feeling of nothingness here hit her like a wave. It seemed familiar, in a way. In fact, it reminded her much of her father's study, save that everything was now abandoned, shrouded, and covered in dust.
Up ahead, she could see a large door, flanked by two of the curtained windows - the curtain were moth riddled and looked decrepit. To her right, she could see another door, with a chill breeze wafting out from underneath it. It was locked, and yet had been locked poorly, or perhaps just fit poorly, as she could feel the cold air wafting out from under it. The lock and hinges, indeed, looked much like the locks Thierri had showed her the knack of popping open - a purely theoretical exorcise, of course - that one could accomplish with simply a thick card or butter knife.
Things were generally locked for a reason. As a stopgap, Celeste gently removed the dust cover from one of the couches, rolled it into something approximating a bolster, and maneuvered it into the crack below the door. There. That should do for just now.
There was a faint sigh, like a whisper, as the cover slid from the couch. Celeste apologized. It was a shame that the couch had to be cold, but safety beckoned. In the meanwhile, there was another door to be examined, one which--if unlocked--was likely intended to be so. This felt like the wise course. She tried the knob experimentally.
The knob clicked, and the door creaked open.
The room inside was ruined. It was starkly empty, not a thing on the floor or the walls. The greyed wallpaper was peeling off in huge strips. The floor itself was rotted, holes visible in the cracked and sagging boards. The curtains were burned and tattered. Moonlight flooded in from the windows, the panes here filled with clear glass instead of mirrors, so clear it looked like there was nothing there. The moon hung in the sky, balefully staring down... and looked at her, yellow and unblinking. Just like an eye. Just like Cedolin's eyes.
Just then, Celeste heard a smash from back in the house, like the sound of wood shattering.
This happily coincided with Celeste's unexpected desire to be somewhere else fifteen seconds ago. Not knowing how best to show due deference, she gave the unfortunate room a brisk wave goodbye, before turning, closing the door firmly behind her, and running back towards the source of the sound, hitching up her skirts for extra speed.
-------------------
The corridor quickly faded behind her, leading her back into the other sections of the house. The furniture, toys, paintings and artwork were more animated this time around, moving in the corners of her eyes, trying to crowd around her. The feeling of desperation hung starkly in the air, and they seemed to be trying to pull her away to safety. This way, this way! It was so easy to imagine their plaintive cries.
The smashing sound came again, and again, as if something was trying to break its way in.
"Your solicitude is well-meant, my friends--but if the added weight of Consciousness may forestall this incursion, than it behooves me to act accordingly! If it is not forestalled now, then it may never be so. I beg your forgiveness, my friends: being crafted of my own self, you must know in what manner my ideals bend me thus!" Celeste was talking as she ran--and she wasn't retreating.
The furniture followed along, out of the corner her eye, as if begging her to reconsider. But save for the occasional one that accidentally caught the hem of her dress, there was nothing they could seem to do.
She arrived at the door of a strange room; it seemed familiar and not at the same time, and while she could see it clearly from the edge of her vision, whenever she looked straight at it she couldn't see what was there. She knew she was looking at something, but her brain just wasn't registering it. It seemed to contract and expand irregularly, like a massive creature taking ragged breaths. There were two windows, the moonlight pouring in. They were too low for her to see the moon itself from. Between them there was a door, currently rattling and cracking with the force of something trying to tear its way through it.
Unbidden, Celeste could feel some kind of power crackling between her fingers, waiting for a command.
"Heavens..." Celeste was rather disconcerted by this last, especially. Horrific unseeable entities were one thing (and one that she had come into contact with more than once, by now), but...whatever it was she was able to do was not. Celeste was not generally used to being able to do things. She brushed off her gloves experimentally, and, feeling no change, looked up at the potential incursion again. Clearly, something should be done about this.
With the tone of someone shooting a cannon blindfolded, Celeste pointed at the door: "...Repair? Forestall!"
The door tried as bravely as it could for the first command, but its struggles were growing weaker against the continuing, repetitive onslaught. Instead, the room and the furniture that had followed her seemed to focus on the second, preparing themselves like soldiers at a siege. With a metaphorical nod to his reinforcements, the door shuddered, suddenly splintering into hundreds of ashen, wooden hands; violently ripping forward and clawing at the intruder, scrabbling nightmarishly at their victim...
Celeste saw a pair of blue eyes looking back at her, even as the wooden hands swarmed out to try and cover them.
Thierri was caught in the onslaught; if he saw the hands in time to react, he didn't have the strength to escape them. The young man had been torn open, cleanly - like a paper doll that someone had taken scissors to, a huge bit snipped out of his shoulder, another cut from the right side of his torso, a third sliced from his leg. There was blood everywhere. Yet it didn't seem to stream from the wounds... what streamed from the wounds was emptiness. In place of flesh, there was nothingness; a void, something beyond perception. And around him circled his wraiths, flying slowly around the baleful yellow moon.
"Ce...leste," he managed to whisper. Steam was pouring from his eyes, and they glowed blue like a gas-lit flame.
"Thierri!" Celeste caught her breath.
She cleared her throat, taking a few stunned seconds to process, then addressing the furniture. "I say...forestall; barricade! Do not harm."
Then to Thierri: "Ah...my apologies, sir...as...as I said, I am merely visiting, at present. You will...understand if I do not allow you in, yes?"
Suddenly, Celeste's house and furniture didn't seem so friendly any more.
"AARGH!" Thierri cried out, despite his attempts to stifle it, as the wooden hands dug into the gap in his shoulder and began to slowly rip it further apart. The young man gasped wildly as he stared at Celeste with wild eyes, pain and grief having shoved him far past logic's bounds. With unwilling strength, Thierri shoved himself forward, ripping further into the entryway despite the claws ripping pieces away from him. There was a horrible, shattering sound, like a mirror cracking in half.
"I knew... would put you... in danger..." he choked out, gasping heavily for breath in between each word. "Celeste... this... can't... be... happening..."
The furniture, as if sensing his weakness, struck. Every veneer or pleasantness had been ripped away. Hands pulled out from the floorboards, tearing at his feet. Chairs and table shattered themselves for a chance to hurl splintered wood at the broken man. Theirri staggered back for a moment as a splinter the size of a railroad spike ran through his chest. Another hit him in his stomach, sending blood splatters across the room.
Celeste was crying, now. Hard. She backed away a few steps into the corridor, instinctively, but did not flee.
"Stop it...Stop it STOP IT STOP IT!" A plea to the room, screamed.
And to Thierri, tearful. "Retreat...oh, retreat, it is your only chance!"
"Can't..." The force of the onslaught proved too much, and Thierri fell to his knees, pieces of him starting to fall from his ravaged body like chunks of broken glass. Even now he was clawing his way forward, hand by hand, the house rotting and breaking apart as he passed through it. "If... I but could..." His thought was cut off as he hacked up blood, gasping heavily as he dragged himself through it. "I don't... want you to die!"
Everything dies... the wraiths whispered from where they flew outside, tearing into the house piece by piece.
"And in death... becomes stronger..." Thierri whispered in response, blood splattering from between his jaws.
The power is yours... the wraiths encouraged.
"Yes..." Thierri replied.
Celeste could see the wraiths shimmering, shimmering as they were sucked into the void within him. The young man stood back up, with eyes no longer quite human and a smile no longer quite pleasant, ignoring the continued onslaught. Another lethal splinter caught his chest; he ignored it, taking a step forward and outstretching his hand.
"I...I shall see you presently, M. Boucher. Under...under better circumstances." Catching a sob, Celeste turned and ran.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something form in Thierri's outstretched hand - a farmer's scythe, well used, and sharp. He smiled at her, a passionate, unholy smile. Then the room flung itself at him, ripping him further and further apart, and Celeste ran.
The rest of the house no longer seemed welcoming either. The friendly furniture was warped, the recognizable things gone, the chains on the door rattling as if trying to be forced open. And something about the hallways seemed to trick her and turn her about, as she realized they were trying to drag her back to the rotten room with the moon-like eye...
There was only one thing to do under the circumstances, and Celeste seized upon it with characteristic enthusiasm. Hiding under a coffee table and sobbing was not the most productive course of action. But it seemed fitting.
"Oh, friends! M. Melanchthon, M. Prescott, M. Eisenwald, Mlle. Inkeri--let your mystic work be done! I...I...oh, I want to go home!"
Down the hatch.
For a moment afterward, Celeste felt even giddier than she usually was, which could certainly be taken as a sign by more cynical commentators that something was wrong. The sensation was followed by a somewhat sickening feeling of vertigo, that came in alongside the giddiness and lingered long after. Minutes, or maybe seconds, passed; her blood ran cold, there was a sudden pressure in her chest, like someone tightening an iron band around her heart. She gasped, unbidden, for breath, yet she couldn't breathe. She wanted to cough, as if she'd inhaled water - she was too busy sucking air in to hack it out.
It was dark.... it was cold.
--------------
She was sitting on a warm, feathery bed, decked in peach-dyed comforters and pillows. The windows were drawn shut with warm colored curtains, and the room was painted in happy, childlike colors. All about her were the comforts of her childhood, or something akin to them - as if her childhood had been distilled down into its very essence. Over in that corner were her beloved toys, standing over there violins from her latest hobbies, her lovely book collection, her favored piece of art. The room was not, consciously, big enough to hold all these things, and yet anything Celeste tried to look for was there. Moreover, they almost seemed to move, leaning in towards Celeste, as if eagerly vying for her to pick them, pick them to play with. She was especially surprised to find one of the small tables seeming swaying near her bed. Were she one to ascribe motivations to an object, she would say it was offering her toast and tea.
