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Reading all of this was fun, and I'm looking forward to the epilogue.  
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Dec 17, 2018 14:31
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poo poo, just imagine Mason getting drunk constantly and barging into everyone's epilogues making obscene gestures and statements.
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Dec 17, 2018 21:06
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Humbug rummaged around inside his old apartment, filling boxes and tossing clothes into bags, freshly fixed Prosthetics gleaming in the light of the candle. Martha the Mither had graciously given him a few days to clear out his things after involving her in a Conspiracy Against The Crown - war veteran or not, she did not appreciate getting dragged into politics (even if it was one of her favorite topics to grouse about). The extra grace time was the real unusual thing here, and probably all thanks to proving the old woman right that the Queen had been bad news all along. She'd been crowing about her incisiveness to all her gossip-mongering circles, laying out the case for why she'd always known the Queen was rotten to the core... and Humbug had made sure she'd had all of the juiciest, truthiest bits to share to help poke holes in Reina's unblemished image. If the Queen had been so great Queen, how had she failed to notice the council's corruption? How had she let so-and-so carry on and why let this-and-this happen? How many 'convenient' deaths hadn't there been, in retrospect? And the Madmist - that had never made any sense! It had been Splut's suggestion, of course. The man was incorrigible - but not wrong. The truth needed to get out there, in whatever ways it could, and anything that could save the Unexpectables trouble down the road was worth doing. Besides, it was the truth. Humbug finished filling up another crate - it had most of his souvenirs from his time with the Unexpectables, mugs, torn armor pieces, burnt bread, half-burned notes, stuff like that. He was glad most of the Horde had survived the final fracas - but for some it'd been goodbye. Larry, poor man, had been the only casualty of that day, but there were other ways to lose people. Trinh had become... something other, so far removed it was hard to say what was left of the Taxidermist she'd once been. He held out hope she'd find her own kind of way - and not become a big problem down the road. Several other of their hordemates had gone further off the deep end than was comfortable, too. Portha forming an Öan cult was - well, actually that was probably just Portha being herself. On the other hand, Gado going missing stung - but it wasn't as if Humbug could blame him for legging it while the going was good. The mess and death was supposed to have been over with - but instead it had kept on escalating, at least as far as the Digger was concerned. Ah well. There was no use crying over burnt bread. The Unexpectables had the Lampshade for regular reunions, and if any ever came back he'd know. He'd talked to Nana and Hat about it, and they'd both agreed that he could start using his office space there as an apartment as well. It was finally time to leave Old Tö-Town behind. They were good and rough folk in here, but he couldn't keep on hiding out forever. It was hell to get foot traffic past all the footpads, for one. Someone knocked on the door, the strikes powerful enough to give the Sleuth a start. He relaxed when he saw the gigantic shape through the glass window, before raising an eyebrow at the grinning Athlete while opening the door. "Hello Dack. To what do I owe the, hum, pleasure?" Dack lifted a sign, still smiling. [Thought you needed help moving] Humbug chuckled - and flexed reflexively as he saw the Fragment twitch - and invited Dack in. He immediately reached into the box he was still packing to pick up and toss Dack's old Bag of Glory back at him - then gestured at the room-full of boxes, chests and the odd filing cabinet. "Well, you're not wrong there, friend." ------------------------------------------------- Captain Stårn's Siege Academy was still in its early stages, but the campus was already coming along nicely - boosted by a mysterious early-cash 'donation' that had nothing to do with half the fences in the city clearing out their accounts. Any other day Humbug would have stuck around to see what kind of crazy siege hijinks Stårn was cooking up for the very first semester of the Siegecadamy... but he had a promise to keep. Grumbus had called in the favor from back when he'd helped the Sleuth figure out what the Blue and Red Goop was. It was the breakthrough that had alerted them to the deeper nature of Zapanda's work. Their investigations had caused her to start opening up about her work, which had put them all on the trail of the Cure, preserving Gado's life - which again ultimately allowed them to break free of the Queen's Vault. Humbug owed a lot of people for that - and wished dearly he could've thanked Gado - but helping Grumbus was a good start. Even if it meant... helping Grumbus. A squirt of something dark and grim-smelling hit him in the face as he stepped into SASGY's basement. "Buggrit! Humbug! Sorry, didn't see ya there - 'ey! That's lucky. You got the Environmental Germicidal Suit on early?" Humbug carefully wiped off the visor of the EGS and glanced around at the collected beakers, vials, and scattered splotches that already stained the work surface (and most other surfaces) of Grumbus' temporary work area. It looked like the Plaguebearer was preparing - or sampling - his syllabus while in the middle of packing for their journey to the old quarantine at Slinker City. "Call it - hum - a test trial," he offered drily. ------------------------------------------------- When Humbug and Grumbus broke past the quarantine section the sight that met them behind the barriers were of empty streets, rows of dilapidated houses and, grimly and eerily, the odd corpse, contorted in positions of, as best he could tell it, doing whatever their core had specialized in. The disease Grumbus was looking for was the crazily rare Overclocked Skillcore Syndrome - a virus of some sort that could massively enhance one's core potential, usually at the cost of one's life due to the manic desire to execute core functions. "Hum... so what do you make of this?" asked Humbug, turning to the Plaguebearer and gesturing down the street, pointing to some suspiciously well-manicured lawns. They were both suited up now - and yet, somehow, Grumbus' suit already looked significantly more grimier than Humbug's, who'd been wearing his for longer. The only exception was Hat's hat. How Grumbus kept the Kepi pristine the Sleuth still considerd a mystery. Either Grumbus actually took the time to clean it... or Hat's magic millinery was greater than Grumbus' aura of Grumb-ity. The Plaguebearer shrugged and started to hock a loogie, then remembered what he was wearing - and swallowed, audibly. The Sleuth suppressed a grimace and a low-level shudder - if he started giving in to his disgust at something so simple, he'd just never stop. "Might be the work o' Jeb the Gardener," said Grumbus, finally. "The last sucker to enter Slinker City... oh, two years ago according to the mil'tary records I found. Outbreak happened closer to the city center, so he may have gone partial in, met whatever vector's left and then gone back out here and done this. The infected should still die after a few days or weeks, so he must've lost it before exiting the quarantine. It's odd the yardwork seems recent, but folks on Overclocked Cores can do odd things." Humbug stepped forward, then paused, eye widening as he spotted something. He bent down and lifted up a layer of grass - it turned out to be a movable mat of sorts. "... are those punji stick pits?" "That'd be Sadomax the Trapmaker's lovely contributions, I figger. Second-to-last rear end in a top hat to enter - as a fugitive fleeing the City Watch. Fucker had chowed down on someone's Puzzle skillcore." "Oh, hum me." To Be Continued
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Dec 18, 2018 00:42
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 Ringo! It was as if the entire world took a deep breath, and exhaled. The Old Queen was defeated. Noggins was coronated. Snodis...was going to do something terrible. Nothing mattered more at this moment though than the feeling of peace that fell among them all. The war was over. The Unexpectables had won. He waited for a while on the sidelines while Noggins spoke. Others came and went, picking over the Queen's belongings, or conferring with the new Queen as she made short term plans. There was a lot to do, and she'd never be finished. During a lull, he stepped forward to say his piece. "Noggins. Ah, Queen Noggins. Back at the final assault, I promised to support you, whatever happened. I'm standing by that. I'll do whatever I can to make sure that things transition smoothly. But I can't give up what I built this last month. If you need me for something, you'll be able to find me, but otherwise, I'm going to see what I can do to help the people on the ground. I know you understand that, and I hope you never forget. So, with your permission, I'll see you around." He saluted, and then broke into a smile. "Yellow suits you." He made to leave the hall, but lingered as he passed Grimper. "Any time you want to have that spar, let me know. Let's have it out, just fists and fire. I think we've both got a lot on our minds." He gave Grimper a salute, and then a nod. "Well. I'll be seeing you." ~~~ Ringo stood at the ruins of his Fixit stall. Judging by the trail of wreckage, Yacht-Sothoth had been through here. He sighed, and started picking up the pieces. The stall wasn't really important, in the long run, but he couldn't help feel like he'd just lost a home. Oh well, he could always rebuild. It was a while later that he finished packing up the most important pieces. The frame bulged in a large pack on his back. It was time to move beyond Tomate. There were people out there who needed to know that things were going to be alright. And there was the matter of his own powers. He'd never felt so strong in his life, and he couldn't help but think of pushing the bounds of his potential. As soon as he passed the city gates, he broke into a sprint and made for the nearest town. It wouldn't be long until he could deliver the good news in person. If he could solve a few of their problems while we was there, then all the better. ~~~A few weeks later~~~ (mood music) Ringo stood in the remnants of the graveyard. Grimper loomed behind him. The two were illuminated by the full moon in a cloudless sky. Two flames in the night: one blazing magenta, one shining emerald. Around them were the ruins of a village several days from Tomate, crushed under the weight of the war. The buildings had crumbled away, leaving fresh growth of grass and flowers. Ringo placed a hand on the headstone in front of him. "I wanted to do this here. For him. I promised him I’d make my own legend." His corona fell over the engraving. [Chufty – A Beloved Son. A True Patriot] “This is where I grew up. I didn’t know the war had gotten this bad since I joined. We’d been on the road so long - and with such secrecy – well, I only found out things had gotten this bad a little while ago. A lot of people went to Tomate to enlist. It was already turning into a ghost town.” He began to remove his armor and pack, leaving them on the grave. Standing bare-chested, he pointed to a grassy circle nearby. Grimper started taking his own gear off as well. The two took positions opposite each other. “Chufty wanted to go legit. I wanted to make a name for myself. It turns out that we both got what we wanted. Life is funny that way. I wonder if he ever thought of me. After a while, after Fostis…I didn’t have time to think of him. I regret not being there for him when he died.” Ringo took a fighter's stance, and the two began to pace, feeling out each other's defenses. "I meant what I said back at the coronation. We always had your back, but I don’t know if you always had ours. It’s so easy to lose sight of what you have, when someone’s telling you about the prize over the next hill. We didn't know that you'd been used like the rest of us, though. In the end we're all the same, Grimper. You, me, and Chufty. We're made from the same stuff: tools of war, made to order. We were all fools. But that’s in the past now. Right now, it’s just you and me.” The two fighters froze, feeling the tension about to break. "What happens next - No matter what - It's going to be Unexpectable." ---- What he does: Ringo takes his charity on the road, making sure that he solves problems everywhere he goes. When he passes through Tomate, or on special request, he reports to Queen Noggins on the state of the land. He tries to push his skillcores as much as possible, to master the ability to swap, and to surpass his own limitations. He and Grimper meet to fight out their feelings. What happens: The quality of life in outlying towns improves, and citizens are safer and more prosperous than they have been in quite some time. The peace between the new communities of Toans, Froans, and Oans is made stronger by his actions. Ringo's fame as a People's Hero grows ever greater as he fights injustice and mends what needs fixing. Grimper and him finally settle their poo poo, whatever that may mean. Green Intern fucked around with this message at 03:45 on Dec 19, 2018 |
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Dec 19, 2018 03:38
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 Noggins Noggins staggered as she felt the agonizing pressure on the back of her head as Queen Dixi's skull was stoved in, but kept her footing. There was a terrible cold unlike anything she'd ever felt, but it passe as quickly as Dixi did. And with that, Noggins was once again alone in her own head. They'd done it. They'd won. Tö was free. And she'd survived, still herself despite all the Queen--that Dixi--had done to worm her way in. Here she was. Queen Noggins. First of her name, second Queen of Tö. Ruler of the known world, and maybe the most powerful individual being on the planet besides. It was a historic moment on a scale that was hard to fathom. Instinct told her that she should be saying something to mark the occasion. Maybe something clever, about pawns reaching the end of the board. Or some grand proclamation of righteousness. It didn't even have to be a particularly good line, it'd become good by association with the moment. Noggins silently pulled a mostly-intact dining chair out of the wreckage of Stårn's makeshift fort and took a seat, resting her coronated head in one hand. She now had a duty to... well, to everyone, really. Snödis had a handful of them, but everyone else was counting on her. It was a lot to take in. Finally, she spoke. "Could someone grab me a sandwich or something? I didn't get to eat at the Ball and I could really go for something right now." And with that, the tension broke. People started milling about, Snödis started moving in Gryph's direction to provide a blood sample, and Trinh, mercifully, seemed to relax a bit. There was, for most of the Horde, something approaching normalcy. At least, as close as you could get, given the circumstances. They were all ready, to varying degrees, to put this behind them and ust get on with their lives. She was sorely tempted to try and oin them in that. But she'd already accepted this responsibility. There was no backing down now. There was so, so much that needed to be done. Every second counted. She took a deep breath, and got to her feet. "SIKATRIS," she declared, voice echoing in the olivite chamber, louder than she had expected. "Sorry, sorry, still adjusting. No, don't get up, you're a wreck right now, I'll be right over." she picked her way through the crowd--or rather, she would have if the crowd wasn't parting before her. Some effect of the crown? Or maybe everyone was still just scared shitless. Either way. Up close, Sikatris looked even rougher than she had from a distance. The Breakers had gotten her good, but she'd clearly given as good as she'd got. "Can't say it's easy to believe I'm finally talking to you in person. I caught glimpses at the Gateway, of course, but I can't say I was exactly paying close attention. Sorry, but I'm going to have to skip the pleasantries beyond that. We’ve got a lot to get through, and less time than I’d really like to get through it. The big one first: as Queen of Tö, I… we? Am I supposed to say we? Is that a thing? gently caress it. As Queen of Tö, I hereby declare an end to the annexation of Frö. Setting aside the fact that that’s the right thing to do, I don’t think holding it would be remotely possible without doing a lot of things I just fought very hard to prevent.” “Now, I know that Regis’s death leaves Frö without a former leader, so… I hereby formally recognize you, Sikatris the Thread, as… Interim… Leader… of Frö. I’m not great with names, sorry. It’s going to be up to you to get things organized again, but I’m sure you’re up to the task. Whether you make that position permanent or not… well, that’s up to you at this point. It’s not for me to decide. But I have confidence that you’re going to do the right thing.” “Now for the… ah, thank you, Ruby. Mmmf. Delicious. Right. Now for the less fun bits. The annexation is over, but we will still be taking territory from you. It’s very selfish of me, and I apologize for that, but I saw too many good friends die in that war to just wipe the slate clean and say that their efforts were for… well, for nothing. And I think there’s a lot of people who would feel the same way. Fostis, certainly will be part of Tö, beyond that, we’ll negotiate. I don’t believe we’ll be reaching so far as Öxnyard, though. I… wouldn’t feel right laying claim to that.” “Some of that territory is going to be going to Neötopia. Call it some from us, some from you. We’re both going to have to be negotiating those borders. Yes, they’re small, yes, Snödis is… unpredictable at times, and yes, I understand the risks that can be associated with monsterism. But I think there’s a lot of mistakes that have been made in the past, and that’s not just because of who was leading us. I think there’s potential there. I really do. So let’s give it a chance and see how it plays out.” “Connected to that, Snödis has requested, and I’m inclined to agree with, a total ban on the military use of Madmist. There’s no good that comes of that stuff. Yes, you’ve utilized it as safely as is possible, but I’ve long been of the opinion that there are some things too terrible to inflict on even your enemies. War is a terrible thing by nature, but that doesn’t make it an excuse for further atrocity. There’s more I’d like to address on that front—I have opinions on the use of Inhabited—if you could call the ones you’ve got with you right now off, that’d be great, by the way—but that can wait. I think—and hope—that this peace will be long enough to hash these things out before we have another war.” “On the note of that peace, I’d like to request Frö’s cooperation and collaboration into further research. There’s just so much that we don’t know about the world, but we’ve got more than enough evidence to prove that we learn more when we work together. I think Zapanda would be an excellent choice for chairing such an operation, although we may have some volunteers for co-chair. Again, something to think about for later.” “And finally, for now, two personal requests. Firstly, I’d like it if you’d allow the construction of a statue in Öxnyard. I can’t say I knew Jaune well. I only talked to her for… it can’t really have been more than a matter of minutes, if I’m honest. And then came the battle, and the world was left poorer for it. But… she made a real difference for me. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that this wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for her. I’ll tell you more about it some other time, and maybe you can tell me more about her. But yeah. A statue. I think she deserves it.” “And the last one… okay, this one is purely selfish, but I’m not passing up on the opportunity. Nägel was built on an OG Vault. PoG Vault, but we’ll fill you in on the later. Anyways, the vault had a horrible machine in it that killed people, because that’s what the PoGs did, but Zapanda mentioned that Frö managed to disable and dismantle the thing, and that you were able to discover some advanced woodworking technique because of that. That has been bugging me ever since I heard it. What is the secret carpentry technique, Sikatris? I need to know.” Noggins was about to continue about how incredibly important this was when she felt what was about to be someone tapping on her shoulder. She turned. Half-wit posted:
A flash of confusion flashed past Noggins’ face for a moment, then a bit of a frown. “I’ll be honest: I’m a little insulted that you think I’m the kind of person who would try to stop you. But… safe travels, Neebs. I hope you find what you’re looking for out there. I mean that. And if you ever decide to come back… you’re certainly welcome to. There’ll always be a place for you if you need it. And… I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.” Noggins turned to look back to Sikatris, but the Commander was already getting to her feet to put an end to the skirmishes in the city. “Grimper, you go with her, tell our side to stand down as well. We don’t need any further deaths tonight.” That was all she had to say to the Warlord for the moment. There would be time for more later. Maybe considerably later, given how much she needed to do. But there would be time, eventually. For now… she was pretty sure she’d earned a little celebration with the rest of the Unexpectables. Green Intern posted:
“Now that is a real relief. I’d hate to be stuck with a color I looked terrible in. But seriously, Ringo, thanks. It means a lot that I’ve got your support. Feel free to go wherever you… wait. Wait! Oh, poo poo! Hey! Verika! Pythag, Gabber, Ayo! Get over here! I can’t believe I didn’t realize this. Kneel, all of you. You too, Ringo!” “Verika, in recognition of your steadfast loyalty and service, I, Queen Noggins of Tö, with the power and authority that I very definitely have now that lets me do this, hereby dub you… wait, no, dub thee Sir Verika, Grandmaster of the Knights of the Nail and Fist. Or Lady Verika if you prefer, that’s always been kind of weird.” she reached out and tapped Nailbreaker on both of Verika’s shoulders. “Pythag, Gabber, Ayo… I likewise dub thee Knights of the Nail and Fist, which is now an actual thing and not just a random military squad with fancy titles. You have no idea how happy I am about this. This is great. There’s going to be a castle and everything.” “And Ringo… I hereby dub thee Sir Ringo, Knight-Errant of Tö. Go forth and do some good in the world, Ringo. All of you. I expect some fantastic stories out of you guys. And not just the kind that involves fighting villains. I kind of think we’ve seen the ultimate version of that particular story, anyways.” Noggins was halfway through her second sandwich when something finally clicked for her, earlier half-heard gibberish resolving into comprehensible words in her mind. HiHo ChiRho posted:Potrait: Noggins took off the Crown and stared at it for a little while. There was something to those words. Assuming she’d understood Mason correctly, at least, which still wasn’t guaranteed. There were a lot of paths to power, she realized. A lot of different ways that it could be obtained, by a lot of different people. At the end of the day, being powerful didn’t say a lot about who a person was. But being able to give it up… “ONE MONTH,” she declared, as the room fell silent. “One month with the Crown. After that, it comes off, and gets broken down. It’s too much. Too much and too easy and too concentrated. This isn’t something we can trust to exist. As long as it’s in the world, it’s only a matter of time before someone like her gets it. Probably not even that much time. But at the same time, there’s too much to do to make everything stick. So one month. No more, no less. One month to try and build a framework strong enough to stand up on its own. After that, I give it up. And if I don’t, I want you all to do to me what we did to her. One month.” “Also, Hat? You’ve got the commission to make the next one. Something that doesn’t look like it’s melting onto my head, please,” More to come in a later post!
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Dec 19, 2018 04:54
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 SASGY Basement, The Department for the Study and Enrichment of Over the month, Grumbus's work on SASGY continued at a fevered pitch, sometimes causing the Dean of Warcrimes to miss sleep. There was just so much to do! There were syllabi and lesson plans to write! Since the basement was mostly finished, there was interior design, decoration, and (most importantly) lab setup to do! He still had to find someone to head the Burnie Memorial Wing for Applied Pyromania! (Maybe that little fellow, Klörf, needed a job?) And all the writing! Not only was he having to write his own textbooks and reference materials, but he had to help proofread all of the stuff Mason and Stårn wrote, because he had somehow become the proofreading guy. Late one night, Grumbus decided to take a break from putting the finishing touches on the pseudo-followup to his book on slime: A Treatise on Sludge, and Why It Should Never Be Confused With Slime. He scooted his specially laminated chair out and stepped out of his richly appointed office for a stroll around the partially complete Grumbus strolled through his favorite part of his lab, his collection! His specimens! He spared no expense obtaining them, and they were worth every penny. Specially made Tö-sized jars filled with a dazzling array of slimes, sludges, goops, and secretions, some even fitted with lighting rigs and bubblers! A preserved carcass a species island lizard with bites so carcinogenic, that anything other than immediate amputation of the bitten limb would result in too many tumors and growths to treat. Dean Grumbus stopped to take in the (current) crown jewel of his collection. This one took up the entire wall, and the jar needed to store it had to be requisitioned and repurposed from the facility the military made and 'maintained' Breakers in. The fungally lobotomized body of a Blood Ant Queen, kept alive by an ingenious system of intravenous tubes. Only temporarily until it was time for the dissection, of course. The Blood Ants of the Övertherian Deserts had a most peculiar symbiosis with a particularly nasty and fast-acting strain of Etöla. The drone and soldier ants would work together to manufacture and saturate the ants' nest with the pathogen. When contracted, inevitable for any unprepared trespassers, the virus would lay inert until the Queen was threatened. Once threatened, the Queen would do....something, Grumbus wasn't sure yet. The virus would activate, and anyone around would fall unconscious and bleed out in a matter of minutes. Grumbus turned to consider the reinforced door that connected to the Underneath for easy access. Did he have time to pop out for a drink? No, Humbug could arrive at any moment now. quote:What do he do: Grumbus continues to work tirelessly on SASGY, his patience makes him into a skilled administrator, helping cut through bothersome red tape and contract nonsense. In what little spare time he plans out his masterpiece work: The True Cause of Disease: Germs. - - - The Slinker City Quarantine Zone "Ye," Grumbus said as he did a final check of his gas mask's filter, "'gently caress me' is right. Little bastard's 'parently a real nasty piece of work. Remember the stories a few years ago about some arsehole leaving rat poisoned caltrops in the city streets? Watch reckons it was this Sadomax twat. Not what's got me worried, though." "It's the grass.", Humbug deduced, "It's too maintained for someone who would've died from the infection after a few weeks and the placement doesn't make sense for someone who isn't infected." Humbug motioned at all the grass patches, which were placed in arbitrary patterns along the streets and sidewalks that stretched before them. "I think I even see some on that roof over there." The detective kneeled down to take a closer look at the grass patch, being careful to avoid Sadomax's handiwork. "Irregularly cut too, like he's using the wrong tool.", Humbug concluded. "Got it in one. That's why they pay you the big bucks, or would if you weren't the bloody dangerous kinda sleuth.", Grumbus said, "Either Jeb ain't dead or we've got someone we don't know about infected and eatin' cores. Not gonna lie, neither's lookin' good for us. Good news is, I came prepared for trouble." Grumbus turned to shout at his new research assistant, "Oi, Hamdön! Wake up, and help us unload Plodderick's cart! And give the poor lad a carröt, he looks downright miserable!" Grumbus passed Humbug a wrapped package of some sort, a bandolier filled with what Humbug recognized to be some of Grumbus's homemade plague grenades, only more...intimidating, and a backpack full of supplies. Grumbus beamed with pride as he explained what the first two items were, "Right, so you already know what those are, what you DON'T know is that these ain't the same lovely ones I've been using. I used what I learned building the payload what I used on the Gate to make em' better, MEANER! Those are the flesh meltin' bacteria variant. I got less-than-lethal irritant ones and what I like to call exsanguinators, but the first one's not how I like it yet and the second one, well. Last thing we need is more blood when we're in a quarantine zone." Humbug nodded and started strapping on the bandolier and backpack. Inside the package was an oversized crossbow and a decent quantity of bolts, some of which looked like specialty ammunition. "Right," Grumbus explained, "So these are what 'eadmaster Stårn and Mason designed when they got drunk one night. 'Parently they found something they liked in the Royal Armory and they half remembered seeing Portha's prototype in action, so they wanted to try to recreate it and Siege it up in the process. The funny looking bolts are made with some-a Mason's siege-hooch, so, uh, be careful with them. And before I forget, if Stårn asks, they're Hand-Ballistae, not crossbows. He'll pretend not to hear you until you call them hand-ballistae." Humbug whistled, "You weren't humming kidding!" "Don't ever let anyone tell you Siegers don't have the best stuff.", Grumbus quipped as they waved goodbye to Plodderick and Hamdön. This was no place for a Plodder, so it was straight back to Tömate for the both of them. To be continued.
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Dec 19, 2018 06:57
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            Name: Verika (& Garnör) HP: 1/1 (3/3) Skills: Perception +65, Smithing +80, Sniping +30 (& Armorsmithing +10) Equipment: Knight's Plate (+3), Zahn Trapper Hat (+1), Ruddy Charger, Blixthäst (+5), Tap Root [Proof-Scraper] (+5), Defender Shield Cosmetics: Nail and Fist Token (Breaker's Guard), Agenou's Cape Sash, Sikatris Scarf, Basker Cloak, Slightly-Cracked Telescope Glory: 24 -> 25 Ritual Chits: 12 (artwork bonus) Tömate (part 10): The vile and monstrous Queen Dixi and her fiendishly tenacious Handmaidens had all collectively been destroyed, and in their places stood the newly coronated Queen Noggins, the Warlord Grimper the Breaker, Commander Sikatris the Thread, and all of the Unexpectable Horde. The fighting was over, had ended - for now - and yet the tense situation between the newly-forming nation-states of Tö, Frö, and Neötopia had been made all the more precarious by Verika's total and rather insubordinate insistence on getting her hands on the blood of Neötopia's leader Snödis, who had attempted to commit the crime of dining and dashing with royal flesh in her belly. Thankfully, after she'd submitted to an on-site blood drawing from Medic Captain Gryph, Snödis the Poet-dictator quickly removed herself from the scene along with the other Neötopian delegates Trinh and Tö-Pain, all three of them riding atop the back of the flying Wendigo-boat Yacht Sothoth. With her eyes' Perceptions on their full sensory alert, Verika intently followed the colossal flying beast with the Tap Root's scope as it receded into the distance until it had become nothing more than a speck of Monsterist dust in the snowy haze. Watching the back of that particularly fearsome beast returning to its chosen roost, Verika knew that, with her divine luck, this wouldn't be the last she'd seen of the vessel once known as the Queen Reina's Revenge, nor of the Monsterism-warped people that it now so loyally served. The next time that she and Snödis' people crossed paths, Verika swore, she'd be ready for them. Whether it was for waging war or for ensuring peace between the nations, Verika knew it was always good to come prepared for your potential opponents' greatest weapons: fear and corruption. After everything had been said and done, Verika the Perceiver had been dubbed Sir Verika, Grandmaster of the Knights of the Nail and Fist, empowered by the reigning Queen Noggins herself. In that surprisingly rapturous moment of regal recognition, Verika realized she knew what needed to be accomplished to ensure the continued peace and safety of the Töan and Fröan peoples. Corruption was, at its very essence, anathema to the stability of the peaceful balance between peoples and nations. The Knights of the Nail and Fist would therefore need to be the shining exemplars in the fight against the degradation of world's [code], carefully-chosen warriors combating corruption and decay in all its many forms. With Queen Noggins' blessing, Verika immediately set to work on creating a pair of newly-forged institutions within the future Töan government. Verika's Plans posted:Verika establishes twin branches of the Knights of the Nail and Fist, military organizations beholden only to the Queen. What Changes posted:The Knights of the Order of the Nail and Fist are founded.
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Dec 19, 2018 08:10
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Slinker City, City Hall The way to the duo's first destination, the city hall, was quiet and relatively uneventful, eerily so. They walked through the streets in attentive silence, stopping only to point out the occasional pitfall, spiked rake, or tripwire. Thankfully nothing that took too much effort to avoid or disarm. Once they reached the dilapidated city hall, Humbug made a signal to stop, removed a hand mirror from his pack, and slid it under the building's front door. Just as he thought, a tripwire. Instead, the two climbed through a nearby broken window. "Surprisingly easy for such a major building. The Trapmaker must have been hiding out somewhere else.", Humbug inspected the tripwire attached to the door and followed it to an impromptu incendiary trap. No doubt to hamper anyone attempting to explore the city. Perhaps it was also intended to act as a signal fire? Hum. "Good.", Grumbus stated, "The first recorded victim was Hölda the Baker, no address listed. Last thing we need is some puzzle obsessed prick bothering us while we're looking through papers with our bloody dicks in our hands." The plaguebearer sighed, "Might be easier said than done. One of the afflicted on the list was Schülze the Organized, recordkeeper. So, uh, hope you're ready for some digging." The two gingerly entered the building's record storage room, stepping over the charred skeleton of its former keeper. True to Grumbus's word, the late recordkeeper seemed to have died in the process of sorting every last document by obscure requirements that made sense only to him. After a good hour of patiently going through files and cross-referencing a nearby expired almanac, Humbug was able to figure out somewhat of a method to Schülze's madness. From there it only took a couple of minutes to find Hölda's business license neatly tucked away with all the other documents that correlated with a waning gibbous and an above average yield of rutabagas. Slinker City, Crumb Get Some It was clear to Grumbus that although Hölda was the first recorded victim, she was in no way Patient Zero, though there was little information to figure out where she contracted OCS. Humbug, however, managed to find a bit of a lead. He cleared his throat, "Hum, I believe I found something. It seems Hölda was making regular, suspiciously large deliveries of bread to a certain address here in town around the time she was observed to be acting strangely. You're not going to like where it is." The Plaguebearer peered over at the bakery's ledger, a look of dismay passed over his face, "gently caress! Of bloody course it had to be Töhannes the Architect's mansion! Guys drat it! And I'll bet you 100 thölers that arsehole Sadomax was lurking about in there too!" Grumbus angrily spit, the loogie splattering upon his suit's face plate. Humbug gave Grumbus a minute to cool off. He was still in a sour mood from getting a faceplate full of flour followed by a swinging paintcan to the back of the head, followed by an entire shelf collapsing on him. Slinker City, the road to Töhannes's Mansion Jeb's Garden As they neared the mansion on the edge of town, the mystery gardener's work became more frequent, more imaginative. Flower beds arranged in non-euclidean patterns, all dead due to an unintentional lack of nutrients. Trees bent into nonsensical and unnatural shapes. At one point, Grumbus and Humbug had to snake through a claustrophobic path cut through a tall patch of razor cactus. As they got closer and closer, they began to hear a certain noise. "I'd know those calls anywhere.", Grumbus whispered, "Carrion birds. Tried to keep one as a lark a few years back. Word of advice..." Humbug cut him off, "Don't do it? Call it a hunch. Humm, we should move off the path, sneak through the trees." Grumbus nodded in agreement. A few minutes later, they discovered what had the local vultures' attention. A grotesque garden of flesh, a lovingly arranged display of bodies, Tö and Frö alike. Each was broken and contorted into a crude approximation of fashionable topiary, their fingers, toes and other extremities sliced off. And some of them were fresh. A shocked Grumbus ejected the contents of his stomach all over the inside of his suit. "Holy poo poo.", he mumbled, "The gardener's -hurk- loving ment-" He was interrupted by the sound of heavy work boots stomping over dry leaves. The duo turned to look behind them. Behind them was a hulking figure, easily a few heads taller than either of them, with a crazed look in his glazed over eyes. The name tag on his uniform indicated that his name was "Jeb". The massive pair of bloodstained battle shears he had leveled at the two indicated he was so much more than a simple gardener. Jeb let out an annoyed, yet unnatural groan. He spoke in a slurred, bass-y rumble, "Lovely. More talking bushes. Only cure for that. A good pruning." He slammed his oversized shears shut a couple of times. "Grumbus.", Humbug hissed as he started to back away, "Did the reports say anything about Jeb being a Royal War-ticulturist?" Grumbus was already starting to run, "N-NO! BLOODY SCARPER!" To be continued.
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Dec 20, 2018 07:26
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 Cause Neither To nor Fro were yet free. Perhaps it would be that Noggins, Snodis, and the rest of the horde bring about a lasting peace, but Cause did not feel capable of building that peace. He had betrayed his nation, his adopted nation, his Queen, even the horde itself. Instead Cause would search for the remnants of the peoples of O, whatever might remain that was neither To nor Fro. Their stories deserved to be told, to speak to the present despite all of the old Queen's efforts. It was possible he would find instead the toys and tools of the OGs, and the very idea struck his core with fear. And it was true, the OGs would have hidden stings and snares among their treasures. But this, Cause knew from his studies; treat it just so, and venom, too, could heal. To do: Cause searches for proof to the Queen's tale of many cultures of O. What he finds, he will bring back to the twin kingdoms. Where he finds what the OG left behind, he might use, or give to Noggins and co if he deems it very safe, or more likely bury better. What Changes: The people of To and Fro learn more of their sister cultures.
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Dec 21, 2018 02:22
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Part 2: Survive Trinh opened her eyes. They were still there. The little people. Oh great. On their knees, fingers interlocked, they resumed their mantras. Trinh ignored them. Many found their way to Neötopia. Some came to seek power. Some came to escape their old lives. Some came to learn how two could be made one, and one could be made many. The last category mainly spent their time annoying Trinh. The nerve. She had already held several (two) demonstrations, yet they simply kept begging for more, speaking of apprenticeship and admiration. They had already taken the first step towards the truth. If they couldn't handle it from there it was their own fault. Many of them saw monsterism as a goal in itself. Trinh suspected that they would never understand. But as annoying as they could be, they were useful. She currently had them building a shelter for her. The cave they had spent much of the month excavating had collapsed and she had been forced to sleep under a tarp. The cold she had been able to handle, but not having a place to keep her things had her on the edge. Another sycophant came, pushing a cart filled with a wriggling, many eyed mass. A breakfast. These days Trinh felt vigorous, great. More than great. She wasn't sure if she even needed to eat anymore but better safe than sorry. As she ate, something else was brought to her attention. One of Hob's mindbender helmets. Made for her, someone had brought it over just now. She turned the helmet in her hand. So, it was an OG contraption that stuck it's tendrils into your head, joining your mind into some sort of arcane script network? And the likes of Sucy and Splut had access to it? Trinh dropped the thing. She'd pass. Below the followers teemed, trying to look useful. On some level she appreciated it, but more than anything she was frustrated by how inefficient they were. They all asked things of her even when she wasn't in the mood to listen to them. The builders kept getting distracted by sleep and breathing. Inefficient. She wanted to hollow them out. Fix them. She grabbed one at random. He tried to look happy, but he was afraid. The heart does not lie. What a waste. The builder had no need for a mouth. The Thing That Holds Bottles and Hands You the Correct One When Asked did not need a brain to do it's job. That's it. This had gone on for long enough. She would finally make them useful. ... Why was she still hesitating? Was she still not free? Slowly, she placed the man back down. Dog Kisser posted:Trinh is in control… for now. Your attack roll becomes 4d1000-1d100 --- She put on the helmet. --- "I w͆i̐l͛l͆ visit Tömate." Snödis paused her meeting with the cömrades as Trinh appeared. "A͛ word in private?" There were quite a few people around. Trinh might have had a somewhat crazy following but even they paled in comparison to the types that now congregated around Snödis. In more private quarters (in a cabin, with Trinh poking her head in through the door). "Ĩ̐t̆̍ ̛͑h͒̎a̽̕s͛̌ ̓͒b͒̅ĕ̛en almost a month." "Ă̈́n̔̆d̔͝ ̛̅y͐́o͋̒u̓̑ traumatized the last messenger to come." "S̑͝ő̆m̑́ë́̂ȯ̈́ṅ̈́e͋͊ needs to go meet Noggins." That was not all. "T̍̈h͊̕ò͊s̈̄é̈́ ̑̍p̐̋e̿͋ople, the ones most eager to fight, they are afraid" "A̐̾f͂̐t̛͌e̍͝r̓͘ the attack, you were right to rally them with shows of force." "B̅̀ut soon they will want revenge, and then, even more." "Ť̐h͐̈́ȅ͂r̀͑ë́̐ ̽͒ĭ̐s͗̕ ̅̐č͠r̛̐ù̑e̛̔l̅̽t͆͠y̽͐ ͐̒b̏͝r͊̈ê̍wing in their hearts, and you are feeding them." "B̿͌y͐̋ being what they desire." She nodded towards the room's wall, whereupon was painted the grim butterfly-skull symbol. "I͐͘'͐̊ḿ͝ not telling you need to stop." "W͊̿ë́̊ ̍͊w̑͛i͗̽l̈́̔l̓̌ ̋̎ḣ͝a̚͠v̈́͗ė͝ ̍̉t̀͝ö́̕ ̅̌f̈́͛ȋ͝g̎͛h̒̍t̓̔ for our lives sooner or later." "T͗͠ḧ́̎i͑̈́s̀̓ ̅̊p̉͒l͗̇a͛̊c͌̐e͐̀ needs someone like you." "S̛͂o̓̈́m̿͠e̋̀o͒͆n͐͛é̂ who believes that there is a line that separates Wildlands from Neötypia." For a moment she paused. Her voice got quieter. "I̋ ̋h̎ave realized, that even now I don't know what it is that you want." "Î'͝m̕ not sure if I care." "B͆űt̎ think about what kind of people you are surrounding yourself with." "F͘o͒r̊ Bäbi's sake, if no one else." --- The snowy, crowded streets were barely visible from up here. Far below Tömate emerged from behind the horizon. This was as close as she would go for now. Even the Yacht-Sothoth, packed full of branded wendigos would not be enough if the welcoming committee turned out to comprise several angry Breakers. On the field, not far from the landing site was pitched a tent, vast in size and embroidered with the golden symbol of Tö. On it's sides stood soldiers, impressive in their uniforms, but very few in number. The queen was confident. Trinh left her guard behind, and entered. The tent was cavernously large. One was surprised when their voice did not echo back from it's walls. The structure had been made for Warlords to hold council. Now, it was practically empty. Only in it's very center stood a great table, made from a cross section of a single giant tree. By the table sat the queen of Tö in full armor, and few steps to the side stood Verika. The Tap Root holstered, for now. It was silent. Slowly, Trinh crept towards the table. Seconds passed. Finally, she could see her face reflected on it's polished surface. "S̀̌o͛͠,͆̀ ̍̔w̉͘h̀͠y͂̈ ̉̇p̌̂eace? Are there not more prizes to be won in the game?" "Y͆̿o͊̔ǘ̆ could send the army to us. Many will be infected or eaten by Jö, but if Breakers obey, you will win. An ugly and expensive victory." "B̂̀u̎̔t̾́ ̊̍ń̛ȇ́i͆̎t̀̋h̄́e͊̋r̾̂ of us wants that, do we?" "Y̆͂o͘͝u̽͐ never wanted to cut down Frö's finest. Even as they attacked us, you wanted there to be another solution." "D̀̎i͌͑d̃͐ you feel the same for the one who attacked us on the Fist river?" "I doubt you did." "S̄̃n͐̇ȫ͝d́͝ỉ̓s̐̅ is mad. She believes there can be a place for monsters." "A̿̀n̄̈́d͂̀ ̈́͝s͌̈́h̉̑ĕ̐ ̏͑i͗̔s̔͑ necessary. For the monsters all respect her, or fear her." "T̆̅h͋̏e̅̽r̄͘e͌̑ will be a border. A line that keeps the madness in." "B̒͠e͂͠ĺ͑ǐ̉e͑̂v̈́̚e̋͐ ̅̌i͗͂t͛͑.̍̿ If not for Snödis's sake, then for one who does not intend to die in a war." --- Later A dark room, location undisclosed. "Ã̄̌͘̚ month and she destroys the crown?" "...N͛òt̚ a ruler that one." Splut was unreadable. "Ÿ́o̐u͆'̓l̇ĺ help her survive this?" ... "Ḧ́o͠ẃ tight of a grip do you have, really?" "I̚ ̑d͂ȋd̛ ͠n̍o͗t̍ see people assaulting the palace. But the rest of the kingdom?" "H͘áv̓e͘ the outer territories recognized the stolen crown?" "Ǒr̿ ͝i͝s̎ the next Lord Boxer on his way to the capital?" "Àr͑e͗ they growing hungry? Ready for a civil war?" "I͐f̿ ̽t̅h̓e̿ ͗b͠o̍r̾d̉e̕r̽ provinces need a reminder-" "I̒t͘ would not be hard to arrange wendigo sightings." "T̶o̵ make them appreciate the protection that Warlords can offer them." --- The meetings were over. Trinh's purpose here as a diplomat over. But she ordered the crew to keep Yacht-Sothoth sleeping for longer. The true reason she had come still remained. To be continued Jvie fucked around with this message at 07:52 on Dec 21, 2018 |
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Dec 21, 2018 07:43
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Noggins Noggins didn’t sleep that first night. Or the next. Or the night after that. One month. She had one month to try and build something that could hold together, and hold together better than Reina had done. It wasn’t enough time. It wasn’t nearly enough time. But she had set it, and she was going to stick to it. So she couldn’t afford to waste a single second of it. That wasn’t the only reason, though it was the only one she’d admit. She’d entered Reina’s old chambers—her chambers now, she supposed. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it. Well, the fact that it was sized for someone who had ascended twice was uncommon, she supposed. But otherwise it was just a richly-appointed set of rooms. But at the same time, something about them had filled her with an inexplicable dread. Like if she slept in that bed, she wouldn’t wake up as herself. It was nonsense, of course, but still… So she just didn’t sleep. She pulled every trick in the book to push herself—and with the Crown, that was a very large book indeed. It was really incredible what you could do when you had total control over your own body. In those three days she devoured just about every single book in the considerable Royal Archive that was even remotely related to her task. Ancient historical texts. Old court records. A painstaking record of the menus of royal balls. Books on philosophy, military strategy, management. A surprising number of them had been written by the Queen. Whether it was to spread particular ideas, retain information that she’d felt slipping away, or simply to confide in the written page, Noggins couldn’t say. She finally took a break when all three Spluts, backed by considerable statistical analysis from a handful of Qwägs convinced her that she was compromising her own ability to function with the extended strain. Still unwilling to touch that bed, she’d very insistently requested a large bin full of sawdust, which she promptly collapsed into. It was hard to get more Noggins and less Reina than that, after all. ----------------------- After spending the better part of a day asleep, Noggins awoke refreshed, clear of mind, with the beginnings of an outline in her head along with a powerful determination not to make that particular stupid mistake again. Time was limited, but there were, as Splut reminded her in the first of what would turn out to be many morning briefings, appearances to be maintained. “Obsessed, sleep-deprived, and raving” wasn’t going to inspire confidence in anyone, no matter how good her intentions. Splut had taken the liberty of setting up an initial meeting with those nobles, local authorities, and other upper-crust Tö that he felt would be most easily (and most usefully) brought on board with her future agenda, and as a result the remainder of the day was spent with Savile, the Royal Tailor. While part of her wanted to simply continue in her armor, she couldn’t argue that it didn’t exactly set a particularly pleasant tone for the start of her rule. Savile’s skill was clearly without peer, matched only by his love for gold thread and ostentation. That argument had taken an entire hour. It wasn’t even for particularly consequential reasons—Noggins simply knew, with iron-clad certainty, that she would look stupid in anything vaguely dress-like, and Savile steadfastly refused to make anything else. It would have been faster had she used the Crown, but it was temporarily in Sucy’s hands for research purposes, and besides—she couldn’t let it be a crutch. So she argued, and argued, and finally Savile relented. The resulting suit wasn’t flashy by any means, but it more than made up for it in sheer craftsmanship. It fit impeccably, practically oozing confidence. Perfect. ----------------------- “I’m going to be blunt with you all—there’s going to be a lot of changes around here. Not all of those changes are going to be comfortable.” Noggins leaned back in the throne, hands clasped in front of her face (Splut’s Expanded Charm Guide, Chapter 3 – Body Language, page 134), and the faint yellow glow of Royalty in her eyes. Thrones were really kind of poo poo chairs when you got down to it. They looked impressive and imposing, but they were not in any way comfortable, and it was drat hard to hold a proper conversation when you were that far above your audience. But it all came back to appearances. And that idle thought was the proper length for a meaningful pause. “There is going to be conflict in the future. The—my predecessor, twisted though her morality and thinking had become, was not wrong about that. So long as there are different nations, so long as there are different peoples, so long as there’s more than one Ö on the face of the earth, that’s going to be true. It’s in our nature, and not just because of the PoGs. And faced with the inevitability of conflict, we have a choice. We can go to war over it, as we have done so recently, and frequently. We can take up my predecessor’s mad crusade. Or, the option I prefer, we can change how the game is played.” Noggins leaned forward, and after another Meaningful Pause, got to her feet. “Gentlemen, women, my loyal subjects, my allies, and, I sincerely hope, my friends… we are going to wage peace on Frö. We are going to wage peace on them so hard their heads will spin. We will build our cities grander, our waters cleaner, our people more prosperous. Our researchers and universities—“ she nodded to Sucy, Verika, and Stårn will produce wonders like they’ve never imagined. We will steal their best and brightest simply by being so much better that coming to Tö is the obvious choice. We will cook better food, sing better songs, live better lives.” “But right now, we’re well short of that goal. There is so very much that we lack. For far too long, we’ve been going at this with both hands tied behind our back and blindfolded. For all the power and knowledge she possessed, Reina was quite disinterested in actually making anybody’s lives better. Institutions were left to rot and fester with corruption. Our version of Frö’s Commander program was retooled to be quite unsuited for anything but violence. And we were taught to hate half the world for the most superficial reasons. We are behind in the game, and there is a great deal we lack. I intend to fix that.” “There will be changes. For starters, discrimination against non-Tö is not only going to be left behind, we are going to beat it with the metaphorical hammer of justice until it keels over, and then we’ll bury it in a ditch. And yes, I specifically said non-Tö, because information suggests we’ll be seeing some… developments in that regard. This won’t happen overnight, as much as I wish that were possible. But that is going to be a priority, and one that I will not be swayed from. I’m confident that ll of you have heard, if not seen, the strength with which I hold to my convictions. This is your advance notice to get your affairs in order.” “Similarly, discrimination against monsterism is going to be brought to a close. It profits us nothing, and costs us much. The Cure will be available for those who wish it, of course, but if someone does not wish to undergo that process, that is their choice to make, and they will not be judged for it. And furthermore… yes, there will be Wendigoes,” This got a strong, albeit hushed, reaction, and Noggins raised a hand to silence it. “Yes, I am well aware of the risks. But they are just that—risks. They are not, by any means, guaranteed. I had the privilege of serving alongside Dack in the war, and he performed admirably, and has continued to do incredible things since the war’s conclusion. I have every bit of confidence that he will not stop doing good in the world any time soon. And if others are inspired to follow his example, then I see no reason to discourage them. There will be rules, yes. Precautions they will have to follow. But that will be a life they’ll be free to choose.” “And finally, at least for this meeting, there will be justice in Tö. Corruption, graft, and exploitation will be punished. By allowing these sicknesses to go free, we do nothing but line the pockets of a privileged greedy few at everyone else’s expense. And while I’m sure that that nobody present would ever engage in such things…. Consider yourselves warned, nevertheless. I have confidence that the audits won’t turn up anything from any of you. Any questions?” Almost as if on cue, Rutherförd the Banker rose to his feet. That really was an impressive moustache that he had. This one was page 326 of the Charm Manual. Leave an open question to guide the flow of the conversation. “Yes, yes, that’s all well and good. But what about Neötopia! The threat they pose is—“ Noggins raised her hand again as she took a seat. Rutherförd took the hint. “We’ve received word that Neötopia is sending an envoy. Talks will be held, and we’ll proceed from there. I am well aware of the concerns surrounding Neötopia, and will be addressing them in the upcoming summit. Now please—continue. Let’s hear it all.” More to come!
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Dec 22, 2018 06:11
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“Graaah! Bushes shouldn’t run, shouldn’t hide, should know their place!” Humbug and Grumbus scurried inside an inverted hedge maze while Jeb the Gardener raved and raged three rows to the left and down. While he had clearly gone insane due to an advanced case of OCS (that somehow hadn’t killed him yet) and was already by dint of his Ascension faster and stronger than either on them, he also displayed a clear unwillingness to destroy his ‘perfect work’, letting the two smaller Tö weave in and out of the bone-chilling Töpiary to dive into the nearby maze and keep one step ahead of him. Töhannes’ Mansion was roughly a hundred meters away past the hedge, but neither of them felt like making a run for it across open ground. Not while the maniac holding scissors the size of Klörf wanted to ‘prune’ them. Especially when they risked stepping into a pile of rat poison caltrops courtesy of shithead of the year for the last five years running, Sadomax the Trapmaker. “Something’s wrong here,” said Humbug once he’d caught his ragged breath. Grumbus gave him a scandalized look - a refreshing change of pace for their relationship so far - while grabbing a red bottle-shaped bolt from his holster and reloading the Hand-Ballistae - actually... those were just bottles that coincidentally fit into the ballista reloading mechanism. Probably. Hard to tell with Mason. “No poo poo! There’s a freaky Feverhead wanting to cut us into bloody garden displays! I plugged the rotter and he didn’t even flinch!” “Yes, but that’s not what I meant. Getting away was, hum… too easy? Look, he’s managed to capture how many victims in an abandoned city? Even if he’s been preying on wannabe looters avoiding the quarantine or guards and people out on the edges that shouldn’t have been eas-” Somewhere in the maze behind them, scissors stopped clanging fruitlessly together, then a sharp whistling noise (sub-par to Ringo’s whistles, but still ear-piercing) rang through the air. “My pretties! Jeb wants BUSHES!” slurrily reverberated the angry bass voice of the Gardener. Worryingly, there was the sound of scuttering and scuttling from elsewhere around the hedge. Grumbus and Humbug halted in their tracks as a very familiar starved-looking little beast popped out to hiss at them - a Rabid Slinker. It seemed to be building up its courage to attack. “Hm?! That’s it! Jeb must have some sort of slinker-training secondary skillcore! With a loyal herd to track down and corral fölk for him to kidnap-murder, it would be simple to-“ “FIRE IN THE HÖL!” yelled Grumbus, lowering his Hand-Ballistae at the hedge as a dozen other angry slinkers rushed out behind the first. The bottle-projectile fell short and crashed just in front of the creatures, breaking with a loud shattering noise. There was a brief pungent whiff of chemicals being exposed to air - and then the path ahead of them disappeared in an actinic flash of flame, frying the bushes and, presumably, many of the attack slinkers. “Hoom… you weren’t kidding about the hooch! It’s almost as bad as Waesh’s new Breaker-style grog,” said Humbug. He tried to blink to away the tears in his eye, while the outraged roars of the Gardener intensified at the vandalizing of his garden - roars that rapidly came closer. The two Unexpectables looked at one another in brief understanding, then both grabbed a bottle-bolt and started to reload their Hand-Ballistae. ---------------------------------- “If Sadomax was waiting for a signal fire, we’ve pretty much set it ourselves,” said Grumbus, lazily scraping away some of the sick from inside his suit as they glanced warily about the entrance foyer of Töhannes’ Mansion. They’d left Jeb a blinded and burning mess while pursued by a surprisingly large mob of vengeful slinkers (which surely meant he was out of commission for good - or so they dearly hoped). Of course, their approach to the mansion had been hampered by the ‘welcome mat’ of several dozen tiny sharp caltrops, but a quick inventory check and one battlebrüm usage later, they managed to get past the front door and its joy-buzzer’d handle. “C-couldn’t be helped, G-grumbug,” reponded Humbug, still twitching and smoking slightly from a light electrocution. Now that they had a moment (frantic slinker-scraping of the sturdy outside walls aside - the twitchy little beasts wisely avoided the door) the Sleuth upended the Brüm to look at one of the caltrops, still stuck in the bristles, bringing it close to his suit’s soot-stained face-plate. The stains on the points spoke for themselves. “Still rat poison, hm? Classic Sadomax, can't even spring for horse poison. At best we'd get sick for a day. What a miserable so-” the Sleuth began to say, but a tinny, obnoxiously high-pitched nasal voice cut him off, issuing from the far side of the room. “HelloooOooOohohoho, honored guests! Welcome to my ‘hum’-ble domicile - dohoho, just a little joke there Sleuth. You should already know my name, but just for the sake of it: I am SADOMAX THE GREAT! As your gracious host this evening, I promise to END--eavor to keep my pursuers from the Watch enter-tainted. Hehehehehee. Any last words? wait you did step on the caltrops right? no? dammit Jeb, you had ONE JOB” The two gave a start, reached for their Hand-ballistae, then lowered them with disappointment writ on their faces for lack of a clear target. “Speaking of rats, is he small enough to fit in one of these?” grumbled Grumbus as they eyed an old-fashioned speaking tube - one of many running all along the inside of the building. Töhannes the Architect had come up with many innovative and infamous designs of his time and age, but the Mansion he’d invested most of his life in developing eschewed in a spectacular fashion common sense - such as why in the world would you insert speaking (and listening) tubes into every single room in your house, or put ALL of your bathrooms behind secret doors? “Art Neöveau” had clearly been decades (if not centuries) ahead of its time, so once the Architect died, the style and, indeed, the Mansion had fallen into obscurity and infamy. What was known was that the place had been subject to multiple rumours of hauntings and worse, and as far as Slinker City citizens knew, the dilapidated old house on the hill had been a den of Monsterists, Wendigoes and crazy blood murder ghosts (despite, or perhaps because of, Töhannes’ infamous pacifistic-like conflict-shyness). Admittedly, the house had remained owned and well-kept, but whoever its mysterious owner had been, they had not bothered showing themselves in years - which was what had made Hölda the Baker’s large-scale deliveries so suspect. “Sadomax, you pissant! You paranoid prick! We’re only looking for the source of the Overclocked Core Syndrome!” yelled Grumbus after a few more short, foul-mouthed mutters, not bothering to trigger his Patience skillcore in order to deal with this poo poo. The nasal whinging returned after mere moments, dripping with disbelieving sarcasm. “Oh suuuuure you are. You’re only here looking for ‘that’. Yes. Of course. Let me just remotely unlock every door in my fortress of solitude and disarm aaaall the MANY traps I’ve PAIN-stakingly assembled over the last couple of years to keep MYSELF protected from VIOLENT INTRUDERS like PRECISELY yourself.” “We're not here with the Watch and that’d be great, honestly,” said Humbug, honestly. “You can’t fool ME, Mr. Sleuth! I know you’re secretly a part of the Queen’s Secret Pölice!” - “Um, hm?” - “You’ll never catch me alive (again), you violent viggy piggy! My TRAPS and MAGNIFICENT PUZZLES will ensure that! Oh, and some other surprises. Teeheehehe.” “Oldie fuckin’ poo poo-chuckin’ hells. This twat’s gone Feverhead too,” groused Grumbus. Humbug shook his head, painfully aware of the truth. “I’m afraid not, he’s always been this way. We’re dealing with a simple and retarded“-“Hey!”-“malevolent, mid-villain mindset here. As much as I hate saying so, we’re just going to have to grin and bear it and slowly make our way to whatever hideout he’s got set up, probably in one of the secret rooms that dot the manse. But once we’re there, it should be a cinch. Frankly, the man’s embarrassingly feeble. Once he’s out of his bag of tricks, we can sit on him until he says öncle.” “Haaaahahaha! Well, you just try, Sleuthy! I’ve got something EXTRA SPECIAL prepared for the likes of yooouuuu! Tell me… do you like EMBLEMS? AHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAAA!” Sadomax laughed as if he’d just told the greatest joke in the world. It was hardly intimidating, but Grumbus or Humbug had a slowly dawning sense of ennui as they saw some of the Very Well-Fortified Doors in Töhannes’ mansion, and the many indentations upon them. “Feck me, but I need a stiff drink.” ------------------------------------- After the late Cornbread (or Jämz, on a good day), only Grumbus could make language feel dirty. They'd been stuck on this particular room for a frankly embarassingly long time and the Plaguebearer's repertoire was starting to get ripe. Sadomax dropping by to gloat every half hour or so didn't help. "¤&#(#& THESE ¤&#/#( PUZZLES & ¤#/(%¤ TRAPS! I got a Patience Skillcore offa a Commander, and not even I'm havin' this! I'm havin' me a drink instead!" There was an unzipping noise as Grumbus started to strip his now-stinking suit (he’d been boilerplated a couple of times with barrels full of rotten eggs, tar and feathers, and hit with more swinging buckets of flour than you could shake a stick at (and almost decapitated twice, but that had been far less annoying). Amazingly, a far ghastlier whiff immediately started spreading all around the room. Humbug couldn't help but equate Grumbus to a butterfly emerging from the world’s most fetid cocoon. "... is that wise?" asked the Sleuth with a deeply concerned look on his face - one that was only partially due to the new smell entering through filtered nostrils. They were still inside a Quarantine Zone, after all. Grumbus nodded and waved his hand dismissively, before stepping up to one of the abundant liquor cabinets inside the mansion to patiently rummage through it. Fortunately for Grumbus' foul mood, the old owner and Sadomax both had left the majority of the manse mostly intact and untouched. And as Töhannes had notoriously leaned on “A nip in the morning, afternoon, evening, and every twenty minutes in-between” school of advice to steady his drafting hand (which explained all that anyone really needed to know about his design philosophy and eventual products, although not their popularity) there still seemed to be plenty of old half-filled bottles of Tögnac, Öbsinth and the like stashed here and there. "It's fine, the back of the suit's near torn from all these #/"/¤)# barrels, blades and saws anyway - you’re far worse off than me, honestly. Besides, the suits were only a precaution. We'll be fine as the only way we'll be infected if we're directly exposed to a vector and we lit the last one on fir-" As if waiting for just that moment, a shriek rose from a nearby cupboard and a blue, rag-clad figure tumbled out of it and into Grumbus, covering him in spittle and frantic blows. The Plaguebearer fell on his rear end, assailed and staggered by the surprise assault. Humbug dove in hard, cracking a starved and wild-looking Tö in her ribs with his elbow, then trying to grab and restrain her, but she was too thin and manic, slipping free with ease. The mad Tö-woman scampered down the hallway, nearly on all fours, screaming about the hideous smell while narrowly avoiding being decapitated by a swinging axe trap. "What the hum?! Another survivor? How?" asked Humbug as he helped a grumbling Grumbus to his feet. Grumbus put his jaw back in order, took a swig from the bottle of Öbsinth he’d found and spat a sizzling loogie on the floor. "Töphoid Mary. Part of the last reclamation expedition the military sent in five years ago. Figures someone with a 'Surviving Disease' skillcore survived. She must've found the true vector and gone all batshit loco Feverhead too - frankly, it’s gotta be a tertiary response from OCS survivors. Feck. Least we got our samples now, ey?" "You mean..." "With our torn suits and the tumbling we did with her we both probably got fuckin' infected. We gotta figure out this disease now, Humbug! It’s on a slow burn so we got time, but we can't go back and we'll still be screwed soon enough unless... of course! We need to get FECKIN' WASTED!" Grumbus took a slug of Öbsinth and stepped up to continue rummaging around in the nearest liquor cabinet, ignoring the puzzled Sleuth. "Um. Hum. Right. I’ll just keep trying to solve this olds-damned three-dimensional dodecahedral door vase room puzzle, then. And again, are you sure we have all the emblems?" Grumbus stopped, and slapped him on the back, all friendly-like, forcing the Sleuth to resume active shudder-suppressing efforts and reflexive grimacing countermeasures. "Nah, Humbug listen. Trust me. The virus is susceptible to alcohol. We drink, we slow the spread of it down, simple logic. Bein’ wasted is safer, but I guess you’re kinda right. Getting’ rocked off our gourds oughta be our last resort. What we gotta do is figure out a way to keep the proper blood to alcohol percentage going until I can find a cure. I figger between Mason's hooch, Töhannes’ stashes and whatever we can scrounge up, there’s gotta be enough to keep us pleasantly buzzed for a long while. And it'll make this miserable poo poo bearable. It’s not a bad plan!” Humbug glanced at Grumbus’ bottle. The label had long since fallen into illegibility, so they’d have to guesstimate the alcohol percentages based on their knowledge of the drink types, the taste and how drunk they were feeling in order to get the right ratio going. One that wouldn’t leave them stumbling, arm in arm (oldies forfend), down a certain sadist’s trap-filled corridors. “Hum… if you’re sure. So far we’ve got some red volatile hooch and green Öbsinth - and I’m fairly sure the hooch is stronger, so we’re gonna want to water the red out with the green (and watch it so we don’t explode) - unless that reacts chemically to become even stronger again, in which case we’ll want to water THAT out or drink less of it. …hum. Are you fond of drink mixing, Grumbus?” he asked, instantly regretting it when Grumbus’ grin spread wide, showing teeth better left unseen. “gently caress yeah! I can scrounge up some poo poo you wouldn’t believe could be drunk, too. A “Stinkin’ Rat” is my favorite, you gotta choke it down as if it’s still kickin’, but oldies does it get you some drunk!“ While they’d put up an admirable effort so far, Humbug’s grimace suppression neurons quietly called it a day at that point. "Aw, Humbug, come now. Don’t knock it ‘till you try it!" To Be Continued Scribbleykins fucked around with this message at 05:31 on Dec 23, 2018 |
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Dec 23, 2018 05:06
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      Name: Gryph HP: 3/3 Glory: 35 Skill: Medicine (30), Wrestling (35) A blow was struck. A war was waged. A Queen Died. And Gryph witnessed it all. Later, he would have almost no memory of the event. But it would haunt him, half-remembered snatches of it embedded in his dreams. Of what could have happened, of what had happened. But he was there. From conscript to Knight to Captain to Queen. Not the only Captain to have grand plans. Splut had more than his fair share of work as well, 'safeguarding the future of the Unexpectables', as he called it, on top of being Spymaster. Starn had always been planning for his Siege School, and was even now laser focused on what was, at least in his mind, the next big Siege. Noggins, of course now ruler, stood opposite Snodis. Two nations and a lot of tension. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- But a lot of changes. The Lampshade was under new management. Or at least, left in the capable hands of Nani. Gryph had no idea what had happened to Neebs. By all accounts she'd just.... left. Just like Gado. The Digger had disappeared into the night after playing a pivotal role in the night of Coronation. Gryph simply hoped that he'd found peace. Gado's plans had been.... suspect, but the Medic had nothing but hope that something would go right for him. The world owed a debt to the patient zero who'd, in his own way, spurred the creation of the Cure. Neebs, on the other hand... Gryph sighed. She'd volunteered herself as his lieutenant. But he'd been planning to seek her out anyway. And the simple truth is, he couldn't have gotten it done without her. She was, in many ways, the heart of the medic squad, and a drat fine lieutenant. Gryph could only hope she found whatever she was looking for. As for him, there was much to do. The first was Snodis' Sample, although even basic inspection revealed that the corruption had somehow melded the two. Hob's Breakerfly was no more. Verika's assertion was unfounded. On top of that, there was checking in on Starn's SASGY to register as a guest lecturer. Not to mention his consultation position in the newly formed Knights of the Nail and Fist. Grumbus and Humbug were off somewhere, although Gryph kept tabs on them. The hardest part of his life was dealing with the medical Acadamy, who had more than enough sycophants, schemers and conmen to make even Splut unhappy. the higher echelons of To's medical society were formed from grift, corruption and an iron fist of keeping medical treatments expensive and rare-ish. If they had their way, the Cure would be a whip to hold over the head of the poorer areas, kept in safety in the big cities and handed out only at their behest, claiming that it were too dangerous for the cure to be transported. Gryph's brows furrowed as he considered the problem. Getting quantities of the cure to remote areas was hard, as there wasn't a fast, reliable method of transporting them to where they were needed most... Gryph began to grin. But there was a very large, very fast To with a penchant for reaching remote areas and will to help people. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They came for him in the middle of the night. Four of them: a lookout, a locksmith to jimmy the window, an assassin and the muscle to keep him quiet. The assassin and locksmith knew their craft, they were silent. But Gryph would have woken when the muscle forced himself through the window. If Gryph had been sleeping. Gauntlets on, it was the work of a moment: the assassin disarmed, then picked up and bodily thrown into the muscle. The lookout and locksmith were smart; they got away. The assassin died hitting the wall opposite Gryph's building, the muscle from the fall. Tattoos found on the bodies marked them as Monsterists, not the Monsterist Anti-Defamation League or the Wendigo Rights Alliance, but one of the smaller, more extreme groups. They'd thought taking out one of the Unexpectables responsible for the cure would be the start of their ascension. More death. Gryph had been taking a lot of notice. How his hands shook, how he never let himself be cornered. Sleep was rarer these days. Over time, Gryph began to understand it more. Began to look into Ascension and reaction, how it changed the body, and more importantly, how combat affected the mind. But he needed time, and safety and more than a little help. Maybe he'd plan an expedition to Fro with Sucy, or there was always that committee that Noggins was setting up with Zapanda as Chair... quote:What Happens to Gryph: Gryph provides assistance wherever he can, planning trips to Fro, expeditions to find OG Tech and works to understand the game systems related to the Oan Body.