Celeste took a moment or two to concentrate on how comparatively wonderful not choking to death was. She was human, after all. Or had been until recently. This accomplished, though, she came around to her purpose more quickly than most might have. It was surprisingly easy to engage with one's afterlife when the fate of a country demanded it, and when there was a distraction ten inches from every line of sight.
In this case, Celeste's duty involved patting a nearby stuffed bear adoringly on the head (its real-world counterpart having been reluctantly relocated to the family vault after she had realized that it was a priceless first-edition stuffed bear), and politely accepting refreshments from the table, being sure to thank it afterwards.
The table seemed... pleased. There really was no other word for it. The rest of the room seemed content to sit and wait on Celeste as she took her tea, though there was still that feeling of them eagerly seeking her attention. Apparently the objects in her room were far too polite to openly compete when she was eating, but they couldn't help give off that vibe. It was like being surrounded by eager, happy children. They just couldn't hide it.
Elevenses completed, Mlle. Viardot sat up, giving the room a marginally more thorough inspection, duty taking at least equal precedence with comfort. This involved getting off the bed and playing with as many items as she found along the way, yes, but it was as complete as she could muster, all the same. At one point, just in case:
"M. Boucher! Coo-ee! I've--ahem--I've come for a visit! ...Shall I just remain where I am, or is something more complex required that we may effect a meeting? I assure you, I am quite a novice at this, sir!"
The room in itself was both larger than Celeste's actual bedroom and yet felt quite small. The toys and collections and clutter conspired to leave the room feeling a bit cluttered, but it was a nostalgic clutter. It felt safe, and happy. Beyond the four-poster bed there was a dresser, a wardrobe, a foot cushion, and a table with which to attend to her makeup - no mirror, oddly enough. There were a pair of curtains, drawn shut, presumably to keep the light out of her sleeping eyes, and a door. Most rooms had one, and this was no exception. It was not terribly describable, and currently it was shut.
The room seemed to lean in eagerly at her words, as if practically jumping to help. Of the man addressed, however, there was no sign.
As pleasant as all this was, Celeste reflected, she would have plenty of time to enjoy it when she was permanently dead. The circumstances required adventure, and for Celeste, opening a door felt suitably adventuresome.
Gratitude held sway first, though. Celeste turned to the room in general, addressing its various inhabitants as a whole. "Thank you, friends! Your kindness has been most deeply appreciated. Destiny calls, however! Never fear, I shall return one day...or perhaps it may seem like only moments. Ah, never matter...au revoir, friends!" With that, she tried the door.
The door stuck for a few moments, and it took a concentrated effort on her part to get it open. It finally creaked open with a forceful shudder, rather loud in comparison to the relative quiet of the room itself. The hinges squeaked a bit as they swung open. Behind her, she swore she heard the latch to her window catch, as if something were trying to open it.
The door opened up into a long wooden hallway, laid down with rich red carpet. Behind her, she could feel the palpable radiation of disappointment from her books and toys. The room almost seemed to turn a shade greyer, and the furniture gave a crestfallen sag. Sympathetic, Celeste blew a kiss to the assembled knicknacks, gently closed the door behind her, and set off down the hall, alert as could be for someone with alertness issues.
------------
The hallway lead down into something that registered in her mind as "the Center" of her metaphysical household - her mind couldn't register her exact path through the building, simply impressions of where she was going. Impressions of rooms, hallways, at one point a grand staircase. She arrived at a room that was much more austere than the bedroom she had left behind, though still decorated quite tastefully. The tables were simple, but made of gorgeous mahogany; the carpet was unpatterned but functional, the walls mostly undecorated save for a few maps and portraits. Unlike before, there was nothing from her past that she recognized here, though it still looked as though it could have been part of her estate. Like the bedroom before it, the curtains to all the windows were drawn shut. The furniture here did not seem to eagerly clamour for her attention, instead radiating a feeling of mature welcome, like an older servant.
The hallway behind her still seemed to eagerly hope for her return. There was also another hallway, leading further on; it looked familiar, but seemed to radiate a chill as if a window had been left open. There was, finally, a third door, that was covered from top to bottom in deadbolts and heavy chains.
As she explored the room and looked around, she could hear scratching from one of the curtain covered windows, like a tree branch clawing against glass.
Celeste had read a book about alienism once--
No, wait, scratch that.
Celeste had skimmed the first three chapters of a book about alienism once, and remembered something about unhealthy suppressed impulses in even the most well-adjusted of personalities. As this particular dream-mission did not necessarily entail confronting them... Celeste nodded respectfully at the deadbolted door. "You, sir, I shall...save for later." She had been going to say "will not enter", but that would hardly have been polite.
The windows, however, did warrant some attention, implying as they did somebody trying to gain her attention. Gingerly, in case peeking outside one's consciousness involved more "unspeakable horror" than "stark nothingness", Celeste moved to the appropriate wall and drew back just a corner of the curtain.
Mirrors stared back.
Whomever had served this room as a glazier had installed square, silver mirrors in place of glass. The large panels reflected the entire room behind her, but oddly, not Celeste herself. The window was latched shut.
This prompted some musing. On the one hand, somebody could well have been trying to get in. On the other, somebody unpleasant could have been trying to get in. As Celeste had recently acknowledged, she was rather new to this. The spirit of curiosity warred with the spirit of caution, and a compromise was reached. Keeping the curtain half-drawn, Celeste tapped out "Shave and a Haircut" on the mirrored glass, and waited expectantly for the "Two Bits". At least she could figure out whether or not something intelligent was out there.
All was silent for a moment, and then the mirror-windows suddenly and violently rattled, as if something was trying to force its way in. A moment later, the mirrors blinked and looked at her. It wasn't a rational impression, but that was the only way to describe it. Celeste suddenly felt the inescapable sensation of being watched.
Celeste shut the curtain and tied it closed, with stunning efficiency. Well, that was that.
As it stood, though, that third corridor had given her the distinct impression of having a window cracked. Having enjoyed many well-spun metaphors in books, Celeste acknowledged that this could be an unpleasant condition to have in one's mind--and if everything went to plan, she would not be so uniquely present in it for very long.
Circumstances, again, invited proactivity. Operation Draft Prevention commenced with some ceremony, as she strolled briskly down the unexplored corridor, making sure her gloves were on tight as she walked. Once again, she felt the feeling of the furniture watching her depart, although this set hid its disappointment better. One of the coat racks seemed to lean into the corner of her eye, as if to offer her something warm for the trip. Celeste accepted it, of course.
------------------
The corridor was not, as a rule, much different physically than the others, and yet something about it felt cold - colder in ways beyond the temperature. The further she walked, the greyer it became; the colors were no dimmer than others, but something about it felt dark and colorless. Eventually she made it into another room, large, and empty. The furniture was covered in white sheets, like funeral shrouds. Compared to the rooms before, the feeling of nothingness here hit her like a wave. It seemed familiar, in a way. In fact, it reminded her much of her father's study, save that everything was now abandoned, shrouded, and covered in dust.
Up ahead, she could see a large door, flanked by two of the curtained windows - the curtain were moth riddled and looked decrepit. To her right, she could see another door, with a chill breeze wafting out from underneath it. It was locked, and yet had been locked poorly, or perhaps just fit poorly, as she could feel the cold air wafting out from under it. The lock and hinges, indeed, looked much like the locks Thierri had showed her the knack of popping open - a purely theoretical exorcise, of course - that one could accomplish with simply a thick card or butter knife.
Things were generally locked for a reason. As a stopgap, Celeste gently removed the dust cover from one of the couches, rolled it into something approximating a bolster, and maneuvered it into the crack below the door. There. That should do for just now.
There was a faint sigh, like a whisper, as the cover slid from the couch. Celeste apologized. It was a shame that the couch had to be cold, but safety beckoned. In the meanwhile, there was another door to be examined, one which--if unlocked--was likely intended to be so. This felt like the wise course. She tried the knob experimentally.
The knob clicked, and the door creaked open.
The room inside was ruined. It was starkly empty, not a thing on the floor or the walls. The greyed wallpaper was peeling off in huge strips. The floor itself was rotted, holes visible in the cracked and sagging boards. The curtains were burned and tattered. Moonlight flooded in from the windows, the panes here filled with clear glass instead of mirrors, so clear it looked like there was nothing there. The moon hung in the sky, balefully staring down... and looked at her, yellow and unblinking. Just like an eye. Just like Cedolin's eyes.
Just then, Celeste heard a smash from back in the house, like the sound of wood shattering.
This happily coincided with Celeste's unexpected desire to be somewhere else fifteen seconds ago. Not knowing how best to show due deference, she gave the unfortunate room a brisk wave goodbye, before turning, closing the door firmly behind her, and running back towards the source of the sound, hitching up her skirts for extra speed.
-------------------
The corridor quickly faded behind her, leading her back into the other sections of the house. The furniture, toys, paintings and artwork were more animated this time around, moving in the corners of her eyes, trying to crowd around her. The feeling of desperation hung starkly in the air, and they seemed to be trying to pull her away to safety. This way, this way! It was so easy to imagine their plaintive cries.
The smashing sound came again, and again, as if something was trying to break its way in.
"Your solicitude is well-meant, my friends--but if the added weight of Consciousness may forestall this incursion, than it behooves me to act accordingly! If it is not forestalled now, then it may never be so. I beg your forgiveness, my friends: being crafted of my own self, you must know in what manner my ideals bend me thus!" Celeste was talking as she ran--and she wasn't retreating.