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Dec 23, 2018 12:25
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Töhannes’ Mansion, Trophy Room "Right, so we know the Breaker 2 emblem goes in the mouth of the stuffed maulödon, the Breaker 7 emblem goes underneath the family crest over the fireplace, and I'm not even bloody sure there *is* a Breaker 3 emblem." "I don't want to be the one to say this, but maybe we need to double check the vase ro-" "BLOODY ¤&#/#( GUYSDAMN NO! Never again!" "I fully agree. Maybe it's just a red herring. Hum, let's go through the list of clues again. You placed the Sword of Adjudication on the statue of General Ölig, correct?" "Right through the sodding chest." "Hum, okay. And would you agree the fill-in-the-blanks lock adequately mimics the writing style of Lord Dirden?" "I mean. I guess. Ugh, this puzzle SUCKS!" "OHOHOH! You sound a little frustrated, WORMS! Suffer under the brilliant wit and inspired designs of SADOMAX!" "Brilliant me arse! This puzzle is *#)$@!" "It is objectively terrible. For one, all of the clues on the plaque are contradictory and poorly written." "NONSENSE! It is not my fault that my true genius cannot be comprehended by interloping IMBECILES such as yourselves!" "My mate Mason's a better writer than you and I'm pretty sure he's never read a book in his life. How about the missing pieces, prick?" "Ha HA! Methinks you need to recheck the room with all the va-" "No!" "PLOUGH YOURSELF!" "I'm not even going to get started on how some of these emblems don't even properly fit in their slots...can you just give us the answer already? We won't be able to get mangled by that crusher room you bragged about if we're stuck in here all day." "NO!" "Oh my loving Guys, I feel a migraine coming on. Any idea when he's going to stop talking? "I've seen his type before, he's not going to shut up until we make him. "...I think I've got an idea. Look away for a second. Oi, Sadomax, you little twat, you still listening?" "ALWAYS, WORM! You are like a fly that has landed in a spider's web! You cannot move without me knowing! NOWHERE you can go is beyond my notice, beyond my reach! From the moment you stepped into my GLORIOUS demesne to the moment you die hideously, I am with with you every step of the way, LAUGHING as you uselessly flail thr- EUGH! W-what is that smell? WHAT DID YOU *DO*! -hurk- I think I'm gonna be sick." "Heh, got him. Humbug, go grab the decorative soaps from the secret guest room walk-in closet bathroom and something to carve them with. I'm just gonna brute force this shite." paper bag with a face fucked around with this message at 19:32 on Dec 23, 2018 |
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Dec 23, 2018 16:02
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 Name: Hat Skills: Millinery (+25), Backflips (+35) Squad: Infiltrator (Shares items with other squadmembers, gets double bonuses from consumables used outside combat) HP: 3/3 Glory: Enough. A few years later... "And then what happened?" The young girl leant forward in her chair, the löllipöp in her hand momentarily forgotten. Hat sat in her workchair, slowly attaching a lace trim to a bonnet, her skillcore quietly purring in her chest. "Well, we were all stood over the defeated queen, and Snorkus, who was next to me, said something like 'Thank you for your assistance, fine citizen!' and I replied 'Hah, you can just call me the Capped Crusader!', and then everything went black. That nasty blow Dixi had given me had finally knocked me out. And when I woke up, you'll never guess where I was!" "Uh, Fostis?" the girl said, the sweet now firmly back in her mouth. "Nope! I was on the moon." "What? No way! Don't lie, Auntie Hat!" "I was too on the moon, honest as Noggins! The sky was always black, and there was a ruined building where people had done bad stuff a while ago. There were these terrible beasts, and machines that people sat inside while the machine did their walking for them, and a wicked storm that set me completely on fire, a small handful of friendly souls, and the most darling cat I ever met. In fact, he was the inspiration for me taking this ball of fluff in when I returned. And you're happy to be here, aren't you, Felix?" Hat turned to one side, reached out and petted the large black cat that was curled in a ball on top of some paperwork on her desk. Felix let out a small mew. "Nana!" the girl shouted. "Auntie Hat's not telling the story right!" Hat chuckled, and resumed stitching. "OK, fine. What happened in the real world? I was out cold, so someone carried me to the hospital, spent the next four days in bed. Missed all the political fallout, too busy dreaming of moon tentacles and bee-people. Very good medicine, though. Highly recommended. And once I'd recovered, I came back here, reopened the shop. Been making hats for all sorts of people ever since. Helped out at Decoronation Day, but you already know all that stuff. Made the new crown, made you that cute bobble hat. So, yeah. 'They all lived happily ever after, The End!', I guess." An indistinct voice came from the pub next door. "I'll be there now, Nana!" the girl shouted back, before saying "Bye, Auntie Hat. Thank you for the story!" "You're welcome, Bäbi," Hat replied. The young girl's face was suddenly cross. "I'm not a Bäbi anymore, Auntie Hat, stop calling me that!" Hat giggled as the young girl left her shop. As she once again restarted her work, Hat thought about the bundle of notes in her safe upstairs. She always meant to get around to finishing writing up her side of the story, and was sure there'd be a market for any eventual book. She even had a title in mind: The Making Of A Milliner. But when the order-book was this busy, who could find the time? The room had grown quiet in Bäbi's absence, with only Felix's feline snores audible. Hat got up, went over to the desk and grabbed the Thumbnail. The new-fangled thing was an offshoot of the recently demilitarised Thumbscrew technology, and let Töans and Fröans listen to the latest news, poetry and songs, transmitted from the old Thumbscrew stations. Hat gave the handle a couple of turns - it powered the device somehow, she wasn't too sure on the details - and clicked the speaker on. A pleasant sounding song was playing. Hat resumed her millinery, replacing some of the lyrics with her own interpretations. "Make hats, not war Make hats, not war Make hats, not war Else we're done for..." A teardrop ran down Hat's face. Outside, the sun was shining. quote:What do: Hat makes hats. With the [former?] Queen's Warrant, business is brisk!
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Dec 24, 2018 02:40
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From her throne beyond the wildlands, dread Snödis stirs, dreaming. With the great Leipripoteran Wings beating with the pulse of her chtonic heart, 'er she slumbers, the twisted fate of monsters on her mind. Lo in her Chambers lit in darkness, vellum scrolls undulate with great abandon, detailing the ancient sins of Ö. But 't'is not their loathsome depth she ponders sleeping in the gloom, nay 't'is of what the contents of the letter what rests in her scarred hand proclaims, bearing the heraldry of Tö. "To Snööd." . A plea evoked by words in the uneven script of youth, to touch her eightfold deadened soul. Soon the Tyrant shall call upon her cultish crowd of comrädes, whom with tentacles and manic, frozen grins will raid for her the ruined stores of the ashen lands she partook with the betrayers to conquer. With their bounty to take flight on the back of Yacht-Sottoth, the great beast-ship whom with great claws sauntering across the broken skies where all life seeks to slay it, she will seek to rain upon the deserving what eldritch materials their overmutated wyrd forms crave, crying iä! iä! and a merry Tö-mass to one and all, as her foreign mouth-parts echo in the night all those distant leagues away.
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Dec 25, 2018 21:53
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A messenger arrived at the palace with a letter from the Nail.quote:Queen Noggins,  "Hey, that's not what I told you to write! Give me that! Yo, you guys, take the scribe to be unbound." quote:been working on a method to reverse any adverse effects you suffered from exposure to the OG technology in the crown and has appropriated it and other resources in an attempt to engineer therapy. The departure of the other Unexpectable Mentalist has slowed down research, forcing her to look elsewhere for a solution. After delivering the letter to the Queen, the messenger went off in search of the Neötypian delegate. If the rumors from those who'd served alongside her in the war could be believed, she'd be interested in the power of the Unbinding ritual. ---------------------------------  The loss of the scientists to the Administrator was unfortunate, but sacrifices had to be made. The rule was that any save the project leader would be next in line in the suit should they ask the wrong questions. In the end, they were no closer to understanding what [Yots] were or who the [Players] were, but Portha's main goal was complete. Nine perfect OG Töan bodies, looking like hers but much larger. As soon as one was released from its container, it was given a tiara and subsumed into the new gestalt mind Portha was creating. None were a match for her Mental skill. A few weeks later she'd returned to the pit again. The weakness of her original Töan body necessitated a trip to Fostis and the Vile Mechanism. The scientists' cores and a few she'd picked up along the way would let her begin the process anew. The Öans would have a Queen capable of leading them to victory over the OGs' script.
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Dec 26, 2018 01:57
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        What of the Bluffer, in all of this? The Tö who had stolen the Queen's Crown using only guile, who had convinced Grimper to turn against the Queen, who had diligently seen to ensuring the welfare of the Horde after the war, Captain of the infiltrators, Spymaster of the Noggins regime? First things first, he made damned sure the Noggins usurpation stuck. He moved quickly to tap up the right resources, the right people, to stifle any reactionary counter-coup in its crib. That included making sure the new Queen didn't come apart from the strain, reminding her to sleep (He'd needed Qwäg's help with that one, getting Noggins to go easier on herself was tougher than conquering Frö), setting up meetings with the right movers and shakers, ensuring the wrong movers and shakers wouldn't be a threat. He took the time to comprehensively extend and rewrite the Charm manual, to give her the upper hand when dealing with everyone she needed to. He kept a tight control over Veilpiercer, using it and its mindbendnet connection to sharpen his abilities and fulfil his role in safeguarding the Queen, Tö and the world at large. This included overseeing the vetting and initiation of the Order of the Nail and Fist, ensuring that the organisation remained an asset in their mutual long term goals and keeping track of the Order of the Nail's research. Verika's people were useful indeed, both as scholars and as the scalpel to be directed against genuine threats, once Splut was certain they were truly genuine. The question of Neötöpia was writ large. Splut kept open a direct channel to Snödis via her fragment, and met privately with Trinh. As an Unexpectable who had always treated the Neötypes with respect and courtesy, cooperated with them on the battlefield and even acted as dealer in their games, he was well placed as a diplomat to ensure peace between the two nations, one way or the other. Being someone whom everyone could distrust equally lent itself to being a mediator and honest broker. Then there were the Unexpectables at large. He had given his word, and he fulfilled it: Making sure their businesses were successful, keeping the location of the Gadoubliette off all maps and subtly dissuading any attempts to locate it, ensuring Neebs' voyage was well stocked, well Töed with trustworthy people and unimpeded. He advised, he quietly assisted, he made sure bank balances were in the black and that the truth was spread, thanks to the Thumbnail system, an excellent tool for maintaining social cohesion. He provided tip-offs, prevented the use of the MindBendNet as a recruitment tool when the Öans tried to do so. Finally, his spare time was spent with Qwäg when they both were free, because even as busy as he was, he knew that there was time enough for love. What did he do? Splut looked to keep things stable and improving, making everyone elses' happy endings happier where he could, using his talents and equipment in service to the realm and the Unexpectables as a whole. All this and building the relationship with Qwäg. What changes? Peace and prosperity, happiness and comfort. Quality of life remains unassailably on an upward trend. Great works are created, the life of the average Töan is greatly eased, fear and the threat of war or disaster are assuaged and eased. In the absence of the Gestalt Queen's desire to Win, there is instead contentment.
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Dec 26, 2018 16:28
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  Sucy It was finally done. With most of the Queen's bodies dead and Noggins seemingly in full control of herself the worst had passed for now. There was of course still plenty of conflict in the future, what with Snödis being Snödis, but this would be for another day. The first few days Sucy spent locked away with the Crown, trying to find out if there was any way to disentangle the personality substrates from the crown itself, but in the end she just didn't know enough about the underlying technology or it just had lost too much information in the assimilation process. Frustrated she rejoined polite society to help out the others in any way she could. For another few days she was kept busy bringing people back in line that weren't exactly happy with the change in leadership, a task where a quick boot could do wonders indeed. She quickly grew bored with that pursuit however, as it hardly challenged her faculties. So a week after the Queen's death Sucy moped around the palace incredibly bored. Luckily, it turned out that this was when the first Skipping Lane expeditions returned to Tömate, establishing new connections between far-flung parts of the world. As the Queen had (through her various personas) held most of the positions of leadership in the nation, this left a power vacuum that Sucy was now eager to fill. By the ancient right of Dibs, she took control over the Skipping Lane reactivation efforts, and any other claimant usually backed down after a quick kick to the shins and a stern talking to from Splut. With her control thus secured, Sucy began the slow task of organizing the Skipping Lane network. As no lane could connect to more than one other lane at the same time, she began to work out a schedule to determine which two stations would be connected to each other at what time, a project that only grew in scope with each new Node that was discovered. Once again, the ring came through for her though. Instead of spending sleepless nights hunched over a table, scribbling increasingly complex tables onto too small pieces of paper, she found a simple spreadsheeting program that could cross-reference data from multiple tables and came with algorithms that could detect any obvious scheduling error. After a few weeks, the schedule seemed reliable enough to allow the first regular connections to be created and the Nodes were slowly opened to the public. The first few operations had already revealed several new problems that would have to be resolved though. The slow pace of movement pre-Skipping Lane had obscured that the hours of sunlight were different between different parts of the world. It turned out that the sun came out much earlier in Eastern Frö than Western Tö and the first attempts at running the schedule were foiled by those differences in local times. To standardize times and allow the operation of the network, Sucy chose the local time of Grönwich, a small town roughly halfway between Tömate and Frömage, as an interim standard time on which the network would operate. For a more rigorous system of time zones much more geographic work would have to be done and a conference of leading cartographers from both nations would have to be convened some time soon. But issues of time measurements weren't the only ones that kept her busy, as the applications of the lane network to move people across long distances quickly became obvious to everyone. Control over the network would be an extraordinary advantage to whoever could seize it, so in order to ensure physical control over the network, Sucy began to insert each and every control station with an override code that was tied to her ring and allowed her to shut it down at will. If anyone were to try to seize a single node, they would be locked out of the system, and while the knowledge to operate the controls was spreading, replicating them was still far in the future. Much more difficult was to secure political independence, as the startup costs were being borne by Tö, and operating costs to pay for everyone's salaries started to mount quickly. Early on, Splut had approached Sucy with the proposal of financing her new organization through real estate speculation, as the area around a newly discovered Skipping Lane Node quickly appreciated in value, but to her this seemed exploitative, so she turned him down. (Over the next months however there were numerous irregularities in the books, where branch offices posted much higher income than should have been possible. While those errors coincided with Spluts movements, Sucy was never able to conclusively prove anything.) Instead she decided to levy a tax on any goods moving along the Skipping Lane in order to fund the salaries of its employees, which brought her much grumbling from the merchants and nobles, especially as any commoner could walk the Lanes for free. The savings in time and guards compared to overland transport were just too great to pass up on it however, so in the end nearly everyone decided to pay up rather than risk falling behind their competitors. Finally, in a move that brought much consternation in Tö and an equal amount of relief in Frö, the use of the Lanes for military purposes was banned completely. If Sucy had anything to say about it, then the Lanes would never again be used in a war of aggression between Tö and Frö. So after about a month in real time (and according to her estimates about half a year in subjective time) Sucy found herself in yet another formal dress, getting ready for the ribbon cutting ceremony on the Skipping Lane Transit Authority's headquarters in partially restored Belmysut, which had the luck of being located close to a Skipping Lane Node and thus was only a leisurely walk away from both Tömate and Frömage. Activity for the month: Sucy establishes the SLTA which begins to connect more and more Skipping Lane Nodes, bringing Tö and Frö literally closer together. What changes in Tömate: with transportation times suddenly becoming close to non-existant, the city's population grows increasingly diverse.
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Dec 26, 2018 16:53
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 They'd bloody well done it! Finally, after all that time, they'd actually done it. Unexpectables collapsed around him, exertion and tension finally, FINALLY, set to rest. It was only then he dropped his characteristic bluster. At that time, all he could do was collapse without hitting anything. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and just took a minute to breathe. ------------------------------------------------ The Unexpectables had all split up and headed their separate ways, in the end. A number of them stayed together, splitting off into businesses, ruling nations, greasing the political wheels, and generally moving on with it. It was strange, thought Waesh, as he trudged along the marina of the Tömate docks. His thoughts rolled as the dull grey waves lapped the stones, drearily crashing back and forth, not doing much more than throwing up a spray of froth here or there. He didn't feel right, after it all. There was something... dependable about the war. He hadn't really amounted to much otherwise, just another no-name citizen who grows up, lives, and dies, inconstant as the tide. What was he going to do with himself? He couldn't see himself just settling down like some of the others. Vigilante justice like Snorkus wasn't it. He let slip an uncharacteristic, weary sigh. They'd gone ahead and told everyone he was a privateer! When he'd gone to dig further as to why, a councilman said that some lout who remained a thuggish pirate didn't make a good story. Let everyone believe he was doing the right thing all along! It'll look better in the papers! Blast it all, that didn't sit right with him after the war. He'd initially just stayed quiet, letting the of Föstis roll on past. Keep your head down, don't attract attention, that's what his Da always said to him. Wars are mostly made by the no-name grunts, after all. But after Agenou... he finally had it. He wasn't going to let that everyone else do all the heavy lifting for him. That evening, he'd just set his back straight, finely combed his moustache, and for the first time, lived. So what if he wasn't anything in Tömate? He wasn't in Tömate at the minute! Does John Döe the bureaucrat, noting figures in his ledger, making sure they didn't overspend on rations care who it was that had wandered off with Grimper's mad plan? No, he bloody well did not! And then he really felt like one of the Unexpectables. In the thumbscrew, he had his opportunity, and Splut has made him part of the Infiltrators, those who did what was necessary to get the job done. Grimper had laid down his armaments, to better equip the horde. He'd been the hero they needed on the River Fist. Then, well, there had been that assault on the barracks... 'You know bloody what? I've done it once, and I can do it again!', he thought to himself. If Waesh the Pirate is an old artifact, unsuited to the civilian, life, well then Waesh the Privateer would fit right in! But first, there was something he had to do. Renewed with purpose, he strode back into the city, looking to leave a message with the others about a certain someone. ------------------------------------------------ She hadn't really stood out, even after it all. That didn't matter. She was surprised, at first. He'd remembered her, and that was all that mattered. She'd been waiting, hoping he would. They'd bonded with something stronger than mere words. He'd started slow, but after a romantic dinner or two aboard his private leisure craft, they were both smitten. Only a short time passed before Waesh proposed. He'd thought they might opt for a mostly private ceremony, but he found weddings were really complicated things! But when he visited some of the Unexpectables, he'd found them more than willing to help. Hat could certainly make something befitting the most beautiful bridalwear for his intended. Maybe he could send some invites with the Mindbender net out to some of the others travelling? Oh, and he'd have to see if he could get a hold of Grimper! ------------------------------------------------ And in the end, he really did settle down. Waesh Shipping and Trading company filled most of his days, keeping goods moving between the now peaceful kingdoms. Maybe they could see if they could get a dock built near Neötopia? Surely vestigal limbs, flesh, and other growths didn't stop someone from enjoying a fine vintage? Of course, they'd have to build reinforced hulls, maybe secure them with some kind of monsterist resistant resin? Of course, he wasn't going to entirely let the excitement out of his life. He was the Royal Tömate Navy head Privateer, and should any villains rear their head, he'd be out there in the fastest cutter, husband and Unexpectable wife ready to teach those louts a thing or two about honor and seamanship! Never mind the rich trade ships only drew the eye of greedy criminals - Waesh could empathise with them, but he'd never let them touch his new business! ------------------------------------------------ Waesh settles down from piracy and marries the nameless mook I used for the reverse POV chapter, and together they ensure set up a new shipping business moving large quantities of goods up and down the coast. Ironic, perhaps for him, their venture is such a success that large, organized groups plot and scheme to raid those riches. Crime at sea becomes a serious concern, as does smuggling of illegal goods. The Royal Navy keeps a watchful eye in port. One thing to move illegal goods, but another if something monsterist escaped, something capable of spreading and multiplying... Captainicus fucked around with this message at 18:15 on Dec 26, 2018 |
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Dec 26, 2018 17:57
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Who’d have thought there’d be a network of tunnels under Töhannes’ Mansion that lead to a secret state-of-the-art military research facility in an otherwise empty OG Vault? Anyone who’d have had any experience with the True Queen, that’s who. There was no doubt this was her handiwork behind all the catspaws. When Grumbus and Humbug found the first few indications that Töhannes’ Mansion had been under military ownership, they knew they had to dig deeper. They got their way past old military defenses, hastily assembled barricades and a slew of new inconveniences - courtesy of Sadomax - to crack open all the ‘Sado-seals’ on the tunnels, leaving the bleating moron behind for later. They’d be back to deal with him, oh yes. It seemed as if the vapid villain had largely avoided the facility itself, though doubtless he’d known about it. When they’d discovered the map showing the way down, Humbug had insisted on heading to the archive room in hopes of finding clues, while Grumbus decided to focus on the research labs. Splitting up was a risk, but they couldn’t afford wasting time. Not after all the time they’d spent with Sadomax and dealing with a nasty feverhead infestation in the tunnels above. Frankly, Humbug’s search had not gone too well. A firebömb of some kind had gone off in the secure archival room - one designed for the purpose of demolishing all evidence, clearly. Little else made sense. Too bad someone had knocked a filing cabinet clear of the primary blast zone, probably in whatever panic had left old twisted and gnawed bones littering the hallway outside. The scene had ‘clusterfuck’ written all over it, and one could only wonder as to the cause. A Mad Wendigo? No, there’d be more signs of Monsterism. An out-of-control wave of Cannibal Feverheads? Possibly, but that still left too many mysteries unanswered. What had happened here? Wondering this, Humbug kept reading through the contents of the cabinet, and kept hoping that Grumbus was having more luck. Oh sure, there was information here to be sure. Despite his more-than-pleasantly buzzed state, he could recognize references to Breaker-tech and chemical symbols involving the production of codenamed substances. Several project pages referenced monsterist research essays and Core overwriting projects. It painted a picture (together with some actual anatomical pictures) that some deeply disturbing research had taken place here, at the behest of people in the military who’d rather remain unnamed - which, of course, meant the Old Queen. She hadn’t been kidding when she said she’d tried a lot of things. Unfortunately, nothing so far explained what had happened, or the origin of Overclocked Core Syndrome. The sound of footsteps started to echo down the corridors, and as he tensed and looked up from a set of statistics detailing Warlord survival performances, Humbug saw Grumbus enter the doorway to the blasted room, holding something in his hands. “Find anything? Whole lot of interesting nothing over here,” said Humbug, waving the sheaf of papers he held in the direction of the approaching Plaguebearer. Grumbus nodded, stepping gingerly to avoid spilling the contents of two beakers filled with liquid. “poo poo’s real hosed up everywhere, Humbug, but there’s an intact lab inside the Vault proper. It was the only one that was locked - not Olivite thankfully, so I blew it to fuckin’ pieces with the last of my Hoochbolts. Looks like the cucks in there starved to death waiting for a rescue that never came. There’s all kinds of intact equipment I think I could use, which is all good, but… yeah, I found something else. We got a problem, Humbuddy. Two problems.” The grimy Plaguebearer held up the beakers. “First off - we gotta up our dosage. I raided a couple old medical stashes and managed to cough up a Runny Pisser and a Töilet Törpedo. First one’s got a real kick, second won’t be as bad, but it’ll pass right through ya and you’d have to drink another one again soon. Anyway, since ya Tö’d up and drank - well, ate - the Noxy Töxy last round, I’ll let you have the pick o’ this pair.” Humbug swallowed uncomfortably, remembering the abomination against mixology he’d been forced to quaff a few hours ago. Ever since leaving Töhannes’ Mansion for the tunnels, they’d been forced to get increasingly creative with their drinks and the alcohol they had left and Grumbus - unfortunately - excelled at making their supply stretch further in ways that it really shouldn’t. The Sleuth glanced from the off-yellow Runny to the neon green-tinted, slimy-looking (and bubbling) Törpedo, and decided to take the lesser of two evils - the one that meant he wouldn’t have to drink another one again anytime soon. “Hum. I’ll take the Runny. And secondly?” he asked, holding out his good hand. “Hah! Knew it,” laughed Grumbus, handing over the beaker. They clinked the improvised glasses together and the Plaguebearer slammed down his slime-like green drink with obvious relish. Humbug grimaced and started chugging as much of his own brew as he could stomach. The taste was, honestly, not too bad, but Grumbus had not been kidding about the kick. “And second, looks like our military boyos were workin’ on some top secret Breaker tech poo poo,” continued Grumbus, stashing the slime-stained beaker into the folds of his uniform while Humbug still struggled polishing off the Runny. “I found documents referring to some sort of OG super-soldier that they were tryin’ to create on the Queen’s orders. They were stichin' fölks and cores together for some lattice bullshit - and let’s just say Jeb’s Töpiary above was small fry in comparison. There’s a room-full of them things that fixed up Grimper - an Incubator, yeah? - that they were using. The papers said even if they couldn’t super-soldier ‘em up further, they were to experiment with longevity tech and makin’ Warlord cores not break down so hot-drat fast.” “That would… make the virus artificial, hm? Intended to affect cores from the beginning, possibly. Maybe the vehicle of delivery for a Core adjustment method?” speculated Humbug, trying to keep his eyes from crossing and wondering if maybe he should’ve gone for the slime-fluid instead. Also, trying not to think about stitched-together Tö and Frö. Some of those anatomical diagrams had been uncomfortably precise. “Mebbe, but I’m not even at the worst part yet. The pods in the Incubator room are all broken to poo poo and pieces. One of ‘em’s all but gone. I think... broken up from the inside. I’m pretty sure our Patient Zero is a friggin’ Breaker Biology Reject. It’s gotta still be down here spreading OCS, what with all the military missions still goin’ missin’ while trying, and failing, to clean up the place.” “I see. Then - whoa nelly. Room just started spinning. Grumbus, I’m… starting to feel more than a little drunk. Not sure how useful I’ll be to you like this. Frankly, I think I was still drunk after the lasht one.” “Still? You shittin’ me Humbug? Never took you for a fuckin’ lightweight! If decades-old cough medicine, a little lighter fluid and--oh fuckin’ oldies’ sake.” “Whatsh? Whatsh goin’ on?” said Humbug, finding that he couldn’t stop from beginning to slur his words. “I might’ve fergot you were down a couple limbs wot with them prosthetics. Yeah… you’re gonna get totally shitfaced. My bad! Here, I’ll steady you.” Thus, as he stumbled down a corridor arm-in-arm with Grumbus, Humbug’s worst nightmare materialized. Thankfully, he was three sheets too gone to do much more than grumble. ------------------------------------------------- They were back on their way to the labs passing through a wrecked storage room when a scraping noise made them both turn around - Humbug swaying unsteadily at the sudden motion. Grumbus looked at the source of the noise, then back at his compatriot. “Humbug? Did that spare Incubator Pod just move? Aaahhaaaand is that a mound o’ stitched-together flesh?” asked Grumbus, visibly paling as something quivered at the back of the darkened room. As most of what they’d thought was the back of the room, in fact, quivered. “… yesh,” verified Humbug, grabbing onto Grumbus, having initially hoped that was just another product of being far too drunk for this poo poo. “Feck. That’s THE pod, innit? Its head is still stuck in it. All that longevity stuff must’ve gone malignant. No wonder so much of the pod was gone - it tore it clean off the wall!” “Geniush asshesshment. Shtay shtill,” insisted the drunk Sleuth, staring at the mountain of flesh as it began to scrape its absurd ‘helmet’ along the floor, flabbily flowing forwards. His grip around Grumbus’ arm tightened, threatening to drag the Plaguebearer to the floor as he swayed unsteadily on his feet. “No, we need to farkin’ leg it. I get you’re pissed - hah - but I didn’t mean to get you so falling-down drunk. Here, I’ll hold you-” “No. Itsh… shearching. Movement hunting. Can’t shee well. Probably can’t hear sho good. Be shtill.” “Oh. Feck me. It’s coming! PISS.” “Shouldn’t ‘ave drunk sho much, then. Shtay still, hold it in.” Grumbus opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, after collecting his thoughts, opened it again. ”You’re the one swaying all over the place.” Humbug processed this fact with all the speed his sodden brain could manage. “Okay. Shh. Okay. New plan. Shtay back. Imma try t’tosh shomethin’ behind it.” While the Sleuth fumbled with his pockets, Grumbus shook his head, very much aware of the giant thing now rapidly bearing down on them. “No, buddy. That’s enough. You can’t escape it like this. I’m gonna need a sample off of it anyway. I’ll distract the cuck, get what I’m here for while you make a break for the Mansion. We’ll meet up there.” “That’sh not wishe,” protested Humbug, but Grumbus hefted the Hand-Ballistae and gave him a wide smile, even as he shoved the Sleuth in the direction of the exit. The Plaguebearer began to move towards the quivering abomination. “ ‘course it is. Humbuddy. Don’t you know I’m the oldies-drat epitome o’ wisdom? OY YOU CANCEROUS REJECT OF YO MOMMA’S WOMB! WHY DON’T YOU SUCK ON SOME STEEL-rear end DONGERS FOR PAPA GRUMBUS!” To Be Continued
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Dec 26, 2018 18:36
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   Name: Dack, (soon to be)Teacher of Theoretical Infection Application The Hivemind Queen(s) were defeated, which left one very important question: now what? Should they just install Noggins as the next Queen, or try to figure out how to set up a entirely different form of Government? What about Snödis and Trinh? Even if in the end Verika was calmed down, she still threatened to kill Snödis, who left for Neötopia even more paranoid than she was before. There were so many things that needed to be addressed, and so many ways for things to go horribly wrong. But Dack had his own important goal, so he left the far-reaching questions to the other Unexpectables. As the last Wendigo of the horde that didn't run off with Snödis, Dack would probably be asked at some point to become an ambassador to Neötopia, but he was already prepared to refuse. If they wanted to improve relations with Neötopia, then they would need to actually talk with Snödis, and treat her as an equal. Having a Wendigo as an ambassador was like saying Wendigoes should only interact with other Wendigoes, and would only fuel Snödis's extremism more. For the other tasks the Unexpectables busied themselves with, Dack would be happy to help if asked, and even made sure to assist Humbug with moving, but he focused most of his efforts on his own dream: becoming a teacher. Of course, with the capital in chaos, it would take a while for Dack to officially start teaching. Splut could probably speed up the process, but Dack specifically asked him to not intervene. People can't be forced or manipulated into being more understanding, not to mention that if Dack couldn't achieve his goals on his own, his efforts would feel hollow. So while waiting for the complicated paperwork to go through, Dack wrote. He still tried to change peoples' minds in the streets, but mostly he was working on completing his own book about theoretical uses of Infection. If people think of Infection as potentially useful instead of a horrifying danger that will kill them and all they love, that should open the door to better treatment of Wendigoes in general. It was extremely hard work to do any research for the book, up until Hob showed up with a Mindbender helmet, sized for Dack's unusually shaped head. At first, he didn't really like using it, the sensation of connecting to so many minds was overwhelming and disorienting. Then he managed to make contact with another Wendigo, one who was happy to share their experiences with Infection, and he realized just how useful the Net could be. Further, the idea of using the Cure to prevent the helmet from being infected, which admittedly scared Dack at first, got him to think about the Cure and Infection in a different light. What if you combined the two, to both get the useful abilities of Infection while limiting its spread in a somewhat controlled manner? A sort of "organized chaos", if you will. This was the motivation that Dack needed, and after many late nights at his desk he finally managed to complete his book. Sure, it was just a book of theories for now, as Dack didn't have the resources to do any experiments of his own. Still, after a bit of searching, he managed to find someone who was open-minded enough to agree to publish the book. Dack was now the first Wendigo to write a published book in Tö! They were actually selling it at book stores! There was still a long, long way to go to reach his goal, but this was his first major victory. Which still left the question: now what should he do? Well, actually getting some sleep while he could was probably a good idea. After all, he was going to be busy once his teaching license finally arrived. quote:What Dack does: Dack writes a book about theoretical uses for the Cure and Infection, and becomes the first published Wendigo author.
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Dec 26, 2018 20:39
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        COSMETIC ITEMS:   Name: Snorkus, aka Peter Porker, Mild-Mannered Reporter Skills: Pigilante Justice+30, Gazing+10, Rolling+30 Item Cooldowns: Utility "Belt" HP: 1/1 Glory: 5+ Notes: Vile Mechanism Survivor In the weeks that followed the climactic struggle with the once-Queen, the Tolling Bell's headlines splashed across page after page - thrilling exposes into the former Queen's machinations, puff pieces about each of the Unexpectables' part in ending the war at long last, and op-eds on what the future held for the newly reborn country (and perhaps, world). But try as Peter might to keep up with his editor's increasingly-frantic demands for fresh publication material, one thing never changed... "PORKER! I don't want excuses, I want pictures! This is your last chance - GET ME THE PIGILANTE!" Truly, a hero's work was never done. What Do You Do? Snorkus will continue doing what he's always done - keeping the streets safe, one porcine punishment at a time. He also rapidly becomes Babi's Cool Uncle as a frequent babysitter with the coolest stories ever. But the Pigilante - along with other masked allies - begins to appear in farther-flung locations, fighting crime beyond the bounds of the city itself. What Changes? Eventually, there's just no more crime to be had in the city - as the world becomes smaller thanks to the efforts of folks like Hat and Waesh, the grim criminal underground expands its reach beyond Snorkus' old stomping grounds. While the city might be safer to the common man, a new network of rough-and-tumble vigilantes enforcing Justice springs up to help protect the population centers of the world against all who would threaten the peace the Unexpectables fought so hard to secure. Podima fucked around with this message at 22:43 on Dec 26, 2018 |
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Dec 26, 2018 22:11
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Noggins Much of the rest of the month had passed in a blur of meetings, speeches, and negotiations. Laws were drafted, reviewed, and re-drafted. Letters were sent, and received. An astoundingly clumsy assassination plot was foiled before it even truly began. It was all so exhausting, even with the Crown’s assistance. With the Crown, she had excruciatingly perfect recall of all of it. Without, she had the shape of things still. Still knew her own plans, knew what had been agreed upon. But the details… they came in odd bits and snatches. ----- “—and so in conclusion, your majesty, were I your choice for cömmissioner, and with proper funding, I truly believe I could bring about your vision for a safer, Tömate for our fair citizens. “ Noggins absentmindedly gazed into the code, scanning through data and finding the speaker’s principle skillcore. Extortion. With multiple resonations, at that. Of course it was. Of course. “Thank you for your time, Captain Badbrass. That will be all, you will be informed when a decision is made.” The entire department had been in the same vein. Shaking her head, Noggins picked up a pen and began to write her invitation to Humbug. Hopefully his expedition to Slinker City concluded safely. ----- “Look, Stårn. I know where that wave of funding came from, okay? Looting is the heart of sieging, I get it. And you know what? I’m going to look past it. That’s a drop in the bucket, anyways—if there’s anything I’m begrudgingly grateful to Reina for, it’s that she didn’t gently caress around with the finances. So there’s going to be more where that came from, starting with the land grant you requested. I expect great things of SASGY. I’ll be setting up a scholarship fund as well. And you know what? I’m even going to approve this “Competitive Sieger’s League” proposal. But… There’s going to be one little catch, beyond your obligation to provide the best education around. “ “In recognition of my status as your largest donor, and as a return favor for overlooking that bit of looting… when I show up to a Sieger’s Match, I had better be getting some great drat seats, alright? Because this sounds fantastic, and I don’t want to be missing anything because it’s behind a parapet or something.” ----- Some extra haggling with Frö via Thumbscrew, after border negotiations had been settled. Those had been difficult, but these were surprisingly easy. If she was willing to handle the removal, she could have a full three fourths of it. But that would have to wait. ----- “What? No, you actually weren’t in consideration for that position in the first place. I mean, I can see why you would expect that, but as far as I’m concerned, that would be a shameful waste of your real talents.” Dack actually looked confused for a moment, and then withdrew the placard stating that he had chosen to decline the position of Ambassador to Neötopia, and presented another. “Then what?” it read. “Well, I read that treatise you wrote, and… well, what can I say? It’s a wonderful piece of work. And you’re right about it. All of it. And I want to do right, Dack. I want to do right for Tö’s monsterists and Wendigoes. But… I’m neither of those. I can do my best, but I can’t really understand what’s needed. So I want you to spearhead that effort. I want you to lead the Department of Monsterist Affairs. Or maybe “monsterist” isn’t the best word. I want to give you all the resources you need to put an end to the discrimination.” This got a long pause out of Dack. He flipped through his placards a few times, before eventually pulling a fresh one. “I’m sorry. But I’ve already made the arrangements to start teaching.” Noggins’ heart dropped. She’d been so sure. “Well… would you at least be available for consultation? Even if you’re not the one running it… I really want your input on this. I don’t think this succeeds without your help. Not as well as it could.” A shorter pause this time. Dack nodded, and Noggins breathed a sigh of relief, and offered a handshake. Dack’s hand engulfed her own. “Well, alright then. I’m really looking forward to working with you on this.” ----- The letter to Hob was the hardest. There was no reason it should have been as hard as it was. It wasn’t like it was particularly consequential. It was just a dinner invitation! That was it! There weren’t lives, or some crucial part of the forming government at stake! It was just dinner! So why did she feel the need to rewrite it so many times? Why did the words never seem quite right? Why did she feel the need to be so particular about what paper it was sent on? Well, okay, the reason was obvious, but did it really need to be this difficult? In the end, it was a communique from Snödis that forced her hand. A summit to discuss border policy, well outside of Tömate. The final letter was hastily written, and signed “Eyepatch Buddy”, but it did get sent. But the dinner would have to wait until after the summit. ----- She’d sent Trinh. Trinh. Noggins hadn’t expected that it would be Snödis, of course. The communications that had led to this meeting had made it clear that that wasn’t happening any time soon. She honestly had her doubts that Snödis would ever set foot outside of Neötopia again in her life. Some of that was due to a certain level of paranoia, of course, but the Poet had finally carved out her private paradise in the world. Why should she leave? But still, she hadn’t expected that Snödis would send Trinh. What was Snödis thinking? Did she realize the kind of message that sent? How, at best, dismissive that could be seen as? Sending Trinh, who had very nearly sliced Gado’s face off on a whim? Noggins sighed, and set the Crown on the table before her, pinching her nose. She was overthinking things. She had a tendency to do that while wearing the Crown, she had come to realize. To micro-analyze every little detail. The fact was, Trinh was Neötopia’s delegate to this meeting. And whatever else she was, she an Unexpectable. That had to mean something, right? “Alright, everyone else out of the tent. I don’t need any twitchy overeager hands turning this into a mess. If something does happen, I’ll be able to handle it. But it’s not going to come to that. Ah, Verika, you stay, but keep Tap Root in its holster. I honestly think that’s less threatening than you not being here. Alright, show her in.” After a moment of hesitation, she returned the Crown to her head. Noggins had to admit, Trinh did have a certain magnificence about her. Despite her size, she moved with an unnatural grace. She took her seat the table with a care that hinted suggestively at the strength that could crush Noggins’ armor as if it were paper. Yes, pure power could be truly, truly beautiful. But then again—she noted the faintest twitches of restrained instinct—it could be a real burden. “Trinh. It’s… it’s good to see you.” She said, realizing that she did mean it, more earnestly than she’d expected to. “I’m glad that you’re still doing well.” There was an agonizingly long, drawn-out silence. Trinh posted:"S̀̌o͛͠,͆̀ ̍̔w̉͘h̀͠y͂̈ ̉̇p̌̂eace? Are there not more prizes to be won in the game?" Well. That was direct. But after the past month, it was oddly refreshing. “I won’t lie, it’s crossed my mind. It would be simpler, certainly. I can’t say I really know what your numbers are like now—“ not exactly, no, but she had a pretty good idea “—but with the Breakers, with the Crown, with Nailbreaker… it’d be doable. If it weren’t… well, I don’t know that I’d have let things reach this point. Honestly, I’m probably still making a mistake. But… I want to give her a chance.” “About games and prizes… look. What the OGs did… yeah, it’s terrible. But it was also so long ago that I really can’t bring myself to care. They’ve been gone for what, thousands of years? And here we are. And we can choose to believe that whatever game they were playing is important, either as something to win, or something to stop, or some insidious influence we need to be free of, like Portha’s going on about, and we can define ourselves by what they did. Or we can just get on with our lives. I’ve made my choice about it.” “And… no. I didn’t. If I were faced with that again… I don’t know how much differently I’d act. But… maybe not for the same reasons, if that makes sense. When the Crown first went on… for a moment, I wasn’t me anymore. And up until Reina died, I was fighting very, very, hard to stay me. That can’t have been more than minutes, but it felt so much longer. And I can’t imagine how long that one in the water was fighting that fight. But maybe that’s not the same. I don’t know. There’s no way I can know, not that I want to go through with at least.” Trinh posted:"S̄̃n͐̇ȫ͝d́͝ỉ̓s̐̅ is mad. She believes there can be a place for monsters." “Well, maybe it’s mad. But we’re Unexpectables, after all. We’ve done a lot of things that seemed mad. We’ll give this one a go. Because I want this to work, Trinh. As badly as you do. Maybe even more. And… I think Snödis will least hold up her side of things, too. It’s going to be up to Neötopia to keep the environmental infection from crossing the border. And if not… well, we’ll figure that out if it comes to it. But for now… if you’d take a look at this map…” Later It was over. Deals had been made, agreements had been reached, and there would be, at least for a while, peace. Trinh was heading out, back to Neötopia, back to her h… Noggins paused, and then spoke. “Wait. Just… one more thing, Trinh. From me to you. I say this a lot, I know, and it’s probably pretty obnoxious at this point, but… there’s always a choice, alright? And… if things ever get difficult for you, the rest of us are here to help. All of us, not just Snödis, or me, or… or… Patsy… all of us. Whether that’s a place to stay, or lessons with Dack—you should read his book, it’s really quite good—or even, and this is probably rude of me to say, and Snödis would hate me for it, or even the Cure… any help you need. We’re there for you. Slinkers gotta look out for each other, right?” ----- Noggins was back in Tömate. Back in her palace. Back in her office. She looked at her calendar. Two days to go to Decoronation, and it was blessedly free of appointments. She could easily schedule more, she knew. Should schedule more. There was still so, so much to be done. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached down, grabbed Nailbreaker, stood up, and headed out. “I’ll be back in a day or so,” she announced. “Just taking a little personal time.” After all, what was the point of unlimited power if you didn’t go just a little mad with it? To Be Concluded quote:What Do You Do? Well, you’ve read most of it. Noggins spends almost the entire month laying the foundation for her future administration as Queen. The Lord of Hats fucked around with this message at 19:52 on Dec 29, 2018 |
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Dec 27, 2018 03:22
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Name: Verika (& Garnör) HP: 1/1 (3/3) Skills: Perception +65, Smithing +80, Sniping +30 (& Armorsmithing +10) Equipment: Knight's Plate (+3), Zahn Trapper Hat (+1), Ruddy Charger, Blixthäst (+5), Tap Root [Proof-Scraper] (+5), Defender Shield Cosmetics: Nail and Fist Token (Breaker's Guard), Agenou's Cape Sash, Sikatris Scarf, Basker Cloak, Slightly-Cracked Telescope Glory: 25 Ritual Chits: 12 (artwork bonus) Epilogue (part 1): With Garnör close by at her side, Verika returned to her family's home in the rural village of Hürdï Gürdï in the northern reaches of Tö (far to the north of the Tö-Frö border), where she quickly Perceived that that, due to having Ascended, she no longer fit in her childhood bed, much less in the doorways of the house itself. So much had changed in Verika's absence since she was conscripted to fight in the great Tö-Frö war, and yet, so much of life in the rural hinterlands around Hürdï Gürdï had stayed exactly the same. Verika thoroughly enjoyed the chance to catch up with the old world she'd left behind, seemingly so very long ago. She also made sure to give Garnör a proper tour of her old life's favorite haunts. Though she knew it was important for her parents to meet Garnör the Armorsmith before she married him, Verika also made it clear to her parents Hörace the Hunter and Delvina the Leatherworker that she couldn't stay for terribly long. She didn't mind making it appear outwardly as though she was making a social visit, but she was technically only in Hürdï Gürdï for official (and secret) state business: she was undertaking a big project for the Knights of the Order of the Nail and Fist. In a private clearing hidden away in her family's forested plot of land, Verika planted and grafted a large number of [Proof Scraper] kernels into substrates made with various Töan, Fröan, Monsterist and baseline Öan blood samples. Through rigorous scientific experimentation over the coming years, Verika will discover that both Snödis and Noggins are inextricably linked by their blood-connection to the Crown and the Queen network: Nails that are coded to be effective against fruitflesh made from Snödis' blood are also effective against fruit made with Queen Noggins' and ex-Queen Dixi's blood. The belief-shattering realization will make Verika question her allegiances to the Crown at first, but Garnör - faithful as ever - will be there to help Verika Perceive the world from different perspectives outside her own. Slowly but surely, over the course of her busy and productive life, Sir Verika - Grandmaster of the Knights of the Nail and Fist - would come to fully understand and appreciate the importance of balance, moderation, and restraint in all things, especially if it means maintaining peace between peoples and nations. The [game] must go on, after all. Long live the [game]!
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Dec 27, 2018 22:39
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 Another sleepless night. How many was that, now? Snödis got up and walked to her room's (paneless) window, and surveyed her nation in the early morning light. Less frost than yesterday. Soon, spring would come, and bring new life to her new nation. She sighed. Her nation? Neötöpia had been her life's dream. Why did it feel so much like a nightmare? Looking out again she saw the barest hint of the Old Guys Code that now haunted her every waking moment; giving her incredibly detailed information about the environment and indeed anything she looked at; that she had no hope of translating into anything useful. It was exasperating. The Old Tö Queen must have had a thousand lifetimes or more to work things out, but Snödis was only barley an adult and one without a proper education at that. The orphanage had seen her class equipped with second-rate, charity skillcores and everything else she had learned had come from petty delinquency, pamphlets read in secret in the backs of gloomy monsterist-friendly dives and more recently from looting. Oh, sure, she knew how to spin Words into Vision, but what good was that when 'soil deficiency' was increasing by 0.37% annually? What did that even mean? She stepped back from the window and headed outside. ~~~ All Hail the Tyrant! Said the three-mouthed, fifteen-leg-wheeled cart-beast, in the sleet and mud as Snödis strode out of her living quarters, which in truth amounted to less a Palace and more of a Shack with a Fancy Chair and a Mural. She sighed. "I told you not to call me that." She said, pinching the spot where her nose-hair-bone would be behind the mask and grime. A spirited crowd of survivors responded with a chorus of "Hail Snödis! Queen of Monsters!" She tried to wave them away but they just cheered louder. "Our Saviour!" "Please, Tyrant!" Came a voice from the crowd. W͚̳͘h͈̟̬̖̀à̻̞t̺͡ ̘͕͈ḭ̢̞̟̺ś̤̹̳̮͚͍̲ ͖͍̤̺͉̣̰ị̥ț ̥̝̩̣̮̕n͙͍͍͓͈̪ơ̬w̨̰̻̥̰͓͚?̮͕̪̀!̲̞͉̩̱̕ - She tried to keep her voice calm and reassuring, but she could not help but coming off as gruff. The muffling of the mask and the tktktk of her mandibles did nothing to promote her image as anything but an especially powerful monster; despite her best efforts, she was no Nana. Or Splut. "Tyrant! Please! Freedom Street is eating people again!" "What? I told him to only eat wild animals, and I told you lot to only use the temporary sidewalks unless you had iron boots." "Yes but, the iron boots all walked away, Tyrant." She groaned. "So get more iron. I'll go talk to him and see if there is any salvageable Ego. Regardless, there should be plentiful biomass down Freedom Alley in a few days time. Send a runner to Trinh to care for it, yes?" "At once Tyrant, thank you!" Her walk over to Freedom Street saw her interrupted no less than forty-seven times, which was remarkable considering there were were less than a hundred sapient inhabitants left in Neötöpia after the mist-attack, not to mention the fact that it was only two blocks away. But this was her life now, she mused. There was too much pain, too much power, too many voices. The balance was askew. If she left them to their own devices, they would... they would not survive. For all her pontificating about the superiority of the Monsterist Genöme, her people were one born out of violence, oppression and death; it would take all of her effort to see that they did not tear themselves apart, or see them waste their potential on some pointless grudge-crusade against the Tö and Frö that once wronged them. Even if war was inevitable, in her eyes, she would rather not be the one to escalate things further. What they needed most of all right now was time. Time to build, to sow, to live. Maybe with time, her dream could eventually come true. Her wings beat in sync with her heart, once, twice, as she rounded the corner and saw the mess that Freedom Street had made of a would be over-land trading expedition. Maybe having the main storage warehouse for the city be placed right next to the ravening sink-hole-prone cannibalistic thoroughfare had been a bad idea; but her cores did not cover urban planning and like most of the city, it had pretty much grown organically (some parts more organically than others) so this was yet another in a long line of problems that she had to solve on the go. "Someone get me a shovel." she groaned, "and a dönkey for bait." This was going to be another long day, she could feel it.