The furniture followed along, out of the corner her eye, as if begging her to reconsider. But save for the occasional one that accidentally caught the hem of her dress, there was nothing they could seem to do.
She arrived at the door of a strange room; it seemed familiar and not at the same time, and while she could see it clearly from the edge of her vision, whenever she looked straight at it she couldn't see what was there. She knew she was looking at something, but her brain just wasn't registering it. It seemed to contract and expand irregularly, like a massive creature taking ragged breaths. There were two windows, the moonlight pouring in. They were too low for her to see the moon itself from. Between them there was a door, currently rattling and cracking with the force of something trying to tear its way through it.
Unbidden, Celeste could feel some kind of power crackling between her fingers, waiting for a command.
"Heavens..." Celeste was rather disconcerted by this last, especially. Horrific unseeable entities were one thing (and one that she had come into contact with more than once, by now), but...whatever it was she was able to do was not. Celeste was not generally used to being able to do things. She brushed off her gloves experimentally, and, feeling no change, looked up at the potential incursion again. Clearly, something should be done about this.
With the tone of someone shooting a cannon blindfolded, Celeste pointed at the door: "...Repair? Forestall!"
The door tried as bravely as it could for the first command, but its struggles were growing weaker against the continuing, repetitive onslaught. Instead, the room and the furniture that had followed her seemed to focus on the second, preparing themselves like soldiers at a siege. With a metaphorical nod to his reinforcements, the door shuddered, suddenly splintering into hundreds of ashen, wooden hands; violently ripping forward and clawing at the intruder, scrabbling nightmarishly at their victim...
Celeste saw a pair of blue eyes looking back at her, even as the wooden hands swarmed out to try and cover them.
Thierri was caught in the onslaught; if he saw the hands in time to react, he didn't have the strength to escape them. The young man had been torn open, cleanly - like a paper doll that someone had taken scissors to, a huge bit snipped out of his shoulder, another cut from the right side of his torso, a third sliced from his leg. There was blood everywhere. Yet it didn't seem to stream from the wounds... what streamed from the wounds was emptiness. In place of flesh, there was nothingness; a void, something beyond perception. And around him circled his wraiths, flying slowly around the baleful yellow moon.
"Ce...leste," he managed to whisper. Steam was pouring from his eyes, and they glowed blue like a gas-lit flame.
"Thierri!" Celeste caught her breath.
She cleared her throat, taking a few stunned seconds to process, then addressing the furniture. "I say...forestall; barricade! Do not harm."
Then to Thierri: "Ah...my apologies, sir...as...as I said, I am merely visiting, at present. You will...understand if I do not allow you in, yes?"
Suddenly, Celeste's house and furniture didn't seem so friendly any more.
"AARGH!" Thierri cried out, despite his attempts to stifle it, as the wooden hands dug into the gap in his shoulder and began to slowly rip it further apart. The young man gasped wildly as he stared at Celeste with wild eyes, pain and grief having shoved him far past logic's bounds. With unwilling strength, Thierri shoved himself forward, ripping further into the entryway despite the claws ripping pieces away from him. There was a horrible, shattering sound, like a mirror cracking in half.
"I knew... would put you... in danger..." he choked out, gasping heavily for breath in between each word. "Celeste... this... can't... be... happening..."
The furniture, as if sensing his weakness, struck. Every veneer or pleasantness had been ripped away. Hands pulled out from the floorboards, tearing at his feet. Chairs and table shattered themselves for a chance to hurl splintered wood at the broken man. Theirri staggered back for a moment as a splinter the size of a railroad spike ran through his chest. Another hit him in his stomach, sending blood splatters across the room.
Celeste was crying, now. Hard. She backed away a few steps into the corridor, instinctively, but did not flee.
"Stop it...Stop it STOP IT STOP IT!" A plea to the room, screamed.
And to Thierri, tearful. "Retreat...oh, retreat, it is your only chance!"
"Can't..." The force of the onslaught proved too much, and Thierri fell to his knees, pieces of him starting to fall from his ravaged body like chunks of broken glass. Even now he was clawing his way forward, hand by hand, the house rotting and breaking apart as he passed through it. "If... I but could..." His thought was cut off as he hacked up blood, gasping heavily as he dragged himself through it. "I don't... want you to die!"
Everything dies... the wraiths whispered from where they flew outside, tearing into the house piece by piece.
"And in death... becomes stronger..." Thierri whispered in response, blood splattering from between his jaws.
The power is yours... the wraiths encouraged.
"Yes..." Thierri replied.
Celeste could see the wraiths shimmering, shimmering as they were sucked into the void within him. The young man stood back up, with eyes no longer quite human and a smile no longer quite pleasant, ignoring the continued onslaught. Another lethal splinter caught his chest; he ignored it, taking a step forward and outstretching his hand.
"I...I shall see you presently, M. Boucher. Under...under better circumstances." Catching a sob, Celeste turned and ran.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something form in Thierri's outstretched hand - a farmer's scythe, well used, and sharp. He smiled at her, a passionate, unholy smile. Then the room flung itself at him, ripping him further and further apart, and Celeste ran.
The rest of the house no longer seemed welcoming either. The friendly furniture was warped, the recognizable things gone, the chains on the door rattling as if trying to be forced open. And something about the hallways seemed to trick her and turn her about, as she realized they were trying to drag her back to the rotten room with the moon-like eye...
There was only one thing to do under the circumstances, and Celeste seized upon it with characteristic enthusiasm. Hiding under a coffee table and sobbing was not the most productive course of action. But it seemed fitting.
"Oh, friends! M. Melanchthon, M. Prescott, M. Eisenwald, Mlle. Inkeri--let your mystic work be done! I...I...oh, I want to go home!"
"No, but evil is still being — Is having reason — Being reasonable! Mousie understands? Is always being reason. Is punishing world for not being... Like in head. Is always reason. World should be different, is reason."
- NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Re: The Shattered City: Cutscenes
Inkeri pulled down a dried bundle of herbs - sage, oddly enough - and set them alight, waving them slowly back and forth as she walked around the tent. A thick, cloying smell began to fill the air. Satisfied, she set the bundle down in an iron pot so that it could continue to smolder, then picked up her second chalice. This she filled with a pale liquid, and then dropped several fleshy, bright red yew berries into it - poisonous berries. Either the huldra did not find them so, or she intended to join Celeste in slumber. With that, Inky picked up a small black bag, reclaimed her long wooden pole, and walked over to the iron frame. She nodded to Celeste.
Celeste looked about the room one last time, and lifted the cup. "I should be tempted to give a speech, were our schedule not so very exacting...as matters stand, mesdames and messieurs, I need only propose a toast. To Amity, and to Country! And to the duties owed to both. Do please care for me while I am absent, no?"
Down the hatch.
It wasn’t pleasant to watch. For a moment the young woman seemed even giddier than normal. Then, all too quickly, she began to gasp for breath, choking for air and grasping at her chest. She finally slid into unconsciousness, the chalice slipping from her fingers to land on the ground below. It fell without a sound, and you could all feel a sudden, unpleasant pressure in your ears, like the air was pressing in on them.
Inkeri raised her own poisonous tincture to her lips, downing the liquid in one gulp. When she opened her eyes a moment later they seemed unfocused, as if looking at something that wasn’t quite there. With the wooden pole she began to stir the pot of water, starting slow, then speeding up until the water formed a miniature whirlpool. She began to chant in a steady, rhythmic tone.
She removed the pole from the water, instead using it to draw a large circle on the ground around Celeste. Many broad strokes followed, the staff leaving wet trails in the dirt, etching out a fairly accurate map of Port-a-Lucine. The water in the pot kept churning without impetus, the miniature whirlpool seeming deeper and deeper. It began to turn white, with a pale glow, and you thought you could start to see faces - tormented faces, like the ones in the well where Thierri had fallen, whispering out their regrets and anger. A young child, dead of plague before she had even lived. A woman, killed in the riots when her house was burned. A gendarme, murdered for trying to help a young girl. The whispering grew to audible levels, and Inkeri drew forth the pouch, opening it and throwing a bunch of small wooden tiles into the air.
“Four of these make him. Five of these transform him. The last is what he is now,” Inkeri said, seemingly more aware but still speaking slowly. The tiles, it turned out, had runes inscribed upon one of their faces. Some mystic art had caused all of those that had landed face down to land outside of the circle, and those face up within - sort of. One face up rune had landed within the circle, then bounced out; another had landed on its edge and rolled around before tumbling out of the circle and falling over; a third had landed on Celeste herself, and the fourth was bobbing up and down in the now calmer waters. “The four must be restored. The five must be reversed. The last must be destroyed.”
She reached out with the pole, drawing a circle in the dirt around one of the runestones, etched with something that looked like the letter “M” if it had crossbars. “Blood,” she intoned. “Mannaz. Man.” She had apparently been watching in what order the stones had fallen. “The race of men. What makes them men. A symbol of family. This is what you seek, the blood of his family.”
“Bone,” she said, circling a rune that landed on the dirt map’s Quartier Ouvrier, near the Vervain Rookery. It looked a bit like an “F” with the lines slanted upward. “Fehu. Wealth. A treasure of someone who owes him a treasure. A bone that owes him gratitude. An emissary to the dead that hold him.”