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Dec 28, 2018 00:41
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Part 3: The PlanThe Lord of Hats posted:“Wait. Just… one more thing, Trinh. From me to you. I say this a lot, I know, and it’s probably pretty obnoxious at this point, but… there’s always a choice, alright? And… if things ever get difficult for you, the rest of us are here to help. All of us, not just Snödis, or me, or… or… Patsy… all of us. Whether that’s a place to stay, or lessons with Dack—you should read his book, it’s really quite good—or even, and this is probably rude of me to say, and Snödis would hate me for it, or even the Cure… any help you need. We’re there for you. Slinkers gotta look out for each other, right?” "... I̅ͫ̑͐̇̋͆ ͊ͩ͂̃̿̽a͐ͩ̆ͥͨ͛pͦṕ̏͋reciate that." For a moment, she felt doubt. --- It had taken effort, but now, they trusted her. After the successful talks with the queen she had been able to get close to the city with only a minimal escort. And now there he was. Gryph. Trinh was waiting just outside Tömate gates. She had perfect visibility on the doctor, who was meeting a colleague inside a bookstore, just inside the gates. Finally, the one plaguing Trinh's thoughts was within her reach. From here, it would take less than fifteen seconds to reach the store, smash the wall, and then, take his life. Yacht-Sothoth would get her out before any credible threats showed up. She tensed in anticipation. Carrying out this plan would ruin everything Trinh had done as a diplomat, but that was a small cost. After this she would be truly free. Oh how much better she would feel once she cut the thickest knot of the web! It was that simple. Death would wash away the feelings of gratitude and obligation she felt for him. The ropes still binding her to painful mortal feelings. It was that simple. One more killing and she would stop hurting inside. Murdering the one who helped her time and time again was the solution. There wasn't even a choice. It was that simple. It was that simple... Snow started falling. Tiny gleaming specks danced back and forth in the light breeze before disappearing into the white ground. It was chilly. The Tö guards escorting Trinh looked to her quizzically. They asked why she had stopped. The wind was picking speed. It would be a cold day. She started laughing quietly, and raised a hand to cover her face. A cold day indeed. She exhaled deep. And, after a while, said to herself: "Just how stupid can you be." --- Later that day, a letter was delivered to Gryph's lodgings. Season's greetings. ...Along with a gift left lying on the street.  Its a pile of bears. --- Trinh felt like she could float away. A giant weight had fallen off her heart. Now this next, final visit, Trinh had already decided against it earlier, but since the assassination was cancelled, there was no reason not to go see him! She needed to make up for how she had treated him back in the queen's chambers. That last time... she had really messed up everything back then. But now, it was time to set things right, with a smile. --- Slinker City posted:“ ‘course it is. Humbuddy. Don’t you know I’m the oldies-drat epitome o’ wisdom? OY YOU CANCEROUS REJECT OF YO MOMMA’S WOMB! WHY DON’T YOU SUCK ON SOME STEEL-rear end DONGERS FOR PAPA GRUMBUS!” "B̔̑u̔͐̉̿́t̓ ̿ͣ̆ͫ̋̒̇wͧͯͬ̒ͣ̇ĥ͆ͩ̽at̓̇͗ͩ̈́͑ happened to Jeb the Gardener, the hero of the story?" --- Meeting Grumbus again had been wonderful. And the story of Slinker City, what a tale! However, it was time to get real. To get to the real reason for her visit. Her hearts fluttered. She would finally profess her true feelings! "W̑͌͌͗̃̓haͤt͗͋ I came here to say is-" "I͊̆̆ ͪͭͩ͛ͤ̿wͨȃ̏̽ntͭͦͭ̅̓ your head to make a chalice out of it." He didn't seem happy. Of course, of course. Skull chalices are tacky. "N̉ͭ̑͂o, what I meant was, your torso would make an excellent hat rack." ...No? "N͒̂ò! Of course, I meant..." "Tͮ͛hā̓ͫ̒̓̇t̓ͫ͑̊͒͑̀ ̔͌̌̂̔͆y͑̐̐ou should be preserved whole. There's no need to divide a good specimen. Simply stay still for a moment and-" Trinh didn't even manage to touch him before there were people yelling behind her. Maybe also in front of her. "Sͭ̓t̆̂̚a̚yͫ̆͐͆͛͆̄ still! Why won't you understand!" "Ỹ̊̑oͧ͊͆̽u͂̈̾̽̿̐ are going to die! And rot!" "I̙͉̰̪̗̘ ̵̝͔͍̪͈̥C̷̫A҉̜̦͙̜̰̺̩N̙͢ ̴F҉̩͎̺͍̼I̟̯̲X͕ ̧Y̵͔Ơ̦̜U͙͉̻̬̠̻!̺̝̰͇̰̱ͅ ̪̜͈͖̮͎͝Y̶͇̟̻̱̭͎̘Ó̜̝̱͖͚͖̖U'͍L̖̥L͎͙͙̰̤͠ ̵͖̘̫ͅK̶̻̞̱͈E̙̰̪̝E̛̺P̰͚̥͉ ̠̹̭̱̺͟Y͖̝O̹̙̫̰U͙̫̖N̘̘̝̬̳͎̣͠G̺͓̤̥̖͙͉ ͎̩̳͚͙̜͜A̸̺̱̠N͙͝Ḍ̲̭̤̹ ̼͠B͠EA̷̺U͕̟̜͓̼̕T͚I̖̙̳͇̞̗͇͞F̛̱U͏̘̫̝̞͈̬Ĺ̪!̛ ͏̺͉̫̫̩͈Y̱O҉Ư̼̺̻͇͓͎'͎̩͕̙L̪̀L͓̮̘̣̫̯͜ ͞B̻̪̱̻̺̜͇E̸̱̼̰͓͍͖ ̫T̲̼͎̰H̢̙̦E̢̮ ͉͕̪͚͜C͕̦͇̙̼̠R͓̤O̟̥̫͈̦̲W̭̗̞̥̗̙N͖̝͕͡ ̬̬̞̣̻̣͕͞J̲̼̠̙̦͝ͅͅE̖̙͚͚̩͙̘W̝̰̰̬͓̭E̖̩̝̰̦̭L͚̗̪̦̬͜ Ǫ̮͕̼̖F̲͡ ̲͈̜̥̙͓M̞͎̞͓̺̬ͅY̷ ҉̬̥C͚̙͔O̴̩L͓̘̖̟̰̣͇͠L͏̺͖͖̭̪͖͓E͏̝̯̩̺̣̜C͎͍̯̣͍͡T͔͖͎I̲͉ON͍͖̼͈͘!̼͎ ̫I̝̳͉̲'̮̬͝L̰̙͎͕̺Ḻ̮ ̨̤͉̟̪̬̝K͓E͈͔͜E͈͝P̖̖̤ ̡̱̖͈Y̱̩̟͈͖͉̖O͙͖̜̕Ų͙ͅ ̝̭S̮ͅA̱͉̳̯̮̼͓F͎̞͕͇̱ͅE!̞͉ ̧̥̳̲͈͚ͅA̷̠̩̤̲͖͙L̙̪W̭̲̬͍̫A̫̻̳̖̝̳͎͜Y̩͉͓͍̕S̪̥̜͇!̯͕͖" "I'll-" "..." "..." "S͒̾̚o̿̑rͭr͐̎̒̉̆̌̚y͊ͮ̍͐̑." "..." "F̽̏̎́͒ͪ͛o̅̄͗̿͆ṙ̾̈́͒ ̂̇̑̅͌ͤe̐ͭ̂̿vͩ̔ͤ̒͆eͫrything." "..." "I ̏̓ͪͩb͂ͦ̔͑͗ͤ͋rȯ͆̄͛ught you a gift." Its bears. --- After that Trinh left Tömate behind, feeling hollow. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Part 4: End of the Road Trinh lied down coiled in spiral deep within the Hollow. She did not feel comfortable in the relative crowdedness of central Neötypia. So she had picked a place, little ways outside the settlement, and had made it hers. She opened her eyes and looked up to the pale spiraling walls, and from all around her, the Collection looked back at her. Muscle and tendon, eye and bone. Perfect little machines! Each piece so unique. To be surrounded by such beauty in every direction! It was intoxicating. And beneath her the warm, soft floor that made it so alluring to go back to sleep. It was a heaven of sorts. And it could still get better. Would get better! The flesh was without limits! Ever since she had embraced the way, the world had been hers to shape! By flesh all was possible. Every act of insanity rewarded. Symbiotes, wendigo fragments, animated objects! She could do anything! Anything! Even keep a monsterized village running? She had set herself somewhat apart but the problems of Neötypia were never far away. Yesterday someone had merged with their bed in their sleep, today Freedom Street had eaten someone, again. A world for wendigos, of wendigos. It was a thing of beauty, but at times it felt like a melting wax sculpture. Maintaining divisions between things was difficult. It reminded Trinh of something. Back at Nägel the researchers had speculated of a monsterism cascade event, a critical mass of infected matter, that once reached would render all of it into one continuous organism. Perhaps their predictions were coming true... Maybe. Time would tell. But what really mattered was the here and now. Trinh did not care about the day to day goings on of Neötypia, she was glad that Snödis was shouldering that ordeal. She could happily spend days in her lair completely forgetting about the outside world. However, these reports of bodily accidents always had her gladly emerging to the light of day. Work was happiness, and resecting the body of Neötypia was pure joy. Not that she could solve all of their problems. Noggins had offered food aid, but they'd need to be self sufficient as soon as possible. And while Trinh had been eating pieces of the infinitely regenerating Ribbon, the others who had tried the same had ended up with their guts most painfully colonized by their meal. Wild game was still on the table. Trinh certainly had great fun hunting the biggest critters she could find, but those wouldn't last forever. Farms had to be built. It was hard work, but following in the example set by Queen Reina's Revenge, several new beasts/engines of labor had been cultivated. Sure, plenty of them had proved uncontrollable and ran off but that's what the Wildlands were for, weren't they? Haha... Trinh & co would get the hang of it sooner or later. And besides, the Neötypes were more than capable by themselves. The old queen's attack had forced even the reluctant ones on the path of true Ascension. Every Neötype outperformed even an "Ascended" baseliner! And the gifts of Monsterism were many. Most of the citizens possessed Fragments of those who had failed to maintain coherency, and the more daring ones had been augmented further on Trinh's table. They were immaculate. A new people for a new world! Even if there had been a few problems. Just little ones. Like a couple of violent psychotic outbreaks. In the Unexpectables, the original Neötypes had shown perfect self control and stability. But with a greater population, the odds of a bad brain mutation went up. The scary reputation that wendigos had was not entirely unfounded... The last offender was Fishk the Sailor, who'd started foaming at the mouths and gutted his co-worker. He was locked up at the moment. Trinh was confident that she could dig out the violent impulses out of his head if they let just her experiment a bit. Vera had turned out great after all! (Don't believe the stuff the other mouth says.) Yet, no permission had come so far. The question of how to handle such cases was still open. Oh well. Whatever. Snödis would solve it. She would handle everything. Again, Trinh was glad that people weren't bothering her for answers to such questions. And that was that. She'd had enough of musing about the outside world for now. In here, the Hollow, things were easier. Other people rarely came in, so she could keep things just so. It was only her and the taxidermites. Empty things that did only what they had been built for. And the Collection of course. Everything from faithfully preserved animals (so many bears), to Carlena, to creatures straight from her dreams. Looking at them, being in the middle of them, it filled her with a deep contentment. In this cruel, chaotic world she had managed to build something good, something that lasts. It was, once more, heavenly. At least as long as she ignored the hole. And there goes the happiness. Oh the hole. The gap in the Collection. She had been so enthusiastic, when she prepared the spots. She had stayed up all night engraving the plaques and planning the arrangement. She had thought... that it would finally happen. Her head drooped towards the wobbling floor. She gripped her shoulders. Tighter. Back in Tö she had been so close. Why... She flung her head up to look at the space before her. Tears flowed freely from her eyes. Ninety nine empty stands waited there. Each one so painstakingly made, labeled in copper. She squeezed tighter. Her claws dug deep into her shoulders. It hurt. It hurt deep that they were empty. And that they would remain empty. Even him. Despite her efforts, despite the detour she had made on the way back, she had been unable to find Gawp's remains. --- No. Enough of that. There were better things to be doing than moping. Like seeking the truth. The core of life, the answer to the riddle! The world behind the flesh! Yes, it was time to work. Maybe she'd put a slinker's head on a bear's body. That always cheered her up. But along to the way to the Bear Pile, she stopped. In this place of fire and passion, there was one cold corner. A nook in which stood a perfectly mundane, if large desk. Beneath it was a pot of ink. And on the desk was a pile of papers. The letters. Paper. Seals of queens and commoners. Compared to the fantasy around her, they were barely visible. Words trapped within were berefit of voice, untouched by vocal cords. Cold and ugly. But, it was all right. That was for the best. Here was the one place she did not want to see the flesh. She did not want to see the writer. For it was the only way she could see the words. Was she unhappy then, as she reread the letters one more time? Even as they made her feel pained? No. There was no reason to be unhappy. She had, for all intents and purposes, won. quote:tell me what you do
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Dec 29, 2018 01:05
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Humbug posted:What Do You Do?
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Dec 29, 2018 04:07
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 Ruby, the Skills: Waitressing (+20), Acting, Oratory (+25) HP: 3/3 Glory: 8 -> 9 She could have poisoned the sandwich. It would've been the work of moments; Grumbus backwashed so heavily into every bottle of multi-million-kröner wine he drank that he could supply an entire royal distillery with replacement drinks (and class action lawsuits, presumably). Ruby could have doused the sandwich (slinker on rye with hot mustard, a remarkably proletarian meal for the patrician repast from which she'd snagged it) and served it to Her Majesty Queen Noggins, First of Her Line straight, letting whatever mysterious lethal diseases Grumbus carried do their merry work. No more queens, period. The crown removed and slagged. A prospect which would have horrified her back when she was under the impression that the country she called home wasn't, in fact, a cleverly disguised genocide engine. And she didn't, because... she was afraid of going down in history as a traitor? She was afraid of not going down in history at all? She was afraid of dying? She thought Noggins would be a good queen? But there was no such thing -- she had no real ability to judge, considering Good Queen Reina -- a woman whose portrait she'd kissed -- had been Some Kind Of Race War Fanatic. For that matter, no poison would be effective, Grumbian in origin or otherwise. If the Queen wanted her dead for any or no reason, Ruby would cease to exist; vague royal preferences would directly translate into material reality faster than you could say "shoot her and make it look like an accident." Well, no need to dwell on "because." She didn't poison the sandwich. -- By the time Teret was outfitted with Thumbnails, Ruby's position at the diner had been filled by Kultie the Boxer, some two-bit ingenue waiting for her big break in Teret's thriving bareknuckle underground fighting rings. It was a job no one did unless they were looking forward to something better, to their so-called Big Break -- and that was how Ruby realized that being an Unexpectable was, in fact, her Big Break, her chance of a lifetime followed through on to the hilt. She'd gone from waitress to spy to, according to Noggins, a candidate for Ambassador to Frö (such as it was). Which was worth about a minute's laughter and an entire bottle of schnapps. She spent some time with Sikatris, brushing up on the finer points of geopolitics in the new world, Fröan concerns and supply chains and all the rest of society’s little necessary concerns. She spent time mingling with a shell-shocked public, trying to get them a little more enthusiastic about tomorrow, and all their ungenocided tomorrows to come. On several memorable occasions, she dealt handily with the Queen’s Checkers — a weird grassroots offshoot of the Queen’s Pawns, trying to take on the departed Reina’s final mission for them by destroying all Frömen, to little effect besides angry periodicals and thrown bricks. Most of these brain geniuses ended up dealing either with broken shins or the ministrations of President(?) Sikatris, and none bothered her again, except insofar as the paperwork for sovereign Töan citizens rendered to local jails bothered her, which it did. She dedicated every waking hour to translating the skillset of a sleeper agent/murderer/drat fine waitress to that of an ambassador to Frö. Three weeks into her tenure, Ruby woke up from a troubled dream and realized that, strictly speaking, there was no such thing as an ambassador to Frö. Frö had no government besides a very tall military genius who, nevertheless, was not doing the work of an entire political class, and a bunch of assholes on the ground who were basically in a holding pattern, waiting for the Töan war machine to either grind them to pieces or give the go-ahead. Speaking to yet another local leader, a Belmysut militiaman who was, absolutely and without question, under the thumb of central Töan guidance via Thumbnail only confirmed it for her; she listened while he yammered on about supply chains and recognized several terms in a very familiar meaningless jargon. The man was another one of Splut’s patsies. “I have to say,” she muttered, interrupting some nonsense about supply chains for grain, “If he's going to stick his fingers in this many pies, I’d be obliged if he’d at least eat one eventually. Not natural for someone like that to have no vices.” -- That evening, skating around Tömate and nursing a key lime pie that was as heavy as lead, Ruby wondered what, exactly, she’d been sent out to do in Frö. Being red didn’t really mean anything, considering all the contacts the Unexpectables had built up by sheer virtue of being the entirety of the government for the world’s most powerful nation, out of a choice of three. Anyone could hire a charismatic Fröman with a few relevant skillcores to be a symbol of regrowth for the general public. And, frankly, Ruby wasn’t managing that. Oh, sure, she spoke to civilian leaders and participated in publicity events and waved from Sikatris’s shoulder at a parade, like a large, flightless bird, but a decently potent Oratory core could only take her so far. She’d heard herself called “Ruby the Foreigner,” “Ruby the Turncoat,” and — this last one really made her mad, she’d almost lobbed her roller skate at the guy — “Ruby the Red Sockpuppet.” So, if she wasn’t really the ambassador to Frö… She tapped the table. Could she, potentially, be the ambassador from Frö? OF course, that didn’t make a huge amount of sense. She sighed, and took another slug of her drink. Just playing aimless word games. She had no government to be an ambassador from, just a big red lady, a lot of smaller red folks, and a bunch of empty town halls. True, the steady trickle of former Inhabited were going back to work with all the industrious steadiness of people who had experienced exactly no war, but plenty of the jobs they’d worked and the local governments they’d run had ceased to exist without people to fill them. A million little civilian leaders, and no Commanders; however the Breaker/Commander cultivation process actually worked, it wasn’t going to bear fruit for years, yet. They were operating with exactly one leader, and that leader was so tied up in local affairs that she’d have no time for Tö, especially considering how little she already trusted them. Any kind of systemic aid was going to have to come from Tö and its gigantic coffers, none of which were going into noble pockets any more, but after the whole genocide thing, no Töan puppet government was ever going to be legitimate in the public eye. It’d be backed by an enormous potential for violence, nothing else. To have the institutions, you needed people to build them. And to cultivate people who could build them, you’d need institutions. Institutions got you Breakers, or Ascended people, or people who could heroically distinguish themselves in some kind of prosocial, non-murder endeavor. Tö, with all its wealth and power, could provide relief and aid, but anything they provided or any order they imposed would be useless in the long run. It wouldn’t be worth anything unless they felt they were being served — not coerced, not indulged, served. By their own, personal server. Someone whose relationship to Tö was close enough to get something out of them, but secondary to their relationship to Frö. Someone who could give them their full attention… “Oh, hell. That’s me, isn’t it…” — She’d expected her plan to be a harder sell to Noggins, but the Queen — after a minute or so of letting Ruby explain the particulars — just clapped her on the back and told her it was a brave thing she was doing. It hadn’t really struck Ruby as brave, per se, considering she’d just be going back to Teret after a fashion, but she took the compliment anyway, since that was kind of what you did with queens. She said a few goodbyes — to Humbug, who was gearing up for some complicated raid on Slinker City and still not eating enough good, solid meat pies, and to Grumbus, to whom she gave his half-melted personal cup, and to a strange Rahd fellow who’d gone unnoticed, like her, despite his stubble and godawful evil laugh, but who really deserved a little kindness. She donated her house to a local girl she’d met recently, who was surprised to learn her startup now had an entire house to be used as quarters. She almost convinced Skett to come with her, but former Fröman or not, the man was blue, which wouldn't fly with the people. And after a short, informal farewell party at the Wearing the Lampshade, during which a full sixty percent of the mooks learned her name for the first time, Ruby formally quit the Unexpectable Horde, handed in her Glory satchel and requisitioned equipment, and denounced her Töan citizenship, which she technically didn’t have, being a sleeper agent with official residence in Teret. It took a long few sessions at the civil service, and a series of planned speeches in Föstis to get the public aware of that, and of course the Queen’s Checkers tried to bomb her hotel room at Oxnyard because nothing can ever be easy, but after a few weeks of sleepless nights and a long, complicated explanation for Sikatris, Ruby defected to Frö, as their ambassador to Tö. “Public Service With A Smile,” was her campaign slogan. It took a while to stick, of course, but after she got the hang of it, Ruby started dragging resources out of Tö in earnest. This parade was wasteful. That reconstructive trade deal was exploitative. This military base is bilking cash out of locals and needs to be disciplined, and, no, it’s not harmless fun. That swarm of flies was fully monsterized and didn’t belong in local airspace unless Neötopia would provide its own accommodations for them. That national border there had been set in a completely untenable position, just to get the rights to OG tech which was rightfully Fröan property, which had been claimed by Fröan explorers hundreds of years ago before being abandoned, and yes that counts, you’re keeping the Thumbscrews you took with Madmist bombings so this no-warcrime claim definitely goddamn counts… The next time any Unexpectable met her again, it was at a summit for determining approved travel infrastructure and checkpoints on international roads, and Ruby was in a smart black suit with a stern, if not aggressive look on her face, giving absolutely jack poo poo away about her relationship to any of them and accepting no gifts and precious little small talk. Any attempt to play on her Waitressing instinct for hospitality or their old Hordemateship got stonewalled. If she exploited their old connections, if she offered a slice of pie after the meeting, it was exclusively for the sake of Frö’s prosperity and happiness. “We’re a sovereign nation, with sovereign borders. I don’t care whether you need Regentrock for whatever mad science y’all’ve cooked up back in Tömate. Unless you’ve got the permits — if you can't respect how much we need an unpolluted town and a decently stable underground and to run our own drat nation — none of you folks are ever going back to Föstis. Mmkay?” Ruby the Waitress posted:What do you do?: Ruby renounces her Töan citizenship and becomes a Fröan ambassador to Tö, working under Sikatris and acting to protect her burgeoning nation from the interests of her former nation and superpower, using her connections to and dirt on the Horde (as their former waitress) to keep them in check. She is almost certainly very annoying, but it's for a good cause. Without a royal family, or much in the way of centralized government for a while, Frö becomes significantly less monarchist. Poltergrift fucked around with this message at 19:58 on Dec 29, 2018 |
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Dec 29, 2018 07:37
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Noggins In the end, she’d still had to bring an honor guard along. It felt pointless—they weren’t going to be able to help with what was ahead, she was more than capable of fending for herself, and she had no reason to expect any hostility from Frö in the first place—but there were things you just had to do when you were a sovereign. And it wasn’t like she was going to be quite so personally powerful for much longer, either. She was just going to have to suck it up and get used to it. It was remarkable how much of a difference the Skipping Lanes made. There’d been a little bit of difficulty in actually getting through—one of the employees was taking the “no military usage” rule a lot further than really made sense, but even with the delay as that got sorted out, it was only a couple of hours from leaving the palace, and she was standing back in the Gateway Fortress. The former barracks were still cordoned off for health reasons—Noggins sort of doubted they’d ever be safe again, what with Grumbus’s handiwork, but otherwise things were in remarkably good shape, especially for how remote it was. Although a Skipping Gate never really could be remote, could it? After some perfunctory greetings and diplomacy, they were escorted to the Crimsonwings they were going to be using for the next stretch of the journey. It was Noggins’ first time up on a Butterfly, and the view was striking. It felt like you could see forever, once you got over the fact that you could also see just how much of a drop there was to the ground. She spotted the clearing that was their ultimate destination well before they reached it, and she gripped Nailbreaker tightly. A massive circle of empty dirt, and in the middle of it stood that tower of pure hatred. A Bloodwood. They’d set down well outside of the clearing—getting closer would risk a volley of razor-sharp leaves, her escort explained—and continued on foot. This was starting to feel like a bad idea. Sure, she’d known that they were dangerous, but the scope of that danger… well, she’d come this far. She wasn’t about to back down. Her escort stopped well back of the edge of the forest, but she kept marching through the eerie silence. Finally, after a moment’s pause, she set foot onto the dirt. The response was immediate. There was an explosion of green up from the branches, and after a few seconds delay as the leaves soared through the air, the entire area where she’d been standing was pierced. It was almost like grass had spontaneously sprouted up, except each leaf was the size of her entire torso. Another burst of green—she was going to have to keep moving. She rushed across the emptiness, constantly chased by those green razors. Roots burst up from the ground to try and snare and crush her. More than a few times the tree actually outsmarted her, predicting where she would be. If it weren’t for Nailbreaker’s vines engulfing the incoming leaves, she’d have been split in half. As it was, she had more than a few scrapes in her armor. Aggressive Carpentry: 1d100+10d1000+45+5+4 5159 Doubles Detected! Final Result: 10318 vs. Big Angry Tree: 4d5000 9136 Finally, after far, far too long, she approached the thorny trunk. The thorns actually extended outwards to try and pierce her, but after the exploding seedpods that the Bloodwood had started dropping once she’d passed beneath the canopy, she’d come to expect that there was absolutely no aspect of this thing that wasn’t going to try and murder her. She dodged, and pushed Nailbreaker into full drive, sharp metal tendrils ribboning outwards, wrapping around the trunk and biting into rock-hard bark. There was a moment of tension, broken by the Bloodwood throwing its every last reserve at killing her, but she was safely ensconced within Nailbreaker’s forest now. It was over. Not that the Bloodwood was quite content with that—in what had to have been one last act of spite the entire trunk of the tree heaved and came crashing down right on top of her. Even Nailbreaker, OG artifact with seeming infinite reserves that it was, struggled under the pressure. The shell around her closed smaller, smaller, her armor starting to buckled as the weight pressed upon it—and then with one last push, the mass of lumber rolled off her. She waited a while, to make drat sure the thing didn’t have any more death throes left in it, then got to her feet. “You are going to make some really, really good chairs.” As she began to head back, her foot brushed up against an undetonated seedpod, which she could have sworn actually growled at her. She scooped it up thoughtfully and pocketed it, combing through her memories of the Royal Library. Ah, right, that was the word. It had been right on the tip of her tongue. Bönsai.
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Dec 29, 2018 19:53
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 Tö had thought the war was the hard part. That a time of peace would follow, that they could heal from their grief. They couldn't have been more wrong. The Coronation Massacre had disabused them of their illusions. The Queen had been assassinated -again- and now they had yet another, an usurper. Only… It was the Carpenter Knight, Noggins of the Unexpectable Horde. And strangely, she was urging calm and forgiveness to the very assassin who had caused the Massacre! But it wasn't that simple - certain… visions had accompanied rumors flooding from the palace. Stories of ancient betrayals and social engineering on an impossible scale, lies that had caused countless wars over generations. The public could scarcely understands the magnitude of what they'd learned, and would have been quick to dismiss it… But the ideas were strangely tenacious, and came from people in places of trust and respect. The Mindbender Network reached people in all levels of society, whether in prosthetics, cosmetic accessories, or other knick knacks that had proliferated during the prior month. The information was out there, and there was no stopping it. And so, despite massive confusion and existential terror, the people of Tö… took a breather. Things clearly weren't as they seemed, but they were exhausted and frightened, and once the surviving members of the Regency Council spoke up to urge calm and patience people were only too pleased to oblige. Nevertheless, they stayed indoors and stockpiled food and water. Things were precarious and dangerous, and no matter what the illegitimate government told them, they felt keenly the loss of their innocence. (Hi, and welcome to the end! In the course of the next few pages, I think we’ll have gotten to everyone’s stories, and I recommend you read all of them because they intertwine. Take snack breaks during your journey, because there’s a lot to read. Regardless, at the end of each section there’ll be a question or two for your characters. Your response there will be the last word on the matter, then I’ll do a fallout-style ‘Where Are They Now’ ending slide sequence to show what ended up happening to everyone and the places they encountered. Keep your posts relatively short, I’m thinking around 500 words max - there’s always more story to tell, but at some point you have to let go!) --- Councillor Slate had survived the attack, minus an eye and one of his kidneys, but he was a hollow, shaken shadow of his former boisterousness. After the former Queen's death, the Unexpectables had fanned out and gathered the survivors for triage. First things first was making sure Noggins’ claim was formalized. This was less difficult than expected - several survivors spoke of hearing Foam offer her the position of Handmaiden, which was tantamount to actually being one in the eyes of the law. Sure, they'd then killed her, but that didn't ultimately change all that much. And now Noggins wore the crown… The Breakers bowed to her authority almost instinctively, so the Council had followed suit. If the allegations were true… Slate had just shaken his head, slack jawed. Nothing like this had ever happened. There were no provisions for… Noggins was Queen. Her word was law. May the Old Guys help them all. --- Sikatris and Frö was another ticklish matter. There were many that were sympathetic to her plight, but this assassination business wasn't a good PR move. Being as they'd invited her here, the Horde moved to smooth things over between the two nations. Excavating the basement of the palace revealed the corpse of Handmaiden Coinflipper incorporated into what could only be described as some OG fuckery. It bore some resemblance to a Thumbscrew, but coiled over and into itself in a maddening spiral helix filing a room the size of a large warehouse. This had plainly been used to jam Humbug’s signal from Frömage, and the corpse looked almost mummified in its deadly harness. With some experimentation, Noggins and Sucy managed to use the ghoulish totem to fire off a priority message to Frö - and all linked Thumbscrews, for that matter - that all armed forces ought to stand down and wait from orders from Queen Noggins or Commander Sikatris, who was the ranking military official. Sikatris, for her part, had submitted to having an informal escort and seemed just as stunned and confused as the others. “I really thought… I couldn't have known about any of this. I thought that there was some sort of conspiracy among your elected officials to seize power from the Queen, or at least some sort of attempt to force a war none wanted through a false flag, but this… This changes everything. Forget our strategies and tactics, this rewrites our shared histories! Imagine having that sort of perspective on the world, that sort of vantage on the big picture, and using it for this.” She spat, then looked vaguely ashamed, but Noggins snorted. What the hell did she care if a genocidal monster's carpets for got ruined? Sikatris released the surviving Inhabited from their masks upon request, revealing a group of terrified and confused soldiers. “Volunteers,” she explained, “for a prototype series. They had some awareness, supplemented by the Inhabited instructions, but I bound them with my threads to synchronize their senses. What one saw, all saw. What I saw. It was a terrible strain, but, well, I wasn't expecting to survive. I had no idea why you’d called me here. I had no idea why you'd let me live in the first place. I guess I'm just glad you did. Do what you think is right. I trust you, and I'll support whatever story you want to tell.” In a bit of a shock, one of the Inhabited turned out to be Zapanda. She looked sweaty and pained, bleary without her glasses, but she smiled wryly. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you lot messed all this up.” She'd lost an arm at the elbow, but she looked unconcerned. “Doesn't hurt. As long as I can find it (or something like it) they can just slap the mask back on and let it heal into place before unmasking me. It just feels a little fuzzy.” She'd volunteered despite lack of combat experience because she'd rather die with her sister than live in fear of the conversion ritual or execution. She shrugged, then fell back against the wall. “Now I guess I'm being executed anyhow, but at least I didn't die on my knees.” Sikatris dropped down beside her and chuckled weakly, slapping her on the back with one massive hand. “Let's just put a pin in that, shall we? Something tells me things have gotten even more complicated. We might even survive the night, sis!” They both laughed, too exhausted and too confused to decide whether it was gallows humor or genuine mirth. --- The Massacre had shaken Tömate to its core, but with no immediate further disruption to their social obligations, society just sort of... carried on. The fine folk of Tö gossiped and hoped and feared and laughed and got on with things while the upper echelons shat their collective pants. They hadn't had a good coup in ages, and the new government didn't seem to be in any rush to crack down on dissidents or anything. Sure, there were a bunch of Fröman military forces around, but they seemed to be well guarded by the Breakers, so things couldn't have been all bad. A populace conditioned to listen to their betters and otherwise get along on their own did exactly that! --- Gado the Digger vanished entirely after the fiasco at the palace. The revelations and the final betrayal of Trinh were more than enough to convince him that whatever this new world was, he didn't want any of it. He fled. He found his mother and his family and he took them away. It was easier than he thought - he still commanded respect due to his accomplishments and connections, and he'd accumulated a goodly sum from leveraging the above. He stood to make even more from his dealings with Töller Brown, and this alone made him hesitate - but only for a moment. He'd just have to make do. They all would, because he was out of here! They traveled in a chaotic line away from society, looking less for something in particular than someplace secluded. Gado surveyed the lands as they traveled, seeing the terrain with supernaturally keen senses and seeking out features he would need. Springs, caverns, maybe an underground river. Outside of Töan territory if possible, but it didn't matter: they would never find him. And, to their credit, he didn't think they'd come looking. Finally he found it, a cleft in an exposed shale cliffside. It was perfect. They'd collapse the entrance eventually, but for now it was secluded and surrounded by all manner of useful natural fodder. He struck the earth. It gave way beneath him, welcoming him and his family into its chthonic embrace. (Gado and family are safe from the outside world. Their arrangement is not sustainable, naturally, not in the fullness of time. Inbreeding or infighting will ruin his utopia eventually, unless they eventually open their doors to the world… But for the near future, possibly the rest of Gado’s life, things look rosy. He will encounter mysteries unheard of by even the Queen, discover creatures and treasures lost even to rumor, and share them with only his family unless he wishes to reveal them. Will Gado or his family ever emerge from below? Will he ever seek out his former friends among the Unexpectables? ) --- Gado wasn't alone in his disillusionment. Neebs the Bartender, too, had felt the sting of disappointment in her fellows, at the degree of power-hunger she'd seen in their eyes. Were they any better than the Queen? A Queen who had reigned for apparently hundreds of years, bringing prosperity and stability to Tö? Sure, the… apparent genocide was troubling, but the others didn't understand. Her connection with the Administration was something none of them could really understand, something they'd exploited to get this far. And then when her connection had revealed that the Queen was right, that everything she'd done had been according to a literal divine plan, they hadn't accepted it. Because it hadn't fit their narrative, they'd discarded it and rendered billions of sacrifices pointless. Now the world was off track, the evident point of their existence useless. So she left. No one stopped her, no one could bear to hold her back. She wasn't alone - those she'd convinced earlier, some of them, couldn't bear to be part of this new world either. The Horde took on a new scar, a wound of ideology that couldn't be easily healed. Neebs closed up shop, ignoring the hurt and confusion in the eyes of those she left behind. It wasn't that she didn't care about the connections she'd made, but for her own sanity she needed a clean break. The Lampshade would simply have to carry on without her. She was free of all worldly connections and wealthy beyond her youthful dreams. It was time to explore. (Neebs leaves to travel the world. Through a combination of access to Skipping Lanes and her strange and ineffable connection to the Administration, she finds herself in almost the middle of nowhere. The further she travels away from ‘civilisation’ the more obvious it is that there's really nothing out there. No other people, at least. Tö and Frö are, as far as she can tell, all there is. The Queen must have wanted people as densely grouped as possible, for whatever reason. She does, however, find artifacts. Fragments of statues and ruins of familiar and yet unfamiliar design, often dyed to a deep ochre. Further investigation reveals more such ruins, and even a few storage chambers with food rotten to dust - and mead! Most is sour or dusty but a few precious bottles are filled with an unparalleled vintage that taste like nothing she'd ever encountered. A whole society, made dust and forgotten. Was it worth it? Regardless, what was done was done, and the ruins were legitimately fascinating and exciting, really something that ought to be shared with the world. But do they need to know? Will the knowledge benefit the world, or cause further chaos? Does she reveal her findings (these and any further ones) or keep them hidden away? Finally… The Unexpectables. Will she ever see them again? If so, how will it happen, and how will she feel?) --- Portha the Rummager had demonstrated that an average Töan could be more - far more - with a few simple modifications. She brought the results of her field research back to the Ritual study facility and allowed (well, demanded) they examine the effects on her body. Several of the more cowardly scientists demanded she cease further attempts due to the corrupting effects the Stuffing Fragment had had on her mind, but they were short sighted fools, and she easily browbeat them into submission. She was, after all, the hero who had slain a Handmaiden in single combat. What hope did they have against her? They got to work. Further investigation on the experimental rituals led to deaths and assorted other casualties, but she got the results she wanted. What was a Skillcore, really? Was it really needed? Was it something imposed by the OG? It was difficult to imagine a world without them, but Portha had gotten a good look inside Handmaiden Yino and hadn't seen one. A few modifications here and there and they'd managed to strip a Skillcore from a ‘volunteer’ and leave them alive - in a manner of speaking. Sickly and listless, this must have been what Öans were like before the great meddling. Not something she'd ever partake in, but there was a queer sort of attraction for some in returning to a ‘natural’ state. With a bit of clever advertising, they managed to gather a goodly few “spare” Cores from people who began to think of themselves as Öans. A cult which would never have been seen under the old Queen, they thrived in the chaos of the new world. They were harmless enough, but ultimately they were just a side effect of her actual plan. The other end of things was the greater proliferation of A Thousand Drops of Boiling Blood. It was a harsh technique, but it allowed unparalled access to one’s internal Esprit requiring only minor sacrifices. Certainly a better way than the primitive techniques of the past for creating Breakers, and certainly more easy to mass produce. Even where the process wasn’t perfect, it still drew out more than a generic Töan could be expected to perform. More experiments were needed, although the attrition rates were unfortunately higher than predicted. It was all worth it to strengthen them, to bring them back to the standards they’d fallen from. What had the Administrator called them? Degenerates. Yes, she could see that, know it to be true. She’d felt powerful when she killed Yino, and now she was so much less. But it didn’t have to be that way. Taking a few scientists and a bunch of scavenged Cores, she made her way to the Administration facility her Horde had found earlier in the year. (Slight modifications are required to Portha’s plans - some of them don't work with previously established details and plot points. Notably, we’ve mentioned in the text that the Crown is a unique artifact and the tiaras are just fancy hats, totally nipping her storyline in the bud. I will, instead, try to maintain the tone and as much of the detail as I can without totally scuttling your vision and unduly affecting the others. At any rate, more on this later!) --- The concerns of lesser minds were irrelevant to one like Starn the Sieger. Yes, yes, tumult and fear and centuries of lies and murder, but did that change anything for his interests? Not particularly. His contacts had largely survived the Massacre, and even those traumatized by the events were honor bound to fulfill their end of the bargain. SASGY would proceed apace, and if anything the uncertainty increased interest. A new institution, led by a popular and charismatic headmaster who clearly lived, breathed and existed only for his chosen subject matter. Many a confused youth with nothing ahead of them, who'd wasted years of their lives training or fighting for what amounted to a mad demigod’s lie, found themselves drawn to the Academy. And if they had no interest in destroying fortifications, well, variety was the heart of sieging! Over the course of the month, SASGY became less of a pipe dream and more of a bonafide school. With the vast sums funneled into it (and the tendency of corrupt contractors to be catapulted several hundred meters into the nearby lake), it wasn't long at all until the Academy opened its doors to its first students. Sure, the first few dozen classes were rough, and Stårn learned very quickly that teaching beginner courses was not for him, but they closed the month out with only a few broken bones and no drop outs! Not a bad outcome, and one which only raised the prestige of what was sure to be a foundational institution in this new era! (Starn is filthy rich. He could literally build a castle out of money and a trebuchet out of money and launch money at the money castle until it collapsed. Between the artifacts stolen from the castle by his cadre and the exorbitant enrollment fees (not to mention a little creative help from a well-entrenched friend), SASGY is doing just fine. Even more surprising, SASGY is legitimately a fantastic place of learning. Starn might be a wacky, violent guy, but he's a brilliant savant in the art of sieging, and manages to tie nearly every field of study to it so tightly that each believes their own discipline to be the central pillar of the art. He poaches respected professors from other schools by sheer force of personality, instilling a sense that they clearly must be missing something if they aren't as driven as Stårn. It takes a long time to make a venerable institution, but SASGY is well on its way there! As for his question, it's pretty simple: where does Stårn go from here? What else does he want from life? ) --- Hob the Singer felt free. Without the chaos of war forcing him to watch the skies, he was able to just fly. There'd been rumblings about stripping war butterflies from soldiers for use in civilian reconstruction jobs, but Hob shut that down quickly. Gawp was his friend, sure as any of the others, and a link to one of his fallen comrades. So instead they'd given him into the Singer's care, and they were both free. But he wasn't just flying in the sky. The Mindbender network had been designed (he presumed) as a military or scientific tool, but it was so much more than that. The more people who joined, the more sensations that were added to the pile, the more complex the texture of it grew until it was a sea of information and data. With some clever tweaks, Hob and Hat even managed to spoof some of Veilpiercer’s more dramatic feats of computation. Anyone on the network could leverage it to help them do a little thinking, even to store memories for later use. Maybe they could even use it to send ideas and memories, but people were understandably a bit leery about allowing the thoughts of others to invade their minds, what with the Inhabited and the conversion Ritual so fresh in the public psyche. Still, it was amazing to see something he'd worked on so hard become so popular. Even better was the popularity among Monsterists. On the network, no one knew what you looked like, only how you chose to represent yourself by the sensory information you submitted. Monsterists and Wendigo often had unique senses beyond the capacity of baseline stock, and the ability to share it improved public sympathy with them. For Hob, who'd after all been a Wendigo himself, this was a personal victory, but he was particularly pleased by how well Dack was taking to it. Though initially doubtful, the normally mute Unexpectable found himself able to articulate himself in a way that far outstripped the crude methods he was used to, which could only help his credibility as an educator. He lay back on Gawp and felt the wind ruffle his hair. Fresh air was good for him, the doctors said. The Vile Mechanism had done a number on his bones and organs in its drive to improve Ringo, and over time the effects were growing more pronounced. Luckily, advanced prosthetics technology driven by the war wounded and (strangely) SASGY’s material sciences division made his day to day relatively liveable. The war had made less of him, but more, too. As a man who had lost an eye, become a Wendigo, been cured and wholly healed (even as he'd been filled with holes) and then lost an eye once more, he'd learned to take things as they came. Life was good. (The Mindbender network is extremely popular among all strata of Töan and Fröman society. With the Unexpectables in control of both production and distribution, they have final control of the pricing and outreach and are able to ensure that anyone who wants access can get it with minimal controversy. Monsterist infection of the network was and is a real concern, as it hews closely to Script, but clever and redundant security systems built into the terminals have (thus far) prevented a serious outbreak. What is Hob’s ultimate desire for the network? Will he live to see it?) --- In a vast forested area in former Fröman territory can be found a land of terrifying wonder, where the very paths themselves are alive - and occasionally hungry. Neötöpia, though it remains relatively small as nations go, is growing quickly. Though negotiations remain tense between the three nations, things have come to somewhat of a resolution: a mutual “let's leave eachother alone” pact. Generally, such things are broken easily and at the earliest convenience, but with the revelations shaking the world, there is every indication that everyone involved wanted to have some time to think things over. Snödis the Poet, for her part, used the time to consolidate power. There was no real opposition to her rule. After all, she'd started this enclave. Many had fled here from Tö or Frö to seek out promises of land and a community of like-minded Monsterists, but the vast majority weren't interested in rebellion against the baseline majority. Almost none were firebrands like their Tyrant, but she treated them with respect bordering on adoration. She was plainly mad, but she also burned with a fire of belief so strong that it warmed them all. This fire scared some away, but those that remained felt for once that they were worth something. She Branded them all and made them monstrously strong. Not monstrous, she'd said, divine. When the Handmaiden Carlena had come and Madmist had rolled through many a home, they'd thought that was the end. Neighbor turned against neighbor, parent against child, leveraging their very nature against them. They'd cursed Snödis, briefly, for giving them hope. And then she appeared among them, powerful wings beating away the last of the mist and bearing the corpse of the would-be assassin. There was no real opposition to her rule. Neötöpia is an insular nation, not xenophobic so much as terribly (justifiably) paranoid. Monsterist refugees often appear on the border, and even these are questioned and tested before being accepted into the fold. And, shortly afterwards, they are Branded. As much for public safety as their own, Neötöpia is a nation of Wendigos and near-Wendigos, all Branded to ensure their civility - and that of neighboring nations. The Cure is outlawed outright except for emergencies, with the implication that death is preferred. Unauthorized attempts to Cure citizens are met with an extremely unfriendly response, and successfully Curing an unwilling subject results in delivery of the perpetrator to the sensual claws of Trinh. Despite its chequered reputation, Neötöpia is the only place in the world that exports Fragments. These half-living, specialized tools are unparalleled in usefulness for specific uses, and are by all accounts Monsterism-inert. Despite their provenance, these crystallized pieces of Wendigo flesh are completely harmless even to baseline folk. Back channels and black markets for the things sprang up nearly overnight, protecting and validating Neötöpian sovereignty. As for Snödis herself, she settled cleanly into her role as Tyrant of Neötöpia. With her Somawire deactivated, she was as fragile as the rest of them now, and yet with the bodies of two Handmaidens incorporated into her symbiote she remained far more powerful than most. She didn't need to exert her dominance over her subjects, naturally, but the creatures of the Wildlands were a different matter. They were tamed and made purposeful, the wild chaos of their Monsterism turned to benefit the greater good. It was as she'd always said - Monsterism wasn't an illness, but a blessing. It could be used, channeled. The next stage of evolution, not just for people, but for the world. She couldn't wait for the day it would come to pass. She just couldn't wait! (Let's be real. Snödis is insane and Neötöpia is a ticking time bomb of monsters and violence. And yet, against all odds… It's working. It's stable in its chaos, a veritable boiling pot of culture, art and ideas. The people there are monsters, but they're treated like valuable and honored citizens, so they act like it. They are strange and touchy, quick to take offense when the subject of the Cure is raised, but no better or no worse than the citizens anywhere else. Within the framework of their own society, Neötöpia is thriving, and the badly abused Monsterist underclasses of Tö and Frö are flocking to its borders - an arrangement that has everyone involved sighing in relief. As to whether this will lead to conflict in the future, no one can know, bit for now things are working out just fine. As for Snödis: will there ever come a day when she relaxes her guard and opens the borders to baseline folk? Why or why not?) --- With Neebs gone, Nana the Mother spent a lot of her time fretting. Fretting after the Lampshade (which she now owned!), fretting after Bäbi, fretting after her many, many customers. So many lives, so many stories crossing her path, so many people to care for and about. And yet, she was happy. Life wasn't simple - it never was - but it was fulfilling, and she felt needed and wanted. The Lampshade, formerly a hangout for the Horde and their friends, had grown to become its own sort of institution. The elite and the mundane mingled within its walls with no regard to status (and those who objected were roundly berated) and found that their differences were far less pronounced than their commonalities. Bäbi was walking now, smiling and babbling at the passersby with a keen smile and a dazzling set of dimples. They never had found her original family, and the current supposition was that she'd outlived them all. Bäbi was - had been - older than everyone else in the Horde, after all. What a strange, strange life she'd had. Would she remember, when she'd grown? How would that affect her? Well, whatever happened, Nana would be there for her. A child needed their mother, no matter how old they got. (Under Nana's ownership the Lampshade becomes an unofficial community center in Tömate, drawing people from all over to come and get warm, have some good food, and chat with friends old and new. Those who left the Horde behind are remembered with honor, whatever their choices, and stories are told of their heroism in the oral legend of the Unexpectables. Bäbi continues to thrive under Nana's care, growing into a cheerful and caring young woman. Does she ever remember her previous life as Gränni, and if so how does she take it?) --- Mason the Hollerer was a simple man. He'd joined the army for kicks, and since then he'd seen all kinds of crazy poo poo. Monsters and commanders and ancient junk and crazy magic drugs and alien invaders and he'd even broken a door down with his face! And now? Now he was bored. He'd seen just about everything in the world, probably, and he wanted nothing more than to get good and permanently drunk. Unfortunately, he had no money. He was just a poor fella, with no means by which he could get good and soused. He jammed his hands in his pockets glumly, vaguely annoyed that he could barely fit them due to all the paper and metal disks in there. Wait a second. Money often took the form of paper and metal disks! He extracted one experimentally and peered at it, confirming it to be money. He laughed an “aw, shucks” laugh and slapped the money down on the wooden table ahead of him. He was shocked and enraged to see someone slip it into their pocket, and went to stand up and holler at them… But someone had covered his table and the bench next to him with empty mugs and he didn't want to muss them up. By the time he gingerly made his way to his feet, only breaking four of them, the thief returned with a round of foamy stout! Not a bad apology, he supposed! Entirely placated, he dropped heavily back onto the bench, scattering the rest of the stacked glasses. He downed the pint in one gulp to a round of cheers from the other twelve people sitting with him. He smiled at their accolades, letting loose a mighty hoot and holler! Mason was a simple man. He'd joined the army for kicks, and since then he'd seen all kinds of crazy poo poo. Monsters and commanders and ancient junk and crazy magic drugs and alien invaders and he'd even broken a door down with his face! And now? Now he was bored. He'd seen just about everything in the world, probably, and he wanted nothing more than to get good and permanently drunk. Unfortunately, he had no money. He was just a poor fella, with no means by which he could get good and soused. Oh well! (Mason is filthy, rich, and filthy rich. He continues much as he was before the events of the last few months, having learned very little from the experience. Despite having grown into a terrifying engine of destruction in his own right, Mason remains a humble redneck (blueneck?) and will likely remain that way forever! But maybe he'll turn over a new leaf, maybe he'll become a productive member of society! What do you think? What’s next for Mason?) --- Ringo the Pick steadfastly ignored further attempts from anyone to get him into any official position. He simply wasn't interested in being tied down, however he felt about the new government. No, the people needed him, and not just the people of Tö. He wandered the land, really needing very little food or water to keep him going, and helped people where they needed help. Sometimes he'd chop wood, sometimes he'd fight back some wild forest monster, sometimes he'd tell stories, sometimes he’d drop off parcels of Cure that Gryph dispatched him with. His booth was always left open for him in the markets of Tömate, and he did return for it, every once in a way. He reported to a Noggins and the others, but he wasn't a spy. He took no sides, made no judgements but the judgements of his heart. He was free in a way that few in the world could claim. Certainly freer than Grimper. His former Warlord was a broken man, ostracized among the other Breakers, which Ringo found unfair. Sure, the man was a fool and a boot, but he deserved to be ostracized due to his many failures, not due to his final ‘betrayal’ of the Queen. The one drat thing he'd done right. Ringo had… complicated feelings with regards to the Breaker. He was angry at him, he almost hated him (if he truly hated anyone), but his newfound perspective made it difficult not to… pity him. The Breaker Program sounded intense and demanding, and the secrets and lies he'd been privy to must have weighed on him since the war began. And then, in the end, he'd betrayed the ideals he'd heels for so long. It must have been hard for him. And so, whenever he was in town, he'd put out feelers to see whether he wanted to take him up on that fight. Until recently, he'd been ignored. So it was with some suprise that on a recent visit to his booth he found a note pinned under a heavy lump of lead, sealed with a number 9 embossed into wax. He snapped it open, but all it said was “Name the time and place.” He scrawled a response and replaced it, a thrill in his heart. Finally. (Ringo becomes (more of) a folk hero, going from place to place and helping people along. Tö, Frö, it didn’t matter. Everywhere he went, people were just people, and they needed help. He becomes famous in a low key way - they know he won’t take bribes, can’t be corrupted to aid or harm anyone he doesn’t personally feel deserves it, so they don’t even try. They just nod as he passes, give him food or drink if he asks for it, talk with him if he wants and leave him be if he prefers it. He lives a lonely life, and yet one filled with anything and anyone he could ever want. Is it enough? What more could Ringo want? As for Grimper… we’ll get to him in a bit!) --- Grumbus the Ill remains a filthy little man, but one firmly attached to using his filth for the good of all. SASGY proved to be the ideal substrate for his particular brand of culture to spread and grow. See, Grumbus was very, very excited about diseases. What made them spread, what made them kill, how to increase their infectivity… and how to cure them. Not that he would ever want the world entirely rid of them, but he knew well that a disease that was too infectious and too deadly would soon run out of hosts and die out itself. Learning how to contain and control them would benefit everyone, including the diseases. Besides, it was fascinating stuff. Though not everyone at SASGY quite understood his… enthusiasm… there were many promising students who did. In his own way, Grumbus was a genius in the field of epidemiology, making casual discoveries that continually overturned leading theories in disease science in the course of trying to do something entirely different. No student was more impressed or surprised by this than Zapanda, who eventually drifted into one of his lectures during a diplomatic mission - apparently she was being proposed as the head of some committee or another. She’d attended, expecting to be bored and frustrated, but found herself on the edge of her seat as he rambled on about disease vectors and animal-transferrable diseases. Her specialty was Monsterism and its associated conditions, but even she could see the strange brilliance of his work. She walked in on him as he was packing to leave on a journey with Humbug and asked if there was an opening at SASGY for a guest researcher. He referred her to Starn with a shrug, but he knew there was no way in hell the headmaster would turn her down. Expanding his Academy’s fields of expertise was the heart of sieging, after all. (SASGY begins to rapidly take its place as the foremost authority on epidemiology in Tö (and probably the world) as it infects more and more of the academic world with its particular strain of free thought and well-budgeted research. Even this early in the process, they have cured a number of common ailments and weaponized others for military and comedy usage. The incidence of serious disease within both kingdoms has begun to decline, with serious cases of Monsterism falling sharply as Zapanda’s formulae become commonplace. Her inclusion in SASGY reduces the tension between the nations somewhat, though naturally things are still fraught. Grumbus is seen as a bit of a savant in the field of disease, though his lack of formal training and personal hygiene are seen as equal parts unfortunate and horrifying. Will Grumbus ever bother with formal education, to better expand his knowledge? Will he ever clean up his act (and body) to better fit in with sterile lab conditions? What’s next for him?) --- Verika the Perciever - Sir Verika, now - was surprised how much paperwork was involved in starting a line of knighthood. Two lines, really. Tö hadn’t had knights, not formally, in a while. Sure, there were many that called themselves knights, but official knightly lineages were far rarer than she’d expected. But Noggins had always been a romantic, had always wanted to be a knight, and she was only too pleased to be able to bestow the authority on Verika to knight other young dreamers. Verika had taken her appointment seriously, and already the Knight of the Fist and the Knights of the Nail were legal entities, even if their ranks remained a little thin. She was working on it. The Order of the Nail immediately categorized all extant Nailsmiths and pressed them into service. Nailsmithing was a high art, but it was secretive and cultish, with individual practitioners jealously hiding secrets from one another. No longer. Hell, the former Queen had probably nudged things in that direction from the start to prevent people from looking too deep into the underpinnings of the world. No, it could not continue. The study of Script would be practiced out in the open (though still limited to an educated few to reduce incidences of accidental Monsterism) and studied academically. For the moment, at least, this field would remain out of the reach of SASGY, though heavens knew that Starn would have loved to get his hands on it! She still recruited from its ranks out of necessity, but swore them to secrecy. She hoped it would be enough. Artifacts, too, were categorized. They didn’t retain all of them - several were more useful out in the hands of their wielders than contained - but they did learn a bit about them. What was an artifact? It seemed a bit of a daft question, since generally you’d know them when you saw them, but it wasn’t quite so cut and dry. So far, most of them had been pulled from OG Vaults, but it seemed pretty clear that Gado’s Osteoclasis was (or had become) one, and that had started life as a mere pickaxe. From what they could tell, an Artifact was a mundane item that had been infused with Script, imparted with properties far beyond what would be expected of it. But was that classification fine enough? Did that not, in some ways, also describe Fragments? Did that not, in some ways, describe all of Ömanity? Work continued. Fascinating stuff! The Order of the Fist was met with some controversy. Despite Verika’s assurances that Monsteris citizens were not under threat or supervision by the knights, it was difficult to convince the populace (...and some of the knights) that this was not the case. At least some of Tömate’s Monsterist population fled the city in response to its formation, but it needed to be done. Monsterism was a very real and present threat, no matter what Snödis said, and Wendigos could broadly not be reasoned with. She had spent long hours consulting with academics (and her own conscience) and this much she was certain of: an unbranded Wendigo out in the wild was an existential threat. If they really arose out of corruption of the Script that overlay their world, if they could spread that corruption to the environment, they would eventually overwhelm all other life on the planet. Monsterism needed to be contained. She built the Order from the ground up as though they were hunters and naturalists, with a goal of this containment, not utter eradication. She had met Monsterists, met Wendigos worthy of respect. If they were going to live in a world in which [the game] was unwinnable and indeed not even being properly played, they would have to adapt to it. Perhaps Monsterism, properly channeled, could help them do just that. (The Orders of the Nail and Fist form and are immediately deluged with volunteers. Naturally, quite some sorting is required to determine who is actually appropriate for the position. Many who think they are aren’t, and many who wouldn’t even try out are exactly who they’re looking for. The existence and nature of Script becomes public knowledge (well, academic knowledge) and Nailsmithing begins to be formalized instead of esoteric. Study of Artifacts proceed apace, though much time will need to pass before anything terribly useful comes of it. The Order of the Fist gets a bad rap, but it represents the best attempt to control the corruption without kneejerking into total annihilation and provoking Neötöpia into responding. While doubtless there will be conflicts there, the Order has already made strides in reducing outbreaks and incidental infections. As for Verika herself, does leading the Order suit her? Is she happy in her position, or is there something else she’d rather be doing than paperwork?) --- Cause the Archaeologist was a troubled man. The upheavals of everything he’d ever studied or thought he’d known were tough to cope with, but worse was the idea that the world had been a far larger and more diverse place than he’d ever imagined and it had all been wiped out. He couldn’t believe that these other cultures, other nations, had been scrubbed away entirely. What a waste. What a loss to the world! He needed to know more. The world, as he’d learned about it, was exclusively Tö and Frö. That had never seemed strange to him, never seemed empty. The map of the world centered on the vague hourglass blob of the Töan and Fröman continents, only vaguely sketching out the smattering of shattered islands outside of that focus. Undiscovered islands, or else discovered and dismissed. How much of that was a lie? He needed to know! He chartered a ship to the edge of the world (whatever his betrayals, he had more money than he could ever need) and set out on an expedition across these nameless landmasses. He found them wild and verdant, supposedly empty… but he knew what to look for. Things that didn’t rot. Things that didn’t weather. For weeks, he worried he was going mad, seeing signs that weren’t there, but every once in a while, he’d see something. Arrowheads. Shaped metal fragments. Ruins. Almost nothing left. Almost nothing, but not nothing. He found signs of civilization, ancient beyond belief - and signs of war. One blessed day he found what could have been a breastplate, adorned with what could have been unfamiliar writing, half buried in a petrified mudslide. He would have dismissed it as a metal scrap, a piece of dinnerware, were it not for what was obviously a spearhead piercing it through and through. Both were of distinctly different design - and both were clearly neither Töan, nor Fröman. It was true, all true. Well, no, that didn’t follow. Some of it was true. There had been other nations, and they had warred. And then… they’d been erased from history. Almost. But she hadn’t been thorough enough. The truth was right there in the soil, and dirt never forgot. (Cause explores and - like Neebs - finds evidence of the past cultures. Further explorations would reveal more, but much of this stuff is weathered almost to nothing. It happened a really, really staggeringly long time ago. To the eyes of an Archaelogist, however, they form pieces of a puzzle that could be used to assemble a little something more about them. The question, then, is this: does Cause make his findings public and bring others into these explorations, or does he keep them hidden. Regardless, why?) --- Trinh the Taxidermist had had a busy few weeks. Now safely back in Neötöpia, she settled into the Hollow with a sigh. Such questions plagued her that it sent shivers down her vast, lithe bulk. The walls of her lair bristled with perfectly preserved mechanisms of flesh and bone, all hung in a chaotic order that bordered on art. Few understood her - fewer tried - but she understood herself plainly. She had attained her perfect self, reached the apex of her own personal metamorphosis, and was now in the position to help others do the same. Neötöpia wasn’t perfect, Snödis wasn’t perfect, but she was pleased enough by the nook she’d carved out. Other thoughts (Grpyh, Grumbus…) floated around in her strangely alien mind, but she had a Hollow inside of her too, with its own phantasmal collection. She set the thoughts aside for now and turned to her work. The body was really a fascinating thing. Setting aside Monsterism, setting aside even Skillcores, things like musculature and the skeletal structure were just so… elegant. Grown for a specific purpose, exactly suited for exactly the sort of strain or stimulus it was likely to encounter. And yet it was all so… rigid. A Slinker could not, over the course of its life, learn to fly, no matter how hard she threw one. There were varieties of Slinkers that could glide, however, a thin patagia between its limbs alowing it to soar much further than the baseline when thrown. How had this arisen? A touch of Monsterism causing a mutation that spread along its descendants? Such things had been known to happen - she’d seen it herself as an accidental outcome of the Wildlands. But that was still change within a species, and not change within an individual. Here, then, lay the beauty of Monsterism and its interaction with Skillcores. An individual predisposed to Swimming, for instance, might develop streamlined musculature and more efficient lungs, but no further. A Wendigo of such a person, however, pushed even further, could develop gills or tentacles or whatnot. They wouldn’t necessarily all be functional, but Monsterism was, after all, merely a process. It needed to be guided, and it was there her research had tugged her. Her own mutation had rendered her supernaturally keen and agile, with razored claws and a clever mind, but it had brought with it a host of unwanted chaff. Extra eyes, ears, non-functional limbs. She’d pared them away, carving herself into something symmetrical, something beautiful - and it had worked. She felt better, now, more in tune with her purpose, more like the very avatar of Taxidermy itself. If Monsterism could be trained, what else could it do? (Trinh becomes the master of her craft, the unparalled genius of functional Monsterism. She can perform surgeries and repairs that utterly SHOULD NOT work and have them not only succeed but improve upon the subject. She can integrate traits from animals into others, imbue the properties of an infected material into flesh, and even create life from reconstructed remains. The differences between Fragment and organisms blur in her capable claws, and her services are sought after within Neötöpia and beyond. Neötöpia itself stabilizes with her help, with the main city over time being pared of undesirable traits and non-functional parts and improving the lives of the populace. The excess bits are retrofitted into those who require them, stored in the Hollow, or tossed into the Wildlands. The Wildlands themselves grow much wilder as part of the process, forming a natural barrier around the fledgling nation. The Order of the Fist has their hands full with holding back its expansion, but Neötöpia does their part in holding it back, semi-apologetically. Eh, growing pains! As for Trinh herself, there is but one question: Is she happy with this life?)
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Portha found the journey a little tougher than she’d expected. For one thing, she hadn’t expected the attrition to be so heavy. A few of her researchers had fled in superstitious terror after they got wind of where she was heading. You’d think they would have been delighted to be able to visit what was essentially a temple to the only real gods they’d ever had, but no. No, the worse thing was the news from the capital: the Warlord program had been put on hold for ‘retooling’. A part of her hoped that meant her Ritual techniques would be phased into production, but her heart sank as she recalled Noggins’ particular brand of idealism. You’d think she didn’t want armies of Warlords and pseudo-Warlords at her disposal. What if Frö attacked? What if they returned? What if something else entirely assaulted them, like Neötöpia? Tö needed to be ready, and it seemed like Portha was the only one interested in getting them there. The pit was right where they’d left it, but excavated and under guard. Hob had mentioned needing coolant, and this was the most convenient place to extract it, after all. Regardless, it was a place of mystery. She doubted if the guards knew anything of its secrets, and she didn’t bother with asking them about it. She walked past them, leaving them to splutter in confusion, but they knew her, or knew of her. They wouldn’t stand in her way. She and her crew lowered themselves down using a cranked elevator that Hob must have had installed in his earlier efforts. Would it have killed him to have powered it somehow, or at least made the crank longer and easier to turn? She hadn’t been exactly honest with the people she’d brought with her. She wanted them to study this place - that much was true. It was a marvel of engineering, science, and everything else. But she also wanted them to know what they had been, what they could be again if they listened to her. At the vary base lay the dormant Administrator, inert without a host. She sure as hell wasn’t going to awaken it without more backup than this, but then she didn’t need it just yet. That would come later, once she had an army. Once she made her own gestalt, like the Queen had. The walls of the shaft were made of Olivite, but the ‘glass’ covering the bodies could be penetrated with some effort. They extracted the first still figure after a few concerted hours of work under the guise of performing a physical examination on it. It was a physically perfect specimen, apparently clinically dead, and missing a goodly section of its torso where a Skillcore ought to be. Luckily, she’d brought several from home, ‘borrowed’ from the Öans who’d relinquished them. Clean. No one had had to die. Not yet, anyhow. This was just the first step. Once she brought the result to the Vile Mechanism, once she got ten of them there, she’d really have something. While the others were distracted, she dropped a random Core into the cavity. Immediately, a network of muscle fibers, nerves and bones rotated and slid their way into place and the thing took a calm breath. The others shouted in alarm, then rounded on Portha, but she held up a hand to silence them - her crossbow in the other. They stood back and waited like the cowards they were. She cradled the thing’s face in her hand and its eyes snapped open. Such beautiful eyes, like deep liquid emeralds. They focused on her, the pupils constricting strangely, but it did nothing further. She felt something in her stomach drop. She snapped her fingers in front of it and it blinked, then slowly opened its eyes. She told it to stand and it looked at her blankly. She slapped it across the face - it was like slapping an iron statue of a Töan - and its head rotated slightly with the blow. Empty. It was empty! Just a… vessel, waiting to be controlled! Just a drat automaton! She shot it in the face, her bolt penetrating shallowly into the brow. Its eyes crossed as it looked up at the bolt, but it didn’t move to pluck it out. A small trickle of blood dribbled out before evaporating, leaving the flesh clean and smooth once more, the shaft protruding like an antler. What a waste. What a waste. (The bodies in the shaft are able to be resurrected relatively easily, but they are blank of mind. They could be trained, perhaps, but slowly, very slowly, and there is no telling what the mind of such a creature is even capable of. Your ancestors were used as battle thralls for a race of distant masters, only developing their own culture over longs eons. These things, powerful and perfect as they may be, are perfect only for the purpose for which the were designed. Töans, Frömen, they are less and more than the sum of their parts. Is Portha discouraged by her failure, or will she pursue the long and arduous process of training one or more of these creatures - despite the near certainty that she will be unsuccessful? Alternately, will she pursue other means to fulfil her ambitions? Finally… what ARE her ambitions? Why does she desire this end for herself? As mentioned above modifications were needed: the circlets are just jewelry, the Vile Mechanism is currently shut down (and besides would have a large chance of killing you had you activated it), and the ultimate goal of creating another gestalt would have thrown too much of a wrench into things for a single person to be worth pursuing narratively. I apologize for yanking the wheel out of your hands after specifically giving it to you, but I was ultimately unable to make it fit in with the others. Sorry!) --- Gryph the Doctor was a busy man, but - aside from the occasional assassination attempt - he led a pretty fulfilling life. He wasn’t exactly happy, but that wasn’t quite in his nature. He was too aware of the suffering of others, but at least now he was in a position to do something about it. He was on so many boards, committees and meeting groups that keeping track of it made his head spin, but it felt good to be making a tangible difference. His work on getting the Cure mass produced was going pretty well (despite setbacks from pro-Monsterist activists, and despite attempts to monetize it by close-minded assholes) and studies on the interaction between Script and the Töan body were bearing sweet fruit. He heard of bizarre wonders coming from Neötöpia and shook his head to think of the insane wonders that one woman could create instinctively while he was stuck here studying the basics. Ah, well. He also worked with Zapanda on a mutual research committee - co-chaired with her, in fact. Tö and Frö had some pretty nasty history between them, but if nother else the Cure had shown that their scientists could work perfectly well together despite differences. Now that there was peace between the nations (of a sort) theoretically it would be even easier. Theoretically. In practice, there was a lot of friction and resentment between the groups despite their desires to study similar subjects that struck him as a bit of a pointless waste of time. There was no doubt that the war had hurt each and every one of them and made it difficult to trust, but their work together would go so far to heal the rift that he was disappointed in them for not trying to put their differences behind them. Zapanda was of like mind, and privately confided in him that she was doing her best to douse the fires of betrayal and sabotage that raged behind the scenes, but he was slightly uncomfortable with her words. For one, the idea that sabotage was even a thought shook him to his core, but for another it was very, very clear she had designs on him. Humbug had mentioned she’d layed a kiss on his cheek destined for him (mentioned it after he’d layed one on Gryph’s, the silly sod), but even if he hadn’t mentioned it it was plain in her face. She spoke to him with respect and deference she otherwise reserved only for her sister, and often laid a hand on his shoulder when they stood before the others to try to get them to behave. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind! Still, he managed to find time for his interests. He made the rounds, helping out the ill and wounded, studying the deeper mysteries of their bodies and the ancient modifications made by the [players of games]. Skillcores really were such fascinating things when looked at objectively. There was something to them that was almost intelligent, like a second mind, or a fragment of a mind. Knowing what he knew now, it was obvious that they were artificial, an afterthought added onto a pre-existing frame. He still didn’t understand how, or even more pressing, why, but he understood them better than he did. On Sucy’s rare visits she and he would examine some facet of it or another, helping him understand the Scriptural basis for it and how it connected to the physique. He could spend hours examining the crystalline organ and never tire of its mysteries. The Öans were another huge help in this regard. He hadn’t learned about the process until after the fact, but apparently Portha had had something to do with their creation. He perhaps ought to have chastised her about meddling with something she didn’t understand, but was he much better? At any rate, many began coming to him with pains and ailments, and he couldn’t understand how they were even still alive. A Core extraction was universally fatal, but here they were, Coreless and still breathing. Sickly as hell, though. Was this how they were before? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps it was simply that they, as a species, had grown accustomed to the presence of the foreign organ. Could they really go back to how it was? Did they really want to? The Öans certainly did, so he helped them as best he could and sent them on their way. It wasn’t up to him to tell these people how to live their lives. It wasn’t up to anyone, anymore - they’d seen to that - but there was growing resentment against them. He fretted about them, but there was only so much one man could do. He just helped where he could. (Gryph works with Frö to learn more about their shared heritage and the deeper mysteries of the body. They learn much about Glory and the mechanisms behind Ascension, the few relics of [the game] still working properly. Almost certainly it was designed as an incentive to continue investment in a given [unit] rather than using them interchangeably, a means of specializing resources - something like artificial selection to gain desirable traits except within a single individual. Even after their demise, the Skillcore would allow investment to be recouped and reused. This is, naturally, all conjecture, but could be an approximation of the detached alien mindset necessary to have created [the game]. Working together is difficult, but it is working, slowly. As for Gryph himself, there are a few questions: What is to be done about Zapanda? She is a complicated person who’s had a complicated life, but then who hasn’t? Does he pursure her affection or turn her down gently? And, beyond that, does Gryph actually think that full cooperation between the nations is possible - or even desirable? What of the Öans? Does Gryph see value in trying to return to how things used to be, or is it better to drive on with what you have now?) --- Hat the Milliner’s life had settled down quite a lot since the Massacre. Hat, as was her fondest desire in the world, made hats. She’d made the Queen a new crown - a simpler one, a lower-case ‘c’ - and then gone right back to making regular hats. Sure, they were great hats, better than she’d ever made, better than she’d ever seen, but just hats. Kept people’s heads warm, kept their hair in place, kept them dry, covered bald spots. Everyone, always, forever, would need hats, and Hat meant to supply that demand. Ah, a visitor. A tall one, too! Sikatris swept in, looking stylish as ever in a trenchcoat that covered her missing arm and a fresh eyepatch. Her guard waited outside - they weren’t needed here, of all places. The Commander - now Interim Leader of Frö - looked tired, but chipper. She nodded. “Hey. I got your message. It ready?” Hat smiled and drew out a hatbox with a diameter like a bathtub. Yes, business was good. She was calm, rich, and happy. What else could she want? (Hat has always been a calm and respectable Töan, and Ascended or not that’s just what she continues to do. However humble she was in public, there was no question that she made the best hats, bar none, anywhere. She may not have turned out Artifacts, but with the work she put in on Veilpiercer and the various elements of the Mindbender network, there are few who question her ability to do that. She merely has no desire to… unless she does! Does Hat try to make an Artifact Hat? If so, describe it. If not, why not. Regardless, she invests in the creation of Thumbnails, mini Thumbscrew receptors to allow for something like public radio. Its eventual creation is very well received!) --- Splut the Bluffer walked through the market on one of his rare free stretches of time. He bought an apple, fresh from Frö’s orchards. One of the first fresh fruit imports since the war ended, pulled from some greenhouse in southern Frö. It was a winter apple, bitter and crisp, but with it he could taste the sweetness of things to come. Things weren’t alright yet, certainly nowhere near as good as he was telling them they were, but he could forecast how things would click together, over the years. If you could lie to enough people, enough of the time, they’d start repeating those lies, reinforcing and redoubling them. After all, where could so many people have heard the same thing? If so many people believed that, for instance, multiple businesses were attempting to break into new markets in the other respective nation (and the implication that not doing so would put those that withheld at a heavy disadvantage once relations improved), it only took one business to do so publicly before a cascade started. All the easier if you owned that business. Yes, Splut had been busy, but so had all the others. He kept tabs on them, ensuring they got what they deserved for their part in all this. Certainly not all of them had contributed equally to the war effort; some had, after all, merely been there while great things had happened around them. But ensuring that everyone was equally recompensed and honoured built the brand. It would build - was building - a legend around them. And as long as he kept them all out of trouble, it would see them set for life and beyond. He was busy, but he was happy. (What else can be said about Splut? The spymaster and brains of the Unexpectable Horde continues to do what he’s always done - lie to people until things get done. His efforts and machinations continue to improve and stabilize Tö (and Frö, by association) in hundreds of small ways, from logistics to social well-being. In addition, his earlier work in securing the legacy of the Unexpectables goes on, ensuring that not only the loyalists but also those who have left the fold have access to whatever they need to fulfill their dreams. But what about Splut himself? We have heard much about what he wants for the others, but what does he want for himself?) --- Sucy the Mushroom Farmer had to try her absolute hardest not to call Belmysut ‘Smelybut’. She was here overseeing construction of the SLTA headquarters in town and it was tough to look at the place without remembering their whirlwind tour through the place. It didn’t look quite the same, of course. Construction and excavation had gutted the former town (which had been abandoned shortly after their visit anyhow), leaving it a shell of its former self. Still, they’d called it Belmysut Station in recognition of its past, so she’d just have to bite her tongue. She’d been hellishly busy, in high demand due to her unusual set of skills. The Order of the Nail kept demanding she take her appointment more seriously and come and study formally with other Nailmasters, but she honestly didn’t have time. Besides, she was learning a lot more out here than she would back there. The Skipping Lanes were fascinating constructs, and the Lanes themselves were mind boggling. She understood them, a little bit, but only on the surface. She hadn’t the foggiest idea of how to make one, but it became clear as she corrosponded and conversed with the Frömen researchers who’d been tinkering with them for secret years that she was already the authority on the matter of their operation. She’d risen to the top of the SLTA almost immediately, bearing responsibility for finding, activating, and managing all extant SL relays. Exciting work, but busy, busy, busy. It was already having an effect, though. War or no war, working alongside your former enemies day in and day out has a dulling effect. Tough to hate someone for the vague notion that their comrades killed your comrades when you’re beating them in a card game, or taking one out on a date due to a few too many night shifts stuck together. The distances between places seemed to shrink, and food and entertainment started to become more diverse, richer and cheaper than ever. And due to her stranglehold on the SLTA, Sucy had been able to enforce a number of outrageously permissive requirements on the network that she was still fielding complaints about, but they could go suck eggs. Without her, the whole thing would come tumbling down. With her, the network moved smoothly, safely, and cheaply for most. A good start. (Ah, Sucy, one of the Horde’s most infamous polymaths. Despite her humble origins, her skill with Script has made her a hot commodity. She’s requested for help on organizing the Cure, on novel Rituals for peacetime purposes (and defense), for philosophical understanding of the past, for consultations with the Coreless Öans to see whether they were truly free of Script (they were not), and for investigations of Monsterist activity. And yet, her chosen task is the reawakening and administration of the Skipping Lanes. There are those who say she is squandering her talents in administration, and there are others who say those people should go to hell. What does Sucy think? Does she feel torn between her responbilities and talents? Is there something better she could do? Does she think she can do everything, or does she trust others to follow paths she blazed previously?) --- Waesh the His wife was down on the chitinous dock, shaking the tentacular hand of a fishy looking gentleman and waving along a large ‘wooden’ box that was being loaded into his hold. Waesh kept his eyes out for Wildland creatures, royal officials, or other ne’er-do-wells that looked to do him ill. Disappointly, he didn’t see any. Life was sadly quiet, recently, with many of the worst pirates either shut down through his efforts or gone to ground until this whole ‘succession’ thing was resolved. He’d heard claims that Nobeard had raided a priceless shipment of Olivite fragments extracted from the palace walls in a daring midnight assault of a royal cargo ship, but he couldn’t put truth to it. He sighed. That could have been him! Of course, he’d helped gather and load that Olivite in the first place, so it would have been silly to… A loud crack drew his attention. His lovely wife had brought the butt of her cutlass down on the bridge of a dockworker’s nose, causing him to drop a pulsating package of what looked like barnacles. Black Cirriped! The scoundrels were trying to smuggle Monsterist drugs on his ship. His ship! He knew things looked fishy down there! As he leapt over the railing, sword between his teeth, he was grinning from ear to ear. (Waesh is doing okay for himself! He’s got a boat, he’s got a wife, he’s got a crew - and rather more respect than he actually wants! He’s also one of the few people allowed to - and willing to - dock near Neötöpia, making a tidy sum for himself in exports. He’s constantly on guard against both the royal navy and other pirates, but he rather enjoys the games. There’s plenty of pirates now, what with the chaos after the war, but for the near future they’re laying low. Once things calm down a bit, Waesh will have his hands full hunting them down. But there’s more to him than piracy - he’s got a family now! Does Waesh want children? If so, will he induct them into the life of the sea, or settle down somewhere on land? What does the future hold for our pirate friend?) --- Dack the Athlete was used to people being surprised to see him. He’d contacted a few of them over the Mindbender net and invited them to his offices in the city, only to have them balk at his bulk. He couldn’t quite blame them, but it was tedious just the same. The idea that his words and ideas could have come from someone like him seemed to shock and repulse them - but only at the start. Once he calmed them down and they could converse, they fell at ease, and why shouldn’t they? The Breakers were looked at with awe but mostly ignored as they went about their rounds, and they were much further from a baseline Tö than he. He was at least roughly their size, if a fair bit wider and far more muscular. But even so, he’d learned a bit more control over his physique, and gotten a much better tailored suit. He looked as respectable as possible given his appearance, and it seemed to be working. The meeting went reasonably well, and his demonstration of the Fragment was duly impressive as always. Fragments were so obviously useful that even the staunchest of traditionalists was standing up to take notice, but the Order of the Fist was opposed to their proliferation. They weren’t terribly fond of him, either, but he played by their rules. At least he didn’t have to wear a bloody collar anymore. They couldn’t stop his ideas, either: his book was already on shelves. And selling. The jist of his ideas was as follows: why the dichotomy between the Cure and Monsterism? Why presume that those were the only two options? The Unexpectables had made excellent use of Monsterism and Monsterist materials during the war, and not all of it for military aspects. Fragments, for instance, were inert and non-infective, and yet far beyond anything that could be created by conventional means. Study of Channeled Monsterism could allow for mass production of specialized tools and equipment budded off from responsible use of Monsterized materials. Was not a weed merely a flower that had the audacity to grow in the wrong garden? And could this same weed not be a medicinal herb in a different framework? If everything was Script, and Monsterism corruption from the original design, could the twin peoples of Tö and Frö not - through lateral thinking and tolerance - find a way to repurpose this ‘useless’ matter into something they could use? Not for its original purpose, but for something else, as a fallen tree becomes home for a grand diversity of life? Now, Dack was no fool. It wouldn’t be easy, and it would be a messy, dangerous, project. But he truly believed it could be done. Just because the Queen had tried to exterminate it, just because uncontrolled use had harmed hundreds or thousands, just because it rampaged wild in the countryside, didn’t mean it couldn’t be put to good use. After all, the same things described something as elemental as fire. It could be done, and Dack would see it done, one changed opinion at a time. (Dack is a respected (if from a distance) author and academic within Tömate, and his book is doing unexpectedly well among the youth of the city. Most of them just think it’s ‘cool’, too young or ignorant to recall the worst of the Madmist outbreaks and Monsterist Plagues, but for many young Monsterists and even a few baseline it represents a possible future, one they may never have conceived of alone. Even Dack as a public figure has gone a long way towards normalizing Branded Wendigo in public settings, and his evident public dismissal of Neötöpia in favour of ‘polite society’ has scored him further points. His life won’t always be easy, but it is getting easier. Has Dack accomplished what he set out to do? What else does he wish for in this life he made for himself?) --- By day, Peter Porker the Mild-Mannered Reporter is an award-winning columnist at the Tölling Bell, speaking truth to power and dismantling the corrupt institutions that remained in the wake of the old regime. It moved papers, at any rate. He investigated leads, did interviews, and exposed corruption at every level of government. He’d even killed a Queen, once. For Peter Porker was no mere Tö. By night, he revealed his true self: Snorkus, the Pigilante! When his civilian disguise proved insufficient, he followed up on his leads the only way that got results: with his fists and trusty Pigarangs! His editor was always puzzled at how he got the best scoops, but there was no way Snorkus would reveal his secret. The public needed him, an outlaw on the side of the law, to keep their lives going smoothly! Although… there was rather a lot less crime than there was in earlier years. Radical changes in social equality and education had had some dramatic effects on even the poorest slums, and the worst of the baddies had been rounded up almost without his help. Crime was flowing out of the city like oil out of something that had been previously full of oil but was now slowly losing it, and Snorkus nodded along with it. His city was being cleaned up, finally. What then of the Pigilante? Was he no longer needed? Ha HA! Crime would never be eradicated, never be scrubbed away entirely. It would sink, it would cling, it would burrow, but the tusks of justice would root them out! Always and forever, good would chase evil wherever it lurked, and Snorkus the Pigilante would be leading the pack! (Snorkus, in his own particular way, does a number on petty and organized crime within Tö. As systemic changes made crime less profitable on the books, vicious bladed pig-shaped throwing implements made it less profitable out in the open. Soon the worst of it fled the city, and Snorkus chased it - though naturally he needed to maintain the ties to his secret identity. Such dramatic flexibility is required in a caped crusader, and Snorkus is very flexible indeed! Who else accompanied him on his capers? Surely someone as inspiring as the Pigilante has caused many copycats to take up the cape alongside him… and perhaps even on the side of evil!) --- Ruby the Wa… Ruby the Ambassador fidgeted uncomfortably in her suit. It was perfectly fitted for her and made her look at once imposing and formal, and it was way the hell finer than anything else she’d ever worn. Sikatris flicked her good-naturedly with a long, thin finger, shaking her out of her reverie. “Ruby, you’ve practiced this about a million times. You’re ready.” Ruby smiled weakly, but wasn’t totally certain. Her integration into Frö had gone over well, and she’d been accepted readily - and it was only then she’d seen how dire their situation truly was. Despite their arguably advanced technology in certain respects, the Töan military had been superior in sheer brutal power, and Frö had taken just a hell of a beating. Even now, a few months after things had calmed down, they were only beginning to pick up the pieces of a shattered nation. Overall morale was low, but Sikatris’ survival - and her vouching for the validity of Noggins as Queen - had done a lot to soothe a grim populace. Realistically, hatred of Tö was at an all time high, but their armies had mostly pulled away, and relief teams had come in bearing food and aid. Most people assumed this was some kind of trick or trap, but Sikatris (and Ruby alongside her) worked doubletime to assure people that what had actually happened was a one-of-a-kind clusterfuck, an out of context problem so extreme that the normal course of things had exploded. “To sum it up,” Sikatris had said, “Go home and try to figure out your lives. We’ll get things running as best we can, and then we’ll figure out what all this means.” And they had. Sikatris had been appointed leader by Queen Noggins - not that she had any authority over Fröman succession - and with Regis dead she’d just sort of been forced into it. She confided to Ruby, taking a dainty sip from a glass of brandy the size of her head. “Listen, I don’t want to be Queen, or President, or whatever they’re calling me. All I want - all I’ve ever wanted - was to create. To knit. To make things of beauty. Everything I’ve done I’ve been forced into, and frankly it sucks. But I’m good at it, better than anyone else who’s stepped up, so I’ll keep doing it until I don’t have to. We need to deal with Tö, and we need them to keep off our backs. I trust you in this. I know you’re probably a spy - hell, you were a spy - but you’ve been forced into this by virtue of being the best one for the job, just like me. Let’s make this work.” So they had. They met with merchants, officials, would-be-warlords (no capital W), and even Queen Noggins herself. The meetings all went pretty well, in that they didn’t bankrupt Frö or start another war, but Ruby felt like her Big Break was perhaps bigger than she could handle. Sikatris kept supporting her, bucking her up when she was overwhelmed. “It’s working, Rube. Somehow, all of this is going right. I can see the pattern we’re weaving here. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think that Queen Noggins is on the level with all this stuff she’s spouting.” Destruction of extant Madmist and unmasking of Inhabited had been a hard sell, but Noggins had been patient and willing to compensate. Ruby sat in as mediator, which was in practice quite a lot like Waitressing. She watched them both, gauging when one was reaching a breaking point and smoothly interjecting, asking questions that slid discussion away to more palatable topics. And then she held back, pulling away until they were ready for the bill. Check, please. (Ruby defected from Tö, but broadly there is no ill-will against her. Her work goes a long way towards legitimizing the succession on both sides, and her reputation as an Unexpectable is a boon more often than a penalty. As a result of the comfort she brings to the discussions, relations between the two nations begin to improve, slowly. Her years of intelligence from both sides of the border allow her to draw out commonalities and suggest improvements that could benefit either. Sikatris has taken her under her wing, bringing her to all manner of events and encounters and allowing her to flex her skills. Is Ruby daunted at all by her new position as Ambassador? Is it what she expected it would be? Is she happy with it, or does she want more out of her life?) --- Humbug the Sleuth returned to Tö after a long and outrageous journey to Slinker City, a little older and a little wiser. And dirtier and grumpier. After a bath and a fresh polish of his now-battered prosthetics, he wandered down from his quarters in the Lampshade’s attic. He already had his next case, from within the Unexpectables no less. Little Klörf the Firestarter, always quiet and reserved despite his dangerous Skillcore, had bade the Horde to go to Nägel long ago to find his friend Bölborf, setting in motion quite a lot of the metaplot. He’d never found him, but recently they’d learned that he’d perished as an Inhabited in the battle of Frömage. Knowing what they knew now about the Inhabited, however, that didn’t mean much. If his pieces were intact, could be assembled, Bölborf could live again! Maybe. If they were lucky. And he hadn’t gone insane. Klörf offered to pay with a portion of his share of the Horde’s riches, but Humbug waved him away with his artificial arm. Outrageous, he’d do it prö-bönö. He hopped the next SLTA trip to Frömage and got to work. Though this was in effect a combination missing-person/stolen-property case, certain aspects made it more difficult than it ought to have been. For one thing, Frö really did not want him poking around their military secrets. Though they were technically still occupied by Tö, Noggins had kept a respectable distance from their secrets, trusting them to follow through with their end of the bargains. Leaving aside how foolishly naive that was, it was inconvenient. He needed to find the bodies. Luckily for him, bribes worked no matter where you were - and it helped if you were Humbug the Questioner, which was a moniker he’d apparently earned in Frö. See, apparently the tale of his little defection and subsequent near-annihilation by his own Warlord had reached the ears of the public with no small amount of acclamation. He was a little bit famous here, it turned out. So they let him in and showed him around (and never gave back his bribe, hey!) and let him see what the aftermath of an Inhabited battle looked like. Arms and legs strewn about. Torsos and heads tracking him as he walked by but not otherwise moving. Doctors (mechanics?) milled about, hands on hips in a ‘what the hell am I supposed to do about this’ sort of way. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He thought. He was pretty sure, at least. The frame looked right, his right hand looked like it had the extra finger he expected, the pot belly not entirely hidden by the form fitting armor. He was in… seventeen pieces. At least, they’d found seventeen. Had Yacht-Sottoth gotten to him? Who knew! Time to fix him. The mechanics said no way. Why not? No budget, low priority repairs on prisoners. Humbug puffed up, his prosthetics grinding as his Esprit flared inside their joints, and the man quailed. No, priorities were going to change. Tö would allocate additional funding and personel to aid with the return and repair of the Inhabited POWs, and Frö would allow them to. And did they know why? Because it was the Right. Thing. To. Do! On both sides. Humbug got his way, and his legend grew a little more. (Inhabited reassembly and rehabilitation is underway in Frö, now with additional funding and help from vetted Töan researchers. As part of her deal with Noggins (and doubtless with a measure of thanks towards Humbug personally) Sikatris acknowledged the request for access and allowed it with minimal friction from both sides. There is lots of work to be done, and even if the physical and mental scars of the Inhabited are minimal, the lost time and the vast amount that’s changed have caused an unexpectedly strong culture shock among awakeners, one which the increased personel will doubtless help mitigate. It is too early to tell, but attempts to be proactive have seen promising results. Humbug reunited Klörf with his dear friend, and moved on to his next case. What’s next for Humbug? More cases? A more permanent position in government? And finally… How does he feel about the resolution of the great mystery? Elated or disappointed or something else?) --- Ringo circled Grimper in the graveyard, breath misting the air, phosporescing emerald and rose respectively. Both were shirtless and not otherwise armored, and neither was in any particular rush to strike. Grimper sneered down at him, crownless head blazing with Esprit. “I know you’ve wanted this fight for a while. Come and get me!” Ringo did no such thing. It was a trap. Grimper had much longer reach, and more raw power. But Ringo, he thought, was faster. And he could do more than hit. He closed his eyes, just for a second, then flicked them open, flaring his Firestarter Core to send a lick of emerald flame hurtling the Warlord’s way. Grimper’s eyes opened fractionally, then he dodged, trailing a blazing afterimage down and away from the missile. As he crouched, he grabbed and launched a handful of gravel into Ringo’s gut, tearing its way… but Ringo was gone. Grimper looked about in surprised rage, but Ringo alternated his Core from Avoiding Notice to Lifting and hoisted him into the air, then suplexed him. Grimper landed on his hands, using his vastly heavier bulk to redirect the energy of the throw and send Ringo tumbling through the air. Pinwheeling wildly as he flew, he could see Grimper grinning and readying a haymaker for his eventual descent. His Core flicked wildly in his chest, whirring audibly even as he fell. He drew a vial out of his pocket and flicked it with pinpont Accuracy at the Warlord’s left eye. Grimper blinked and drew back, deflecting it with a marble-hard eyelid and catching it in one hand. Ringo landed awkwardly on a tombstone, shattering it with his momentum, while Grimper opened his hand to find a fistful of broken glass and something sticky. “...Honey?” Ringo’s Core whirred again, a buzzing drone that echoed from a nearby tree as a swarm of bees erupted from the trunk. Grimper was utterly unprepared, and wasted a precious second swatting at the annoying things. Ringo cleared his throat and Grimper wheeled on him, eyes furious, finding… nothing. Grimper’s laugh echoed from the tombstones. “Made you look.” Too late, Grimper felt the hand on the back of his neck. Too late, he reached for the Dekatö braced on his shoulder. Ringo felt the burning Justice of the Pigilante blazing through him as he drove Grimper’s face down through a grave marker, cracking the marble slab with his face. The Warlord just lay there, not breathing, and for a burning second Ringo was sure he’d killed him. Then the giant just sighed and rolled over on his back. His nose was flattened and one of his orbital bones was fractured. He spat a tooth into the air and it sailed in a lazy arc to clatter at Ringo’s feet. “Well, you did it. You beat me. Congratulations.” Neither of them moved for a while, then Ringo went and sat by Grimper’s massive brow. The Warlord frowned at him, but didn’t say anything. They just looked at the clouds go by, silhouetted against the night sky. “I don’t know what the gently caress I’m doing.” Grimper’s voice was raw, but his face was relaxed. “I know you’ll be thinking ‘oh that’s nothing new’ and a hearty ‘ho ho ho’ to you, but this is a brand new feeling for me. All along, I’ve had a purpose. Serve the Queen, in whatever guise, and follow her commands. I didn’t always agree with them, but doing so was my nature, the nature I was born with and the one Broken into me. And it worked out pretty well for me… until the assassination. I hesitated, and I almost blew it up. Everything, the entire ancient thing, because I had a moment of doubt. Fool. From that moment on, doubt had its hooks in me. I led you all to battle, doubting my purpose. I trained you all from nothing, doubting your worth. I led you across that damned country, doubting our ability to succeed. And each time we succeeded - each time you succeeded - doubt grew a little stronger. And then, when my true Queen called to me, I doubted again, and she died. Finally, finally died. And now an upstart, that damned old carpenter took her place. Did I set her on this path, all those days ago, when I gave her that first sword? It was meant as an insult, a slap in the face, but it kindled something inside her, a desire to be something more than she was.” Grimper grabbed a handful of dirt and let it fall on his face. “I’ve never wanted to be something more. I’ve been what I needed to be for all my life. It was decided for me, and it was good enough. But what am I now? A broken Breaker, full of doubt. Unable to even best a snot-nosed whelp who I should have throttled the first time he hassled me. Ah…” Ringo waited for me, but Grimper just lay there, staring upwards, dirt on his face streaked with sudden moisture. (Ringo was more than a match for Grimper… but now what? What did Ringo hope to gain from this final combat? What can he say now that it’s over?) --- She’d planned the day herself, but she dreaded it. Queen Noggins the Carpenter stared at herself in the mirror, touching her scarred face. The Crown hadn’t come off since that day, but a handy side effect of it was maintaining her hair’s cleanliness and overall hygiene. A handy trick, though something startlingly vain to be included in an artifact of such power. It seemed like every day she learned something new about her predecessor, some tiny nugget of trivia that made her wonder just what the woman… the women had been like. How many of her quirks were remnants of the countless girls she’d consumed in her drive to stay young and powerful so that she could rule the world? How much was left of the original? Was that even the right question to ask? She turned away from the mirror. It didn’t matter. It really, really didn’t. The Queen was dead, and soon the last trace of her would be gone. She peered through her windows at the city outside and shook her head ruefully. No, not gone entirely. In a way, the entire world they’d inherited had been shaped by the Queen’s hand, guided and held back and tended to. Like a bonsai. The bloodwood seedling churned in its pot, eager to hunt, but she kept it constrained. As long as she kept her vigil over the thing, it would bloom and grow exactly as she wished it, and no further. A little grim to look at it that way, but hey, at least it wasn’t the entire drat planet. Noggins took reports and data like it was any other day. She met Splut, heard his reports. She met with Skett the Leader, who she’d tried to make Captain of the guard but who’d turned it down to try his hand at painting. He was terrible at it, but she encouraged his attempts to try something new. She met with what remained of the Council, muted and weakened as they still were. She wanted their advice and counsel just the same - they’d done right by the city, even as they were controlled from above. She met Verika, nodded at the great knight she’d become and pleased at how the Orders had shaped up. She met with Hat, who’d presented her with the replacement crown. A simple, workmanlike thing, a bloodwood circlet banded in iron and gold. Perfect. The ceremony was far less ostentatious than the ball had been, but thousands turned up. Almost none of them understood exactly what she was doing, but the sacrifice was plain even to the meanest brute in the audience. Here was an Artifact of great power, a link to the ancients, a link to the beings who had created them, stolen them from their destinies and forged them into this. With a grunt, Noggins heaved the crown off her head. It felt heavy, and she lifted it with trembling arms. It knew this was the end, somehow. Some dim process ticking away in there was aware of its impending demise. It did not act against her. She did not know whether it could not, or was simply too weary to bother. She brought Nailbreaker up. The crowd took a breath. She brought it down. A puff of smoke and tiny golden shards were all that remained. With no more fanfare than that, Decoronation was complete. Noggins slipped the new one on her head and smiled softly. Now it was up to them. (Noggins is, by all accounts, an excellent Queen. Her people broadly like her, but the love is not unconditional, like the culture the former Queen constructed around herself. Instead, she will work for it, building it up like a table is built piece by piece. She will fasten her kingdom securely, and polish it until it is a wonder to behold. And then she will share it with the world. What does Noggins want for her people? What does she want for herself?) --- Bäbi sat and gurgled, watching the setting sun. Nana was asleep. Bäbi loved her very much. She loved the others, too. Sometimes she remembered things. Sometimes they were just dreams. She had a thought. “Slinkah,” she said, pointing at the design on the quilt Nana had been knitting. She patted its golden fur and nestled into it. In her eyes, at least, all was right in the world.