“Ash,” she said, circling a rune that had landed on the city’s mortuary. It looked a bit like a child’s drawing of a fish. “Othila. Ancestral property. A spiritual inheritance that he had no right to, thrust upon him. The ash of his predecessor, whom he seeks to replace. The body of one that once held his power, that it might draw the power back from him. This is what you seek, the ashes of the old Death.”
“Dust,” she said, circling the rune that had bounced off the Hospice of Hala and out of the circle. It looked like a large “X”. “Gebo. Gift. You seek a dust that is meaningful to what he is becoming... a chamber sacred to the Lady of Winter, that kills all mortals that step foot upon it...” Here Inkeri paused. “Gebo is a gift given to strengthen ties. Partnership. You cannot find this on your own. You must ask a partner to aid you, and trust them to do so.”
“Breath,” she said, circling the rune that had been rolling around for a while. It looked like a letter “M”. “Ehwaz. Horse. The rune of travel. An old legend, long forgotten - that deer spring forth from the shadows of the dead, lizards from their skin, owls from their soul, horses from their breath. You seek Death's last breath. It runs swiftly, and I cannot tell you where it might be, from one moment to the next. You too must find a way to travel, and catch it. But I am no expert in travel.”
“Mind,” she said, circling a rune that... looked like it had fallen on the Chateau Malchance. It was a strange, crooked cross. “Nauthiz. Need. Restriction leading to strength. Something that has bound his mind, but made him stronger for it. Now those bindings will keep his mind from shattering. Something important to him, that affects his actions. This is what you seek.”
“Flesh,” she said, circling a rune that was in the noble’s quartier. It looked like the letter “H”. “Haglaz. Hail. A sign of great sickness or injury. A bane. Something that has done great harm to him, in the past. A hailstone that struck a mortal blow. A bit of his life was caught upon it, and that life shall be returned to him. This is what you seek.”
“Soul,” she said, circling a rune that was in one of the better areas of the Quartier Ouvrier. “Kaunaz. Fire. Something to restore a broken man. Something to relight a burned-out soul. A kindred spirit. A symbol of his true self. This is what you seek.”
“Heart,” she said looking at the rune on Celeste, which resembled the letter “P”. “Wunjo. Joy. You cannot force him to survive this. The stronger his ties to this world are, the easier it is to pull him back. He must wish to come back. If he does not, he will die.”
"And the last." She fished the floating tile out of the the water. "Eihwaz. Yew. The tree of the underworld, of death and so rebirth. His name will be his undoing, his own nature the means of his destruction - from his destruction he will be freed. But I sense you already hold the answer to that."
"Bring the rest to me, that we may fashion chains to bind him. Bring the rest to me, that we may draw his power from him. Then he may be undone."
She set the staff down on the ground, holding onto it a bit as she swayed. She blinked as her eyes regained their focus, then gave a sigh.
The pressure in your ears, which had been niggling at you since Celeste had drunk the poison, suddenly began to grow unbearable. Inky winced, gesturing to Celeste as she dropped the staff and began to scramble for some kind of herbal healing. "Oh! Quickly, revive her! Quickly!"
The crystal vials Mercator had set down exploded.
Celeste looked about the room one last time, and lifted the cup. "I should be tempted to give a speech, were our schedule not so very exacting...as matters stand, mesdames and messieurs, I need only propose a toast. To Amity, and to Country! And to the duties owed to both. Do please care for me while I am absent, no?"
Down the hatch.
It wasn’t pleasant to watch. For a moment the young woman seemed even giddier than normal. Then, all too quickly, she began to gasp for breath, choking for air and grasping at her chest. She finally slid into unconsciousness, the chalice slipping from her fingers to land on the ground below. It fell without a sound, and you could all feel a sudden, unpleasant pressure in your ears, like the air was pressing in on them.
Inkeri raised her own poisonous tincture to her lips, downing the liquid in one gulp. When she opened her eyes a moment later they seemed unfocused, as if looking at something that wasn’t quite there. With the wooden pole she began to stir the pot of water, starting slow, then speeding up until the water formed a miniature whirlpool. She began to chant in a steady, rhythmic tone.
She removed the pole from the water, instead using it to draw a large circle on the ground around Celeste. Many broad strokes followed, the staff leaving wet trails in the dirt, etching out a fairly accurate map of Port-a-Lucine. The water in the pot kept churning without impetus, the miniature whirlpool seeming deeper and deeper. It began to turn white, with a pale glow, and you thought you could start to see faces - tormented faces, like the ones in the well where Thierri had fallen, whispering out their regrets and anger. A young child, dead of plague before she had even lived. A woman, killed in the riots when her house was burned. A gendarme, murdered for trying to help a young girl. The whispering grew to audible levels, and Inkeri drew forth the pouch, opening it and throwing a bunch of small wooden tiles into the air.
- "Blood." It was Poincare’s voice careful, precise, tired, like an echo out of time - just as she had sounded the night she had died.
Your flesh is ours, came the whispering of wraiths, in macabre echo.
“Bone.”
Your heart is ours.
"Ash."
Your mind is ours.
"Dust."
Your soul is ours.
"Breath."
"I am Thanatos..."
- "Blood." It was Poincare’s voice careful, precise, tired, like an echo out of time - just as she had sounded the night she had died.
“Four of these make him. Five of these transform him. The last is what he is now,” Inkeri said, seemingly more aware but still speaking slowly. The tiles, it turned out, had runes inscribed upon one of their faces. Some mystic art had caused all of those that had landed face down to land outside of the circle, and those face up within - sort of. One face up rune had landed within the circle, then bounced out; another had landed on its edge and rolled around before tumbling out of the circle and falling over; a third had landed on Celeste herself, and the fourth was bobbing up and down in the now calmer waters. “The four must be restored. The five must be reversed. The last must be destroyed.”
She reached out with the pole, drawing a circle in the dirt around one of the runestones, etched with something that looked like the letter “M” if it had crossbars. “Blood,” she intoned. “Mannaz. Man.” She had apparently been watching in what order the stones had fallen. “The race of men. What makes them men. A symbol of family. This is what you seek, the blood of his family.”
“Bone,” she said, circling a rune that landed on the dirt map’s Quartier Ouvrier, near the Vervain Rookery. It looked a bit like an “F” with the lines slanted upward. “Fehu. Wealth. A treasure of someone who owes him a treasure. A bone that owes him gratitude. An emissary to the dead that hold him.”
“Ash,” she said, circling a rune that had landed on the city’s mortuary. It looked a bit like a child’s drawing of a fish. “Othila. Ancestral property. A spiritual inheritance that he had no right to, thrust upon him. The ash of his predecessor, whom he seeks to replace. The body of one that once held his power, that it might draw the power back from him. This is what you seek, the ashes of the old Death.”
“Dust,” she said, circling the rune that had bounced off the Hospice of Hala and out of the circle. It looked like a large “X”. “Gebo. Gift. You seek a dust that is meaningful to what he is becoming... a chamber sacred to the Lady of Winter, that kills all mortals that step foot upon it...” Here Inkeri paused. “Gebo is a gift given to strengthen ties. Partnership. You cannot find this on your own. You must ask a partner to aid you, and trust them to do so.”
“Breath,” she said, circling the rune that had been rolling around for a while. It looked like a letter “M”. “Ehwaz. Horse. The rune of travel. An old legend, long forgotten - that deer spring forth from the shadows of the dead, lizards from their skin, owls from their soul, horses from their breath. You seek Death's last breath. It runs swiftly, and I cannot tell you where it might be, from one moment to the next. You too must find a way to travel, and catch it. But I am no expert in travel.”
“Mind,” she said, circling a rune that... looked like it had fallen on the Chateau Malchance. It was a strange, crooked cross. “Nauthiz. Need. Restriction leading to strength. Something that has bound his mind, but made him stronger for it. Now those bindings will keep his mind from shattering. Something important to him, that affects his actions. This is what you seek.”
“Flesh,” she said, circling a rune that was in the noble’s quartier. It looked like the letter “H”. “Haglaz. Hail. A sign of great sickness or injury. A bane. Something that has done great harm to him, in the past. A hailstone that struck a mortal blow. A bit of his life was caught upon it, and that life shall be returned to him. This is what you seek.”
“Soul,” she said, circling a rune that was in one of the better areas of the Quartier Ouvrier. “Kaunaz. Fire. Something to restore a broken man. Something to relight a burned-out soul. A kindred spirit. A symbol of his true self. This is what you seek.”
“Heart,” she said looking at the rune on Celeste, which resembled the letter “P”. “Wunjo. Joy. You cannot force him to survive this. The stronger his ties to this world are, the easier it is to pull him back. He must wish to come back. If he does not, he will die.”
"And the last." She fished the floating tile out of the the water. "Eihwaz. Yew. The tree of the underworld, of death and so rebirth. His name will be his undoing, his own nature the means of his destruction - from his destruction he will be freed. But I sense you already hold the answer to that."
"Bring the rest to me, that we may fashion chains to bind him. Bring the rest to me, that we may draw his power from him. Then he may be undone."
She set the staff down on the ground, holding onto it a bit as she swayed. She blinked as her eyes regained their focus, then gave a sigh.
The pressure in your ears, which had been niggling at you since Celeste had drunk the poison, suddenly began to grow unbearable. Inky winced, gesturing to Celeste as she dropped the staff and began to scramble for some kind of herbal healing. "Oh! Quickly, revive her! Quickly!"
The crystal vials Mercator had set down exploded.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Re: The Shattered City: Cutscenes
Nicolas survives the date (just)
----------------------------------------------
None of the Quartier Ouvrier was anywhere you'd ever want to live, but here and there throughout most of it you could see glimmers of hope. Volunteer hospitals, soup kitchens, poor houses, all were set up throughout the place - nothing special, but they had generous donors, and they were run by dedicated people. There was a sense of community humming in the streets, a sense of charity, a camaraderie between people who had little enough between them. You weren't sure if it had been there before, but it was now: a solidarity between Port-a-Lucine's poorest, and people doing what they could to help each other out.
Not so in the Vervain Rookery. Filth caked the broken streets. Urchins were digging through piles of rotting garbage looking for something to eat - they travelled in packs, some with makeshift shivs, looking to stave off other, adult predators. Dead animals lay rotting openly in the gutters, covered in masses of dark black flies. The stench was incredible; you suspected that the group in the sewers likely had better air than you. And worst of all was the people. Diseased, festering, sunken-eyed, hopeless, and wretched, glaring at you with desperation and hate. There was no community here, only boiling resentment. They were people who knew that life would give them nothing unless they took it at knife-point, and they were quite willing to do so. They knew you didn't belong here - you weren't broken.
The Cafe de Montagne, Athene's home-away-from-home was situated right up against the city walls, along the Rue de Croque-Mort, a dilapidated two-story affair who's one sign of cleanliness was a blood-red awning over the front of the cafe. The old city walls loomed over the cafe as though threatening to collapse, casting a shadow over the building. The Cafe de Montagne, in short, looked squalid, dirty, unstable, and very, very hazardous to one's health.
Despite, or perhaps because of this, it seemed to be doing a roaring business. It hosted a rough looking crew, but not in the sense of brawlers or petty criminals. No, the patrons of the Cafe de Montagne looked like killers. They were lean, hard men and women, and you could see more than one rifle close at hand. Anywhere else in the city, these people would have dwelt in the shadows, plotting the overthrow of the Dementlieuse government and hiding away from the gendarmerie. But in the Vervain Rookery, they were petty lords of the daylight, masters of all they surveyed. Dangerous men and women, one and all.
"I do so love slumming it" Nicolas muttered with a shudder, "still needs must and all" he adds with a quick glance at the watch in his pocket. Then its a deep breath, light a cigarette, look confident, barge in and try and spot the lady in question. Oh and stop by the bar for a brandy on the way.
Athene was not a difficult person to find, a large, broad-shouldered woman who had more muscles in one arm than Nicolas had in his entire body. She was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a beautiful woman, with her broken nose and the scare running down her face, but she had a certain grace of movement that caught the eye. The grace, one might say, of a bird of prey. Of the feathers that had been in her hair the last time Nicolas saw her, there was not a sign.
Prey spotted, Nicolas takes a moment to run a hand through his hair, knock back something that despite being named brandy was more likely lamp oil, before grabbing a further bottle of the stuff form the barman and with a deep breath makes a beeline for Athene's table and slides smoothly into the vacant chair , pours a shot for everyone at the table, and grins through a haze of smoke at fair Athene. "Evening." He adds whilst raising his glass in a salute.
The look that Athene gave him would've stunned a mouse into motionlessness, though Nicolas was a bit larger than a mouse. It occurred to the man that Athene seemed to have picked up a trio of new scars since the last time they met, three red lines along the side of her neck. "I didn't expect to see you again." Athene said with a certain exaggerated casualness, her eyes never moving.
"So you missed me?" Nicolas says with a wink as he downs the glass, his swagger impervious to the visual daggers coming his way. "You see" he says pouring another glass, "I have this rather annoying habit of turning up at the opportune moment ma chere, and" he pauses stubbing out the cigarette on the tabletop and lighting another. "Tonight could well be such a moment. Care for a drink?"
"No." Athene said, still not smiling. She made a little gesture, and with a speed that bordered on the magic, everyone else at the table was gone, and people were quite ostentatiously not listening in on the conversation. "Go on."
"Mon dieu, you wound me." Nicolas says grasping his chest with a mock look of agony crossing his face, then relaising this is possibly exactly what the woman has in mind refocuses his attention on the cigarette. "All business this time then... a pity." Yup there's a wink there. "So to the task in hand, I have a proposition, something that should appeal to you as a kindred spirit to the revolutionary cause, or at least the chance for casual violence and probably large explosions. Interested?"
"Perhaps." Athene said, still glaring at Nicolas. "What are we doing, to whom, and what does it pay?"
"And after last time..." Athene said. "Payment up front."
Nicolas raises an eyebrow, and almost asks if she felt she got any for of payment form their last encounter but thinks better of playing that card. "Revolution ma chere, a blow against tyranny and the established order." he says in a undertone, even if anyone else was listening this was just between them. "Who do you consider the power behind the throne it Dementlieu?" He asks changing tack suddenly and leaning back in his chair, swilling the glass.
"The Marquis de Montmort." Athene said, crossing her arms and leaning back. She was talking business, this was a good sign. She had also stopped looking at Nicolas quite so intently, which was also probably a good sign.
Nicolas can't help repress a slight shudder at the man's name "true, true le Marquis does indeed pull some of the strings, yet..." He pauses leaning in close to whisper the next few words. "he is not the only power residing in the shadows, I speak of a "brotherhood" whom I shall not name further, at least not here." Nicolas gives a slightly sly look. "What I come here to offer is a chance to strike at the heart of the established powerbase in this land, a chance to deal a blow for justice and freedom. Too long these shadowy masters have played the rest of us for puppets. Its time the tables were turned. So that's the Who" he says taking a long swallow and looking intently at Athene, "as to the where, do you know where 132 Rue de Soliel is?"
Athene blinked. "You're bloody joking." The hardened mercenary said, perhaps a little louder than she had intended. Realizing this, she leaned forward and continued in a much lower whisper. "And what exactly is keeping this from being a suicide mission?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Nicolas says allowing his confidence to drop for a second revealing a deadly serious fire behind his eyes "do you think I would come here, and bring you this offer as a bit of fun for a Friday night?" . Then he continues in a low, even whisper "Funnily enough I am not adverse to dying for a cause, not that most believe that." He mutters the mask of confidence back in place. "Pah it is not suicide if you plan effectively and bring along allies, right now a call is going out to all of your brethren across the city and beyond" there is a strong emphasis on that last word. "This is a matter of huge importance, if this should fail the very future of this city and land hangs in the balance." he finishes cryptically.
"What I think is that you're a liar, a swindler, and a seducer." Athene said coldly, looking at Nicolas with a rather significant amount of annoyance. "You cost me a job and a patron, earned me this." She gestured to her new set of scars, "Then walked out on me!"
This was apparently rather closer to the heart of the matter than the suicide mission, for certain. "I don't care who you are." Athene said, her voice growing quiet and dangerous. "Tell me why I shouldn't take it out of your hide."
"Guilty on all counts I'm afraid." Nicolas says unapologetically. "Unfortunately circumstance sometimes dictate, and we are often less than we want to be, let us say it was the right strategy for the job. Although I do concede I owe some recompense for our previous encounter, although I hope whoever gave you that got worse in return. Still I am offering you an opportunity to fundamentally change the order of things, and this time I am not lying, nor am I attempting to seduce you, and this time I am working with Benoit." Nicolas took a very long sip of his drink, the bravado was fading somewhat in the face of Athene's anger. "I am offering you the chance to fulfil your ambitions and I want nothing from you in return. If we both live through it we can discuss the relative merits of my hide remaining intact or otherwise, but for now the clock is ticking, we move tonight with or without you. And given your abilities and expertise I would certainly prefer with."
"...you're not Benoit." Athene said flatly. This was apparently not welcome news to her. It was one thing to be bamboozled by a hero. It was another thing to be bamboozled by Nicolas.
Nicolas makes a sour smile "if you recall I never actually said I was. I merely suggested Benoit was looking for you, which was true to a point, the conclusion was yours to draw. Still that is neither here nor there, as I said the strategy for the job, we needed a route to the market and I needed to know your intentions towards the Winter Lady's chamber. I bore you no ill will and still do not. As of now, you, Benoit and I are all on the same side, hell I'll get you a date with the real one if you want."
Athene tapped her fingers together, long fingernails that looked just a little bit like bird claws just now. She was thinking, and as she thought, she looked at Nicolas. Then, rather alarmingly, she smiled.
"Fine. I'll be there." Athene said, looking at Nicolas. "And for payment, I want a night with Benoit. Nice, romantic evening. Candle-lit dinner, walk in the woods... other things..."
"And if you don't provide, I'll find you, tear the skin off your face, and shove it down your throat." Athene said, still smiling. "Deal?"
"Have you actually any concept of what you just asked for?" Nicolas says thinking of the intense revolutionary who looked like he preferred nights in sharpening things than any female company. "I promise nothing, either you come or you won't, I pledge to introduce you to Monsieur Benoit, beyond that its his choice what he does. Still if we can avoid the face removal and swallowing, I'll take you out for dinner, a show and whatever else your heart desires, hell I'll even hire a carriage and book a table at the Chez Leon. Nicolas stubs out his second cigarette on the table, "I need to leave, .....you know things to do, places to be, certain death to prepare for.... Can I take it you will be joining us? He says looking at her intently.
"You're not really doing a good job of selling yourself, you know." Athene said, wrinkling her nose. "And we've already established that you're rubbish in bed..."
"But I'll be there. If you're telling the truth, I wouldn't miss it for the world." The mercenary said, glancing at Nicolas with an almost coquettish look. "And afterwards... we'll discuss."
"Sticks and stones cherie..." Nicolas says with a lopsided grin. "Liar, swindler, seducer, rake that I am, tonight we are going to change the order of things, and call me what you will I am not lying now. I will send word on the time and approach for the festivities. If we live I'll look forward to some strenuous and in depth debate..." The wink was back. "For now adieu, and I'm guessing no kiss goodbye?"
It turned out that when she wanted to, Athene could move very, very quickly. She reached across the table, grabbing Nicolas by the collar and pulling him over, kissing the poet on the lips. It was a vigorous kiss, vigorous enough that there was blood on Nicolas's lips when she let go of him. "You've two minutes to get out before I change my mind and kill you. Adieu."
----------------------------------------------
None of the Quartier Ouvrier was anywhere you'd ever want to live, but here and there throughout most of it you could see glimmers of hope. Volunteer hospitals, soup kitchens, poor houses, all were set up throughout the place - nothing special, but they had generous donors, and they were run by dedicated people. There was a sense of community humming in the streets, a sense of charity, a camaraderie between people who had little enough between them. You weren't sure if it had been there before, but it was now: a solidarity between Port-a-Lucine's poorest, and people doing what they could to help each other out.
Not so in the Vervain Rookery. Filth caked the broken streets. Urchins were digging through piles of rotting garbage looking for something to eat - they travelled in packs, some with makeshift shivs, looking to stave off other, adult predators. Dead animals lay rotting openly in the gutters, covered in masses of dark black flies. The stench was incredible; you suspected that the group in the sewers likely had better air than you. And worst of all was the people. Diseased, festering, sunken-eyed, hopeless, and wretched, glaring at you with desperation and hate. There was no community here, only boiling resentment. They were people who knew that life would give them nothing unless they took it at knife-point, and they were quite willing to do so. They knew you didn't belong here - you weren't broken.
The Cafe de Montagne, Athene's home-away-from-home was situated right up against the city walls, along the Rue de Croque-Mort, a dilapidated two-story affair who's one sign of cleanliness was a blood-red awning over the front of the cafe. The old city walls loomed over the cafe as though threatening to collapse, casting a shadow over the building. The Cafe de Montagne, in short, looked squalid, dirty, unstable, and very, very hazardous to one's health.
Despite, or perhaps because of this, it seemed to be doing a roaring business. It hosted a rough looking crew, but not in the sense of brawlers or petty criminals. No, the patrons of the Cafe de Montagne looked like killers. They were lean, hard men and women, and you could see more than one rifle close at hand. Anywhere else in the city, these people would have dwelt in the shadows, plotting the overthrow of the Dementlieuse government and hiding away from the gendarmerie. But in the Vervain Rookery, they were petty lords of the daylight, masters of all they surveyed. Dangerous men and women, one and all.
"I do so love slumming it" Nicolas muttered with a shudder, "still needs must and all" he adds with a quick glance at the watch in his pocket. Then its a deep breath, light a cigarette, look confident, barge in and try and spot the lady in question. Oh and stop by the bar for a brandy on the way.
Athene was not a difficult person to find, a large, broad-shouldered woman who had more muscles in one arm than Nicolas had in his entire body. She was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a beautiful woman, with her broken nose and the scare running down her face, but she had a certain grace of movement that caught the eye. The grace, one might say, of a bird of prey. Of the feathers that had been in her hair the last time Nicolas saw her, there was not a sign.
Prey spotted, Nicolas takes a moment to run a hand through his hair, knock back something that despite being named brandy was more likely lamp oil, before grabbing a further bottle of the stuff form the barman and with a deep breath makes a beeline for Athene's table and slides smoothly into the vacant chair , pours a shot for everyone at the table, and grins through a haze of smoke at fair Athene. "Evening." He adds whilst raising his glass in a salute.
The look that Athene gave him would've stunned a mouse into motionlessness, though Nicolas was a bit larger than a mouse. It occurred to the man that Athene seemed to have picked up a trio of new scars since the last time they met, three red lines along the side of her neck. "I didn't expect to see you again." Athene said with a certain exaggerated casualness, her eyes never moving.
"So you missed me?" Nicolas says with a wink as he downs the glass, his swagger impervious to the visual daggers coming his way. "You see" he says pouring another glass, "I have this rather annoying habit of turning up at the opportune moment ma chere, and" he pauses stubbing out the cigarette on the tabletop and lighting another. "Tonight could well be such a moment. Care for a drink?"
"No." Athene said, still not smiling. She made a little gesture, and with a speed that bordered on the magic, everyone else at the table was gone, and people were quite ostentatiously not listening in on the conversation. "Go on."
"Mon dieu, you wound me." Nicolas says grasping his chest with a mock look of agony crossing his face, then relaising this is possibly exactly what the woman has in mind refocuses his attention on the cigarette. "All business this time then... a pity." Yup there's a wink there. "So to the task in hand, I have a proposition, something that should appeal to you as a kindred spirit to the revolutionary cause, or at least the chance for casual violence and probably large explosions. Interested?"
"Perhaps." Athene said, still glaring at Nicolas. "What are we doing, to whom, and what does it pay?"
"And after last time..." Athene said. "Payment up front."
Nicolas raises an eyebrow, and almost asks if she felt she got any for of payment form their last encounter but thinks better of playing that card. "Revolution ma chere, a blow against tyranny and the established order." he says in a undertone, even if anyone else was listening this was just between them. "Who do you consider the power behind the throne it Dementlieu?" He asks changing tack suddenly and leaning back in his chair, swilling the glass.
"The Marquis de Montmort." Athene said, crossing her arms and leaning back. She was talking business, this was a good sign. She had also stopped looking at Nicolas quite so intently, which was also probably a good sign.
Nicolas can't help repress a slight shudder at the man's name "true, true le Marquis does indeed pull some of the strings, yet..." He pauses leaning in close to whisper the next few words. "he is not the only power residing in the shadows, I speak of a "brotherhood" whom I shall not name further, at least not here." Nicolas gives a slightly sly look. "What I come here to offer is a chance to strike at the heart of the established powerbase in this land, a chance to deal a blow for justice and freedom. Too long these shadowy masters have played the rest of us for puppets. Its time the tables were turned. So that's the Who" he says taking a long swallow and looking intently at Athene, "as to the where, do you know where 132 Rue de Soliel is?"
Athene blinked. "You're bloody joking." The hardened mercenary said, perhaps a little louder than she had intended. Realizing this, she leaned forward and continued in a much lower whisper. "And what exactly is keeping this from being a suicide mission?"
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Nicolas says allowing his confidence to drop for a second revealing a deadly serious fire behind his eyes "do you think I would come here, and bring you this offer as a bit of fun for a Friday night?" . Then he continues in a low, even whisper "Funnily enough I am not adverse to dying for a cause, not that most believe that." He mutters the mask of confidence back in place. "Pah it is not suicide if you plan effectively and bring along allies, right now a call is going out to all of your brethren across the city and beyond" there is a strong emphasis on that last word. "This is a matter of huge importance, if this should fail the very future of this city and land hangs in the balance." he finishes cryptically.
"What I think is that you're a liar, a swindler, and a seducer." Athene said coldly, looking at Nicolas with a rather significant amount of annoyance. "You cost me a job and a patron, earned me this." She gestured to her new set of scars, "Then walked out on me!"
This was apparently rather closer to the heart of the matter than the suicide mission, for certain. "I don't care who you are." Athene said, her voice growing quiet and dangerous. "Tell me why I shouldn't take it out of your hide."
"Guilty on all counts I'm afraid." Nicolas says unapologetically. "Unfortunately circumstance sometimes dictate, and we are often less than we want to be, let us say it was the right strategy for the job. Although I do concede I owe some recompense for our previous encounter, although I hope whoever gave you that got worse in return. Still I am offering you an opportunity to fundamentally change the order of things, and this time I am not lying, nor am I attempting to seduce you, and this time I am working with Benoit." Nicolas took a very long sip of his drink, the bravado was fading somewhat in the face of Athene's anger. "I am offering you the chance to fulfil your ambitions and I want nothing from you in return. If we both live through it we can discuss the relative merits of my hide remaining intact or otherwise, but for now the clock is ticking, we move tonight with or without you. And given your abilities and expertise I would certainly prefer with."
"...you're not Benoit." Athene said flatly. This was apparently not welcome news to her. It was one thing to be bamboozled by a hero. It was another thing to be bamboozled by Nicolas.
Nicolas makes a sour smile "if you recall I never actually said I was. I merely suggested Benoit was looking for you, which was true to a point, the conclusion was yours to draw. Still that is neither here nor there, as I said the strategy for the job, we needed a route to the market and I needed to know your intentions towards the Winter Lady's chamber. I bore you no ill will and still do not. As of now, you, Benoit and I are all on the same side, hell I'll get you a date with the real one if you want."
Athene tapped her fingers together, long fingernails that looked just a little bit like bird claws just now. She was thinking, and as she thought, she looked at Nicolas. Then, rather alarmingly, she smiled.
"Fine. I'll be there." Athene said, looking at Nicolas. "And for payment, I want a night with Benoit. Nice, romantic evening. Candle-lit dinner, walk in the woods... other things..."
"And if you don't provide, I'll find you, tear the skin off your face, and shove it down your throat." Athene said, still smiling. "Deal?"
"Have you actually any concept of what you just asked for?" Nicolas says thinking of the intense revolutionary who looked like he preferred nights in sharpening things than any female company. "I promise nothing, either you come or you won't, I pledge to introduce you to Monsieur Benoit, beyond that its his choice what he does. Still if we can avoid the face removal and swallowing, I'll take you out for dinner, a show and whatever else your heart desires, hell I'll even hire a carriage and book a table at the Chez Leon. Nicolas stubs out his second cigarette on the table, "I need to leave, .....you know things to do, places to be, certain death to prepare for.... Can I take it you will be joining us? He says looking at her intently.
"You're not really doing a good job of selling yourself, you know." Athene said, wrinkling her nose. "And we've already established that you're rubbish in bed..."
"But I'll be there. If you're telling the truth, I wouldn't miss it for the world." The mercenary said, glancing at Nicolas with an almost coquettish look. "And afterwards... we'll discuss."
"Sticks and stones cherie..." Nicolas says with a lopsided grin. "Liar, swindler, seducer, rake that I am, tonight we are going to change the order of things, and call me what you will I am not lying now. I will send word on the time and approach for the festivities. If we live I'll look forward to some strenuous and in depth debate..." The wink was back. "For now adieu, and I'm guessing no kiss goodbye?"
It turned out that when she wanted to, Athene could move very, very quickly. She reached across the table, grabbing Nicolas by the collar and pulling him over, kissing the poet on the lips. It was a vigorous kiss, vigorous enough that there was blood on Nicolas's lips when she let go of him. "You've two minutes to get out before I change my mind and kill you. Adieu."
"I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space..."
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space..."
- NeoTiamat
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 4119
- Joined: Tue Sep 12, 2006 5:00 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Re: The Shattered City: Cutscenes
The storm had broken. That was how it felt at the time, and that was what the history books would write in the years to come. The spiral of decay and civil unrest had reached its peak with the Sorcerers’ Coup, and all that was left now was to pick up the pieces and decide what would come next. Certainly, what had been before could not continue on into the future. Josephine Chantreaux had been slain during the Coup, and with her went the last lynchpin of the old regime. Lord-Governor Guignol was retired to his family estates, quietly and without fuss. No one was quite certain what would happen next. It would not be what had been before. Nor would it be the kind of world that the conspirators had wanted when they instituted their Coup. Nor would it be the kind of world that Benoit and the revolutionaries wanted. It would be something different
For the moment, if Dementlieu had a ruler, then it was M. Elias Gauvain. It was his gendarmes that had taken by the Palais de Justice from the mobs, and he who had been left standing when the conspirators had lost heart when Lord Balfour de Casteele was slain on the steps of the Palace. So Gauvain maintained order, while committees of notable citizens met in the ruins. The word constitution was in the air.
Andre Theroux was one of the most prominent of these notables. He had a strangely compelling manner, and he argued for amnesty and laws, a damp-haired demagogue with an enchanting tongue. He had emerged as one of the few leaders of the mages’ organizations to remain untouched by the treachery of the Coup, and this gave him power. They supported him, and he was their voice. Whatever government arose in the ashes of the June Coup, Theroux’s would be one of its guiding voices.
Guy Benoit was not among them, however. The arch-revolutionary had held the Palais de Justice for a day and a night, after slaying the wizard-lord De Casteele. But however much things changed, they stayed the same even more, and the Mists would not be robbed of their favorite toy so easily. Thus when the gendarmerie came, Benoit was forced to flee back into the King’s Forest, bitterness clogging his throat every step of the way. Benoit had been closer to victory than ever, had achieved victory, the overthrow of the government. But what arose next would be born without his input, and that was a bitter cup of gall to swallow.
Ravenloft GM: Eye of Anubis, Shattered City, and Prof. Lupescu's Traveling Ghost Show
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Lead Writer & Editor: VRS Files: Doppelgangers; Contributor: QtR #20, #21, #22, #23, #24
Freelance Writer for Paizo Publishing
Re: The Shattered City: Cutscenes
A Penniless Artist's abode, Quartier-Ouvrier, Night of January 20th, 763
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Dammit” Nicolas shouted as he stared accusingly at the piece of parchment before him “damn you to hell!”.
The poet remembered but a scant six months before and the heady high of seeing his first work in print. Wasting the Dawn had been bought and distributed by the Gavarnie publishing house, and people across the core would be reading his work, speaking his name, he had made it at last, fame and fortune beckoned, the lucrative advance on his next book was just the icing on the cake. Yet here he was less than a year later, huddled in an icy garret in the Quartier Ouvrier, penniless, with a deadline in three days for submission of a manuscript, and nothing was happening.
Nothing was happening at all; Nicolas stared hard at the paper willing words to spill forth, willing them to form into even the bare bones of a story. Nothing. He sighed deeply, leaning over and toying with the few coins to his name, wondering if it would cover enough laudanum or absinthe to achieve oblivion for a few hours. It wasn’t even close.
Something snaps inside him, bringing a wave of terror crashing down, they say everyone has a novel in them, what if that was my only one? Where does the leave me? Penniless, talentless, mired in debt and sifting through the shit on the riverbank for rubbish to sell for coppers? If that wasn’t depressing enough when he reaches for the bottle, the brandy is long gone. Upending the flask he stares dully at the open neck, wondering if it was time to go home. No never, that door is closed! He chastises himself, but then that leaves me with…. “Nothing!” He screams punctuating the outburst by throwing the bottle across the room where it shatters loudly. “Damn everything! I would cut out my bloody heart for some inspiration!”
Just as that pronouncement left his lips the windows blew inward violently, shattering one of the panes and sending a frigid breeze into the room. In a second he has a pistol trained on the window, watching for any sign of movement, and he waits for several long moments frozen in that position. Finally remembering to breathe he forces himself forward, gazing carefully over the lintel and out onto the Rue de Mont Noir. The street was all but silent under the grey night sky, a single poor soul shuffling his way onward, and calling for alms. Shivering he refastens the window with nervous fingers, cutting a deep gash in his hand, his writing hand, as he does so. “So this is fate turning her back” he says chuckling despairingly, holding the wound up to examine. That’s when he realises he isn’t alone.
She was sitting on the bed, her lower half swathed in the sheet, the rest lost in shadow, yet even in the gloom he could make out the unnatural gleam of her eyes. “Who the hell are you?” He asks in a wavering voice, looking down the length of the pistol at the intruder, “and how did you get here?” The intruder ignored the questions, instead posing her own in a hissing sibilant voice “Do you truly mean what you offer? Would you truly give your heart for the things you desire?” He stares for a moment bewildered by the reality transpiring before him, then before he has scarcely drawn a breath; his mind is made up “yes”. It was simple answer, an answer from a desperate man.
At first the woman did nothing, and then a glow sprung up from the oil lamp in her hands. Nicolas was fairly sure the oil lamp had been behind him on the desk last time he looked, and that he had run out of oil days ago, but this mystery held little fascination compared to the form of the creature before him. She sat perched in a slightly awkward manner on the bed, her flaming tresses falling about her, her unearthly beauty dazzling like the sun. Her lips pale like ivory curled in a cruel smile, her skin flawless as milky pearls, her body curving and luscious, but her eyes, glittering yet black as the night sky, held the gaze and trapped the soul. “I can give you what you seek my love, I ask little in return.” The voice was hissing yet honey like in its quality causing the arm holding the pistol to drop nerveless to his side.
“Who, who are you?” Nicolas repeated he eyes never leaving hers. “What I am is not important, compared to what I could be. Your patron, your muse, your lover, your betrothed, I can grant you power, fuel your creative fires and show you pleasures undreamed, all I ask is your love, your eternal love.” The words were spoken with a coy smile, a smile that mesmerised the poet. “Love?” He managed to croak through numb lips. “Yes, give your heart to me for all time, make me your one your only true love, all I ask is this … and” She paused for a moment as the smile grew “an occasional gift, and you will have all you desire. Do you agree to this offer?”
“I…I…” Nicolas falters, still unable to look anywhere but those burning cold black eyes. Yet despite his hesitation the choice has already been made, this was a chance to take hold of destiny, besides he’d had another flash of destitute scramblings over mounds of filth in vain search of anything of value, and that certainly wasn’t the future he wanted to embrace. In that heartbeat the choice was made. With a resolute look he nods “I agree to your offer, my heart is yours.”
“I knew it would be” the woman smiles mischievously, “now come to me my love, come and taste pleasure like you have never known.” As she spoke she stretched, reaching outward, spreading hitherto hidden silvery wings, their span shadowing the room, enveloping the light and drawing Nicolas forward.
As she did so the sheet fell away revealing her nakedness and so dazzled was he by the sight that the fact a snakelike tail coiled where her legs should have been barely registered. Her white fingers reached out and unbuttoned his shirt, and his lungs seemed to clog with ice when she pressed her cold reptilian body against his chest, pulling him downwards into her icy embrace.
Her flesh warmed around him as the hours were achingly chiselled away, and when at last their passion was spent, she was actually glowing faintly, like the bricks lining a smithy’s stove. Nicolas lay in her arms, sated and half delirious, yet with one thought consuming him, “I need a story my love, everything depends on it, you promised to fire my inspiration, so be my muse, help me bring it forth.” he looks at her alien face with pleading eyes. “Hush my love, do not trouble yourself.” Slowly he relaxed under the hypnotic sound of her voice. “Now tell me a story, a story of a noble house beset by feuding, a story of tragedy, intrigue, cruelty and murder most foul, a story of a young prince rising to lead.”
Aghast Nicolas stares at her in horror “I cannot, that tale must never be told, and that truth will lead only to the noose.” But his look of abject horror was met only with a smile and those cold eyes. “Ah but the best stories are those that blur the line between the real and the unreal, trust me my love, the words are already written, they await within.” Her hand stroked his chest softly “Use what you have; you will convey this story better than any other.” “I… perhaps it could be done” Nicolas muses staring thoughtfully into space. “Yes I can see it now, this will be my masterpiece” he says his face aglow with fervour.
“Then my part of the bargain is fulfilled for now my love, now it is time for you to present me a gift in return.” Drawn back from his contemplation, a nervous look crosses Nicolas face “a gift? Why what could you possibly want?” The woman smiled enigmatically, her black eyes glistening “why your blood my love, the wellspring of your heart.” Before he can argue she was on him, her weight pressing down, her serpentine coils wrapped around him, holding him helpless as her suddenly sharp teeth plunge like daggers into the wound on his hand, gnawing against the bone, as the blood spurted freely into her waiting jaws.
It was only with the grey light of morning that Nicolas awoke, alone, stiff and bleary eyed. “One hell of a dream” he mutters, “I need to lay off the Absinthe, bleh.” As he says the last he rolls over, and lies stock still, staring in horror at the reddish-brown dried bloodstains splashed across the sheet. As memory returns he holds up his hand to the light, the wound, healed though it is looks angry and the bite marks are clearly visible against his pale skin. “Hell” he mutters, stumbling from bed, shivering in cold and fear, a fear that is compounded by what lies on his desk. The piece of parchment, just where he had left it, yet not how he had left it. Taking a shuddering breath he sits, his body trembling as he reads the words undeniably in his own hand, now scrawled across the page: The Prince of Rakosk: a noble tragedy of love.
“Hell” he muttered again, feeling a voice whispering in his ear, a presence lurking at the edge of his consciousness. “Remember, my love, I am yours, your only true love…forever.”
Shivering with a mix of fear and exultation, Nicolas de Castaigne began to write, he had a deadline to meet after all…
(note - thanks to Tim Powers for inspiration)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Dammit” Nicolas shouted as he stared accusingly at the piece of parchment before him “damn you to hell!”.
The poet remembered but a scant six months before and the heady high of seeing his first work in print. Wasting the Dawn had been bought and distributed by the Gavarnie publishing house, and people across the core would be reading his work, speaking his name, he had made it at last, fame and fortune beckoned, the lucrative advance on his next book was just the icing on the cake. Yet here he was less than a year later, huddled in an icy garret in the Quartier Ouvrier, penniless, with a deadline in three days for submission of a manuscript, and nothing was happening.
Nothing was happening at all; Nicolas stared hard at the paper willing words to spill forth, willing them to form into even the bare bones of a story. Nothing. He sighed deeply, leaning over and toying with the few coins to his name, wondering if it would cover enough laudanum or absinthe to achieve oblivion for a few hours. It wasn’t even close.
Something snaps inside him, bringing a wave of terror crashing down, they say everyone has a novel in them, what if that was my only one? Where does the leave me? Penniless, talentless, mired in debt and sifting through the shit on the riverbank for rubbish to sell for coppers? If that wasn’t depressing enough when he reaches for the bottle, the brandy is long gone. Upending the flask he stares dully at the open neck, wondering if it was time to go home. No never, that door is closed! He chastises himself, but then that leaves me with…. “Nothing!” He screams punctuating the outburst by throwing the bottle across the room where it shatters loudly. “Damn everything! I would cut out my bloody heart for some inspiration!”
Just as that pronouncement left his lips the windows blew inward violently, shattering one of the panes and sending a frigid breeze into the room. In a second he has a pistol trained on the window, watching for any sign of movement, and he waits for several long moments frozen in that position. Finally remembering to breathe he forces himself forward, gazing carefully over the lintel and out onto the Rue de Mont Noir. The street was all but silent under the grey night sky, a single poor soul shuffling his way onward, and calling for alms. Shivering he refastens the window with nervous fingers, cutting a deep gash in his hand, his writing hand, as he does so. “So this is fate turning her back” he says chuckling despairingly, holding the wound up to examine. That’s when he realises he isn’t alone.
She was sitting on the bed, her lower half swathed in the sheet, the rest lost in shadow, yet even in the gloom he could make out the unnatural gleam of her eyes. “Who the hell are you?” He asks in a wavering voice, looking down the length of the pistol at the intruder, “and how did you get here?” The intruder ignored the questions, instead posing her own in a hissing sibilant voice “Do you truly mean what you offer? Would you truly give your heart for the things you desire?” He stares for a moment bewildered by the reality transpiring before him, then before he has scarcely drawn a breath; his mind is made up “yes”. It was simple answer, an answer from a desperate man.
At first the woman did nothing, and then a glow sprung up from the oil lamp in her hands. Nicolas was fairly sure the oil lamp had been behind him on the desk last time he looked, and that he had run out of oil days ago, but this mystery held little fascination compared to the form of the creature before him. She sat perched in a slightly awkward manner on the bed, her flaming tresses falling about her, her unearthly beauty dazzling like the sun. Her lips pale like ivory curled in a cruel smile, her skin flawless as milky pearls, her body curving and luscious, but her eyes, glittering yet black as the night sky, held the gaze and trapped the soul. “I can give you what you seek my love, I ask little in return.” The voice was hissing yet honey like in its quality causing the arm holding the pistol to drop nerveless to his side.
“Who, who are you?” Nicolas repeated he eyes never leaving hers. “What I am is not important, compared to what I could be. Your patron, your muse, your lover, your betrothed, I can grant you power, fuel your creative fires and show you pleasures undreamed, all I ask is your love, your eternal love.” The words were spoken with a coy smile, a smile that mesmerised the poet. “Love?” He managed to croak through numb lips. “Yes, give your heart to me for all time, make me your one your only true love, all I ask is this … and” She paused for a moment as the smile grew “an occasional gift, and you will have all you desire. Do you agree to this offer?”
“I…I…” Nicolas falters, still unable to look anywhere but those burning cold black eyes. Yet despite his hesitation the choice has already been made, this was a chance to take hold of destiny, besides he’d had another flash of destitute scramblings over mounds of filth in vain search of anything of value, and that certainly wasn’t the future he wanted to embrace. In that heartbeat the choice was made. With a resolute look he nods “I agree to your offer, my heart is yours.”
“I knew it would be” the woman smiles mischievously, “now come to me my love, come and taste pleasure like you have never known.” As she spoke she stretched, reaching outward, spreading hitherto hidden silvery wings, their span shadowing the room, enveloping the light and drawing Nicolas forward.
As she did so the sheet fell away revealing her nakedness and so dazzled was he by the sight that the fact a snakelike tail coiled where her legs should have been barely registered. Her white fingers reached out and unbuttoned his shirt, and his lungs seemed to clog with ice when she pressed her cold reptilian body against his chest, pulling him downwards into her icy embrace.
Her flesh warmed around him as the hours were achingly chiselled away, and when at last their passion was spent, she was actually glowing faintly, like the bricks lining a smithy’s stove. Nicolas lay in her arms, sated and half delirious, yet with one thought consuming him, “I need a story my love, everything depends on it, you promised to fire my inspiration, so be my muse, help me bring it forth.” he looks at her alien face with pleading eyes. “Hush my love, do not trouble yourself.” Slowly he relaxed under the hypnotic sound of her voice. “Now tell me a story, a story of a noble house beset by feuding, a story of tragedy, intrigue, cruelty and murder most foul, a story of a young prince rising to lead.”
Aghast Nicolas stares at her in horror “I cannot, that tale must never be told, and that truth will lead only to the noose.” But his look of abject horror was met only with a smile and those cold eyes. “Ah but the best stories are those that blur the line between the real and the unreal, trust me my love, the words are already written, they await within.” Her hand stroked his chest softly “Use what you have; you will convey this story better than any other.” “I… perhaps it could be done” Nicolas muses staring thoughtfully into space. “Yes I can see it now, this will be my masterpiece” he says his face aglow with fervour.
“Then my part of the bargain is fulfilled for now my love, now it is time for you to present me a gift in return.” Drawn back from his contemplation, a nervous look crosses Nicolas face “a gift? Why what could you possibly want?” The woman smiled enigmatically, her black eyes glistening “why your blood my love, the wellspring of your heart.” Before he can argue she was on him, her weight pressing down, her serpentine coils wrapped around him, holding him helpless as her suddenly sharp teeth plunge like daggers into the wound on his hand, gnawing against the bone, as the blood spurted freely into her waiting jaws.
It was only with the grey light of morning that Nicolas awoke, alone, stiff and bleary eyed. “One hell of a dream” he mutters, “I need to lay off the Absinthe, bleh.” As he says the last he rolls over, and lies stock still, staring in horror at the reddish-brown dried bloodstains splashed across the sheet. As memory returns he holds up his hand to the light, the wound, healed though it is looks angry and the bite marks are clearly visible against his pale skin. “Hell” he mutters, stumbling from bed, shivering in cold and fear, a fear that is compounded by what lies on his desk. The piece of parchment, just where he had left it, yet not how he had left it. Taking a shuddering breath he sits, his body trembling as he reads the words undeniably in his own hand, now scrawled across the page: The Prince of Rakosk: a noble tragedy of love.
“Hell” he muttered again, feeling a voice whispering in his ear, a presence lurking at the edge of his consciousness. “Remember, my love, I am yours, your only true love…forever.”
Shivering with a mix of fear and exultation, Nicolas de Castaigne began to write, he had a deadline to meet after all…
(note - thanks to Tim Powers for inspiration)
"I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space..."
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space..."