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Jan 3, 2019 21:28
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 Alright, I have a bunch of thoughts in no particular order, so I'll just get right to it. This might be a little jumbled, but that's because I've been adding to this for months in basically random order! Overall, I think the game accomplished roughly what I wanted it to, that is, stimulating something like the Malazan Book of the Fallen/Black Company type adventures of a mercenary group. It was interesting to see the Horde as a whole evolve and struggle with what it meant to be loyal to one's country and one's principles while part of a faceless mass of bodies. You all individually did a great job of adding characterization and flavor to the world, and your contributions guided the narrative in a meta sense. One is my favorite of these is the whole butterfly thing, whichever I was pretty  about initially, but I stuck with it and integrated it into the world and it ended up being a source of much macabre amusement. When you guys decided to feed the corpses of your enemies to it I laughed aloud that I hadn't thought of that eventuality. Too funny.[Things That Worked] EVOLVING ART: I loved the art, and I'm glad I committed to updating portraits when you got new stuff. It was a hell of a lot of work, but watching you guys shift from naked goons to badasses (each with your own personal flair) made it absolutely worthwhile. There were many cases where my skill just wasn't up to the task, but I put out at least a couple of pieces that I was actually proud of. Even better was the fanart! In addition to being terribly flattering, the designs introduced there in many cases became canon, and inspired further design and characterization down the line. CHARACTERS: The individual characters were fascinating to watch evolve. By the end of the game I not only remembered specific ingame successes and failures associated with them, but also their personalities, their histories, their hours and dreams. You, as a group, did a fantastic job interacting with each other and the game world. It was awesome to see squabbles and outright hatreds break out among you, and even cooler to see those hatreds pushed down and ignored (for the present) in the name of duty. ITEM CARDS: Oh man were these fun to make! Quick to draw, and super neat to see you guys stacking them up. I just liked tossing weird stuff at you guys and seeing what you did with them, and (huge surprise) you always did something creative and mind boggling. These will probably return in later games despite the effort involved in setting them up. ARTIFACTS: These were pretty enjoyable to do. When I created them, I literally never ever had an idea what I was going to do with them. I designed how they looked, gave them a simple name, then let you fight over them. Only by trying stuff with them did you guys sort out how they worked, and even then I generally invented their functionality in response to your attempts. Who knows how something like the Ring would have developed if someone thought that the slow time and blindness meant that it needed to be charged up or combined with something else? If someone like Sucy had got the Wire and kept prodding at it to find more functions? If someone had kept wearing the Mask until the nebulous side effects had triggered? No one knows, including me, because I would have had to make it up on the spot in response to the mood at the time! [Things That Worked Less Well] MECHANICS: The mechanics were wacky as gently caress. I mean, naturally, that's my whole shtick. But this time (like every time), I thought I had something simple enough that it was foolproof. That lasted until, oh, the first round. People were using their specialties in nonsensical ways, like trying to eat the practice gate, which allowed them to roll better than if they didn't use their Core. I had to decide right off the bat whether to enforce it or not. I opted to basically go 'meh’ and allow people to twist themselves in knots justifying how Millinery made you better at fighting. The more items I added, the more Rituals I piled on, the less sense it all made. It was an inconsistent, bonkers mess that required constant maintenance and rule tweaks to not fall apart under the strain. I think it worked, but it certainly wasn't pretty! Also Cooking - oh god Patsy I’m so sorry! Cooking was meant to be a fun, flavorful (ha!) Downtime activity that I just completely forgot to ever use in combat. Like if it was ever used it’s because someone reminded me. I quietly dropped Rations and stuff as the game went on because for whatever reason I just forgot it. I’m pretty sure that’s why Patsy dropped out as the game went on, and I’m personally sorry about that! FORMATTING: Why did I make the formatting so complicated! Using the list and bolding tags made it a huge pain in the rear end to do, and linking to the orokos page for the Conflicts was a surprisingly massive timesink. There’s STILL updates just listed as Win Roll or Lose Roll because of it. Normally that was just trivial and untidy, but since I never listed it during the Sikatris/Grimper conversation during Noostra’s endgame you guys missed out on an early indicator of her reroll power. Oops. GRIMPER: Grimper was a bit of a flawed character. I mean, aside from the obvious reasons. He was your boss, but he didn't really DO much. By the nature of the game I had to let you make the decisions, so he couldn't boss you heavily, and you needed to do the fighting, so he couldn't be in every combat either. He ended up being an aloof, hovering figure that pushed the plot along but otherwise didn't do much. It only got worse after his disastrous fight with Agenou. He immediately became an OOC laughingstock, and that trickled into the game too. So he got pettier and grouchier in response, which just solidified his ‘mean and possibly incompetent boss’ archetype. He vacillated between grudging respect for the Horde and a willingness to sacrifice any or all of them due to a combo of my difficulty writing him and the logical outcome of his previous actions, but I hope that he filled a ‘love to hate’ niche. It was tough to figure out when to use him, also - a few times he could have rescued you from your failures; would that have been a cop out? The rules governing the limits of his powers were vaguely defined even for me, so he COULD have just jumped in in every combat, trivializing everything. I’m not sure! TIMING: Like with most of my games my updates started up quick and slowed waaay down near the end. I’m beginning to think that’s inevitable, really - as the mythology builds up, as I want to make sure that everyone feels important and remembered, things just take longer and longer to do. I also tend to start getting fancier with the art which, while fun, makes things drag. And yes things just get busy for me etc etc but ultimately that’s not WHY the delays are happening. I don’t know that this is something I could do full time, but I do really enjoy it. Ah well! Also I wrote most of this section months ago not anticipating I STILL wouldn’t be done by 2019, jesus. [Themes] DUTY: The Horde at least nominally had a job to do, but what that duty meant for individual people was left deliberately open. How many people cared about the war? Some of you were pressed into service, some of you were inspired to go by what you’d seen at home, some wanted revenge. Many of you mentioned families back home, were you out there protecting them? In the end, what did duty mean in face of the revelations at the last minute? NIHILISM: With the mid-way revelation that all this was some sort of game for gods or something, a bit of ‘well what’s the point of any of this?’ crept into the narrative, but it was amusing how well the Horde as a whole dealt with it. I didn’t even feel like that was all that strange; you were used, at that point, to people bossing you around and being bigger and stronger than you, so the idea that there was something even MORE than that was received with a ‘yeah, well, it figures’. I’m a big fan of narratives where the characters realize that nothing really matters in and of itself, so they have to decide what they CHOOSE matters. It was particularly interesting for me what the in-character and out of character reactions were to the revelation, and how that ended up shaping people afterwards. CRUELTY: Grimper was a cruel dude, and both societies (maybe especially Tö) were pretty cruel places. Life and death come easy in a war, but it was all too easy for people to laugh at the misfortune of others even so. The OG Vaults were cruel, but while at first it seemed like targeted hatred for those who dared examine their leavings, over time it became clear that it was off-the-cuff cruelty for their own vague amusement. They didn’t care that they were hurting you, because each individual was less than an ant to them. They could just print more, if they wanted. MYSTERY: There were a lot of mysteries in the game, and you guys played along admirably. The question of what the hell happened with the Queen, the real reason behind Monsterism, the true nature of the OG - none of these were ‘planned’ as such, and only grew into the dominant forces they were due to prodding (from Humbug, Snodis, and Sucy respectively, though everyone played their part). The stuff with the Queen was the only thing you had any means of really discovering within the game - namely, the Queen faked her own death to start a war (though all the OG related stuff was added later once that got some focus) - but the other stuff could be glimpsed. [So What WAS The Deal With The OG?] Again, this isn’t something that was relevant within the game, so it was never described there, but it’s included for your curiosity’s sake. Spoiling it in case you want it to be a ~mystery~ forever. The OG - the Players of Games - were a nebulously powerful society of individuals who were for all intents and purposes gods. Their powers were technological in nature, but on the ground level what the heck does that matter? The came to the planet long, long, long before the events of the game and guided the evolution of the dominant species into their desired warriors. Then they dropped pylons around the world to sort of bridge the connection between a virtual environment and the natural one, and that was the beginning of Script. Changes made in Script were reflected in the real world and vice versa, but things were ‘real’ and not some sort of simulation. Once the architecture was in place… they played war games. Basically an RTS with real people. They cloned blank units, dropped in the specializations needed to fulfil the tasks required, and let them go nuts. There were all sorts of colors at some point, but over time they were all wiped out but red and blue teams, locked in a stalemate that might have lasted millenia. And then the Players got bored and moved on. Automated systems kept things going for a while, maybe hundreds of years, but the units began to go idle and compounding errors crept into the Script. Civilizations rose and fell with little understanding of how exactly they got there, and truths were forgotten and recalled and forgotten again. Even those who would have been around when the Players were wouldn’t have had any idea what the hell was happening to them, so their testimony was fragmented and false from the outset. The entire world is the result of a game continuing past the point when players have shuffled onto something else. Monsterism was a result of the compounding errors, a feedback cycle between Script changing the real world and real world stimuli changing Script. It didn’t differentiate between living beings and inorganic stuff except that living stuff had more Script keeping track of its various variables. Monsterist ‘strength’ is really just stats being set too high and overflowing, and dying from it is garbled stats causing a fatal loop or something. Branding was something like the introduction of an error that ‘distracted’ the Script away from progressing the Monsterism any further, and stabilizing it if it did. To the Queen, a remnant of how things were ‘supposed’ to be, Monsterism was both an intolerable deviation from the norm and a useful tool of rebellion against her programming. Despite being formed from the same stuff, it ‘evolved’ separately from the Players’ design, so she could use it to knock stuff further off the rails for her own purposes. As for where the Players are now? Probably off somewhere else doing something different! They have long forgotten about the planet of the People of Ö, not thinking any more about it than you would a game you played once, enjoyed, then tired of. In my mind opposing them is not a serious goal - they’re too widespread, too powerful, and too far beyond conventional warfare for you to catch up to them in any reasonable capacity… but then, you’ve toppled people higher than you before, so I’d be a fool to shoot you down entirely! I’m sure there’s other stuff, but mostly I’m just going to open the floor to questions. Literally nothing is hidden now, so if you have any burning questions fire em’ away. Don’t be disappointed if the answer to any particular conspiracy you’ve noticed in my posts is ‘oops I winged it and it just so happened to look like I did it on purpose’ because I’m simply not that organized!
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Jan 3, 2019 21:29
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 Name: Neebs Skill(s): Bartending (+45) Surgery (+15) Mentalism (+10) HP: 3/3 Medics: Breaker’s Eye - Upon a failed healing attempt, heal 1 HP for every 100 in the failed roll, rounding up. Additionally, once per combat a Medic may heal an ally that has rolled lower than them 1 HP. Drunk Oracle - During Downtime, Neebs may make a Humbug: Blackened Eye Savant - Humbug may question Neebs as a separate action during downtime with another roll from her (doesn't need to be Drinking) about the Blackened Eyes. Glory: 15 + 1 posting glory -> 16 Dog Kisser posted:She does, however, find artifacts. Fragments of statues and ruins of familiar and yet unfamiliar design, often dyed to a deep ochre. Further investigation reveals more such ruins, and even a few storage chambers with food rotten to dust - and mead! Most is sour or dusty but a few precious bottles are filled with an unparalleled vintage that taste like nothing she'd ever encountered. A whole society, made dust and forgotten...the ruins were legitimately fascinating and exciting, really something that ought to be shared with the world. Neebs started laughing and crying all at once. What ruin was this one, the twelfth, the thirteenth? Neebs knew deep down that there were no other civilizations out here...the Queen had said so. But, Neebs had run away from Tö knowing that. Neebs had run as much to search for proof that would confirm the decision she'd made (siding with the Queen over the Unexpectables); as she had run to get away from any possible retribution from the Unexpectables. She'd found plenty of the former, and...none of the latter. She couldn't keep running away forever, poking through empty ruins like a mad-Töwoman. She was frustratingly lonely, and grounded by the presence of other people. Whenever she tried communing with the Administrator directly, she received nothing but silence in response; their connection remained in its permanently ethereal state. Her greatest gift wasn't usable to herself, only usable by others. She was nothing in Tö anymore (a traitor at best), but she was even less without other peöple. She'd been going half-mad without peöple to tell stories to, and hear stories from. These empty ruins weren't for her...she thought of Cause. These would be for him, or those like him; if they had the courage to come out and explore them. Half a world away from anything resembling society; Neebs finally decided to rejoin it. This world was gone, the Queen was gone; and nothing Neebs could do would bring either of them back. Something inside her cracked, and the oath she had sworn to the dead Queen didn't seem to hold any sway anymore. She wiped away her tears, stopped her mad cackling, and started back for Tö... Was it worth it? Yes. Siding with the Queen was worth it. Everything the Queen had done was worth it. Even if the Queen's ideology had eventually lost to a stronger ideology. And no. None of it was worth it. Nothing she'd done during the war was even remotely justified in light of the Queen's loss. How did any of the Unexpectables live with themselves after what they had done? As if killing the Queen somehow made their own hands clean...rather than making their hands even bloodier than before. Does she reveal her findings (these and any further ones) or keep them hidden away? Effectively, hidden away. Neebs is open in confirming that the Queen was correct that there were no other civilizations out there. Insofar as bringing back artifacts or telling people exactly where the ruins are, no. Neebs brings back as much of the unparalleled mead for herself as she can carry. If anyone asks what proof Neebs has that the Queen was right: Neebs tells them to go searching the empty wildernesses/wastes to find out for themselves. Maybe even a few of them do so. Finally… The Unexpectables. Will she ever see them again? If so, how will it happen, and how will she feel? The hardest question to answer. Could she bring herself to face the Unexpectables? No....probably not immediately. Likely, Neebs will stop in at The Lampshade (avoiding the 'chair reserved for the proprietor') wearing anonymizing clothes (not revealing herself, if possible); just to get a feel for the place before leaving. She'll spend some time trying to convince the poorer folks in Tömate to join her in a new settlement in a land of opportunity, away from Tö, Frö, and Neötopia; to a frontier land, unsettled for a longer time than memory allows. She'll try to create an independent township/village/hamlet (not really near any ruins, but, "out in the middle of nowhere" and beholden to none of the current kingdoms). If she gets enough traction (probably, what, 150-200 people; or more), she'll actually follow through on resettling and creating the independent township/village/hamlet. She doesn't take a leading role in the township; but she will become the proprietor of (likely) the main inn/bar. If she finds less interest in an independent settlement (than 150-200 people), I guess she'd have no choice but to try to re-join society: and would have no choice but to see the Unexpectables again. She'd start by heading to Gryph, having that talk he wanted, and accepting whatever punishment he wants to deal out. Probably becomes a bartender again (though not necessarily at The Lampshade). Probably gets yelled at by Nana. But this would be, kind of a secondary choice to still trying to leave the kingdöm, except with people this time.
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Jan 4, 2019 01:24
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       Gado!!! Skill: Digging (+75), Tunneling (+10) HP: 2/2 Glory: 44 Gado's hidden hole in the ground was rough to begin with, but that waa how he and the clan had lived their entire lives. Given a few months, maybe years, they'd build this place up into a respectable fortress. Momma Gabo had always warned Gado about the dangers of digging too deeply, but the Digger was inured against so many horrors during his time in the war that his caution had been worn away. Will he ever seek out his former friends among the Unexpectables? It would be well over a decade before Gado and his people made a gesture of friendship toward the outside world, and it would be the only one made while Gado was still alive and in charge. Tömate recieved a parcel one summer's eve, a heavy chest lined with lead simply labeled with Humbug's name on it. The Bone Tö Pick had come back to its original liberator, now menacing with spikes of unknown material and stained with even more substances. It had been tough for Gado to let go of Osteoclasis, but he'd moved on to deeper and darker secrets and it was only right he pay back the sleuth for his help and advice during the war. Will Gado or his family ever emerge from below? The end of Gado's era marked the point where the enclave would finally crack open the earth again and tiptoe out into the world. They'd built something special and it wouldn't do to have it collapse in on itself and be forgotten like so many OG ruins. Initially only the most loyal family members would be sent out. Scouting parties of one or two watching fine Tö and Frö for months at a time. Primarily they sought out those pushed to the edge like Gado had once been, easily tempting the world weary into new passions. Occasionally they would strike at opportunity when it appeared, some young gleaming expert having come to a standstill in their research was an easy sell, the depths full of new discoveries to behold. They were never particularly happy at first once they realized they could never leave, but eventually The Work would dig under their skin and the though of leaving became a distant memory. Gado's enclave would never blossom into a full on thriving society, but those who trickled in over the generations would be met with marvels both crafted and unearthed from the unforgiving depths as the enclave dug ever deeper. Successful Businessmanga fucked around with this message at 02:03 on Jan 4, 2019 |
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Jan 4, 2019 01:26
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quote:(Ringo becomes (more of) a folk hero, going from place to place and helping people along. Tö, Frö, it didn’t matter. Everywhere he went, people were just people, and they needed help. He becomes famous in a low key way - they know he won’t take bribes, can’t be corrupted to aid or harm anyone he doesn’t personally feel deserves it, so they don’t even try. They just nod as he passes, give him food or drink if he asks for it, talk with him if he wants and leave him be if he prefers it. He lives a lonely life, and yet one filled with anything and anyone he could ever want. Is it enough? What more could Ringo want? As for Grimper… we’ll get to him in a bit!) As time goes on Ringo starts feeling the exhaustion of the task he’s put himself to. He’s only one person, and he can’t be everywhere at once. He spends some time alone on the banks of the River Fist, falling into deep meditation on his own being. Such retreats become commonplace, when he is certain that there is no other pressing task on his plate. His asceticism starts to unlock the power of his multi-cored nature. He never turns a wanderer away, if they should happen to come across him while he looks inward. Sometimes they accompany him for a while on his travels. He never turns that down either. Practice of Ringo-style meditation slowly grows as a mental and physical art. quote:(Ringo was more than a match for Grimper… but now what? What did Ringo hope to gain from this final combat? What can he say now that it’s over?) Ringo hunches down onto a gravestone next to the Breaker. “Grimper. I used to hate you. Then I worshipped you. Then I pitied you. Then I found out that I actually missed you, at the coronation. It’s been a bit of a head trip for me.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You’ve had a raw deal. I mean, you were set up to fail from the start. What you did along the way, well, we all did some things we regret. I have a lot of them myself.” He let out a sigh. “All this stolen power...I’ve been working off that debt since Fostis. After a while, though, I started really enjoying helping people for its own sake. I guess that makes me sound kinda pretentious or condescending. What I want to say is that we’ve all had a reset here. You don’t need to be a Breaker if you don’t want to be. The Old Grimper can go on the shelf. Have any hobbies? Ask Noggins, and I bet she’d smile and nod. Break the ice, why don’t you?” Ringo laughed. It felt good to just talk with someone from the old days. “If you really want a clean break though...come with me for a week. A month. However long you want. See what’s out there and make more of it. You don’t have to answer now though. I’ll be around.” The two sat in silence for a while, before parting ways. ~some time later~ Wanderers and travelers report sightings of the hero Ringo meditating in the woods with a colossal Toan grimacing with concentration beside him. Later the two are seen delivering mail in Fromage. Later still they perform a dance show for Froman children. And so his legend grows. Green Intern fucked around with this message at 16:26 on Jan 4, 2019 |
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Jan 4, 2019 16:19
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quote:Is she happy with this life? It was a quiet day. Trinh was idly leafing through Dack's book. Somebody must have had pulled strings to get a Warlord-scaled edition printed. She had thought him and Qwäg fools, but now, she could admit that she was happy for them. They had found what they were after. And having read the book twice, she felt she understood what that something was. A solid floor under your feet, bags of groceries, the voices of traffic on the street on the other side of the window. Brothers and sisters. The memories came flooding back, surrounding her like ghosts. If... if what Sucy and Gryph were doing could help someone like Qwäg, maybe it could bring a normal life even to Trinh. Maybe they could save her from having become a drat textbook example of what the Players had wanted their Units to be. Make her stop wanting to kill her loved ones! Maybe even save her from this insanity. This dream, like falling endlessly down a chasm into a red, metallic tasting mist. Oh, time to wake up. She laughed. Its not insanity if it works. She looked up to her walls. The Suppurator, it's legs so many! The Veinseeker and it's twin! The fact that they existed proved that it was the others who weren't seeing the world like it really was! And what of the "normal" people? Small things of small pleasures! Helpless once someone like Grimper showed up to push them into their deaths! Oh the gray lives they lived, the hardships they faced! Whatever regrets Trinh had were ridiculously petty in comparison. She had it better than anyone! Laughter echoed through the Hollow. A laugh of true happiness. She had it better than anyone! --- Her rejoicing was interrupted a few hours later by the wet sputtering of the Messenger. Oh, time for this again. Once the creature was glued in place she managed to get the crate out with very little mess this time. Inside was, a letter, from the Academy? Signed, Grumbus. She flipped the envelope open. It was the first she'd heard of him since the visit. She was... surprised that he would write at all. But here it was, and the things he wrote! It looked like he was planning some sort of- no, no, that couldn't be right. He couldn't mean that. How would one even build such a- Blood drained from Trinh's face as she realized that Grumbus very much meant that. W-wouldn't the whole thing melt long before you could add the... oh, yuck. Trinh grabbed a jutting rib for support. Trying to visualize the Thing was making her lightheaded. Then she noticed that on the other side of the letter, there were diagrams. With her worst assumptions surprassed, she threw up on the floor. She spent a while lying in a pool of her own vomit, feeling kind of defeated. To think that something could still make her feel disgust! Her gaze wandered, eventually settling on the sogged letter beside her. The final lines. She hadn't read everything yet. After the descriptions, he professed that he had some sort of trouble. That he couldn't figure out how to get it to work. He... needed help? In one lighting fast motion she was off the floor and by her work table. With a swing of her arm she sweeped it clean, scattering projects and patients all across the room. It wouldn't take long to make a few test pieces to- no, that wouldn't do. That wouldn't be enough. She would need to make another trip to Tömate in the near future.
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Jan 5, 2019 04:24
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 Gryph had his hands full. Becoming something akin to celebrity had never been on his list, but being in demand wasn't something to be scoffed at. And he was always interested in whatever happened to his friends, their adventures, vocations and events. He threw himself wholeheartedly into them, all the while examining himself and the others. The stresses of combat would fade, giving way to a new world of tentative peace. Three nations, with uneasy friendship and a lot of narrowed eyes. He could live with that. For Gryph himself, there are a few questions: Dog Kisser posted:Now that there was peace between the nations (of a sort) theoretically it would be even easier. Theoretically. In practice, there was a lot of friction and resentment between the groups despite their desires to study similar subjects that struck him as a bit of a pointless waste of time. There was no doubt that the war had hurt each and every one of them and made it difficult to trust, but their work together would go so far to heal the rift that he was disappointed in them for not trying to put their differences behind them. Gryph remembered the multitude of Froan scientists that had accused him, using him as To by proxy to air their grievances. They had a right to. Worse were the ones who muttered and never confronted him. They would be the more likely saboteurs. But Gryph's mind was made up. Peace between To and Fro, and yes, even Neotopia, was not only desirable, but in his mind, it was required. The three nations were so different. In colour, in ideas and culture. But the way Gryph saw it, they had graduated from a war against each other to a war against the planet itself. The Corruption of the Script that the OGs had implanted in everything was continuing; even, Gryph expected, accelerating. Wendigo's weren't the cause of the world's ills, they were a symptom, and if the countries were going to survive, they would have to do it with each other. Dog Kisser posted:The Öans were another... At any rate, many began coming to him with pains and ailments, and he couldn’t understand how they were even still alive. A Core extraction was universally fatal, but here they were, Coreless and still breathing. Sickly as hell, though Was this how they were before? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps it was simply that they, as a species, had grown accustomed to the presence of the foreign organ. Could they really go back to how it was? Did they really want to? The Öans certainly did, so he helped them as best he could and sent them on their way. It wasn’t up to him to tell these people how to live their lives. It wasn’t up to anyone, anymore - they’d seen to that - but there was growing resentment against them. And the Oan's were the proof. A group of people who had cut themselves away from their skillcores via ritual, and claimed to have been freed from the OG's influence. If nothing else, they proved that skillcores were more than just a useful tool. Something in a skillcore kept People in fighting shape, collecting Esprit and distributing it. Sucy's findings told him that even they had Script running through them. He didn't hate them, and was as willing to stand for them as Monsterist or Froan. But they wouldn't escape the breakdown of the world either, for all that they tried. The OGs, the Queen, so many had erased what the O once were, Gryph wasn't sure that they were going back to 'how things used to be', or even if they ever could. But you could keep moving forward, and Gryph hoped that everyone was doing so in whatever way they could. Dog Kisser posted:Humbug had mentioned she’d layed a kiss on his cheek destined for him (mentioned it after he’d layed one on Gryph’s, the silly sod), but even if he hadn’t mentioned it it was plain in her face. She spoke to him with respect and deference she otherwise reserved only for her sister, and often laid a hand on his shoulder when they stood before the others to try to get them to behave. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind! After all, Gryph had never expected the twists of his life. Meeting Zapanda was a fluke borne by random chance, but Gryph had admiration for her work from the moment he met her. She had taken to her circumstances during the war with a strength and patience that did more to enamour him, and even now was demonstrating it with their scientific cooperation. He found himself thinking of her more, and her presence calmed him. If she were open to a relationship, he would gladly pursue her affection. He only hoped it went well. If Neebs ever reveals herself, Gryph will happily sit down and give a punishment: having a stiff drink. She was closer than anyone to the Administrator and the game. He can't fault her choices, as much as there was disagreement. He'd honour her wishes about keeping it quiet from the others too, if she wanted. Torchlighter fucked around with this message at 06:05 on Jan 5, 2019 |
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Jan 5, 2019 04:43
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 Name: Hob The Lord of Hats posted:The letter to Hob was the hardest. There was no reason it should have been as hard as it was. It wasn’t like it was particularly consequential. It was just a dinner invitation! That was it! There weren’t lives, or some crucial part of the forming government at stake! It was just dinner! Hob attends the dinner as invited (wearing a normal eyepatch instead of his usual one). It goes well, but is a little bit awkward with the honour guard lurking about. The next dinner sidesteps that; after receiving a note that his invite was accepted (a text ping into her eye-helm, Dinner 2Moro, Y / N ?), Hob turns up at a window with a pair of fast butterflies (with harnesses, safety first), allowing the pair to escape the palace (helped by local area net blinding tech), grabbing a table on the roof of the Lampshade (thanks Nana) and then sneaking into the "Sl1nkerZ" gig downstairs afterwards. A chance to get away from responsibilities, an evening to not be a queen. Dog Kisser posted:(The Mindbender network is extremely popular among all strata of Töan and Fröman society. With the Unexpectables in control of both production and distribution, they have final control of the pricing and outreach and are able to ensure that anyone who wants access can get it with minimal controversy. Monsterist infection of the network was and is a real concern, as it hews closely to Script, but clever and redundant security systems built into the terminals have (thus far) prevented a serious outbreak. What is Hob’s ultimate desire for the network? Will he live to see it?) Ultimate desire for the net? Peace. The success of the network was good, and in many ways it had already achieved it's goals; granting sight to the sightless, sound to the soundless, sense to the senseless. Of bridging the gap between monsterists and "baselines". But still, tensions remained with Neötopia. Uptake was not high there, understandably so. The cure components made "official" helms black market goods, but even old version cureless model helms were few and far between. And why wouldn’t they be? Unlike Tö and Frö, who communicated more openly and friendly over the net as time passed (primary uptake groups were similar across both nations, so later users entered a fairly positive environment), Neötopians connected only to sense, hear, be aware of the tensions and worries the two other nations’ populace. Listened to the gossip in the streets of Tömate. Rumours in Föstis. Mutterings in Skellivanch. More alienation, as if they needed it It would all depend on Snödis. On Trinh. On the other Neötopians. It was out of his hands. And both of the old Neötypes had gone past the edge of madness. Not with that attitude anyway. Did he really think so poorly of them? Snödis was passionate to a fault, and with good reason. And Trinh had went full Wendigo in a fit of self sacrifice to save her friends and still kept enough self control to keep herself from giving in to the thoughts that plagued her. To wave it away as “out of his control" was abject cowardice. To be honest, he had thrown himself into the network as an escape. Something new to be. Someone new to be. "Who am I?" He had wondered. After Nägel? After the core of his being was warped? After it was stripped from him? After everything that he went through with the others? After the war? Not the beekeeper who set out months ago. Not the person excited to live out all the stories of heroism and valour from childhood tales. That person was gone. But that meant he had to be someone else. Someone better. And the mindbender net gave him the opportunity to be that person. Noggins gave him the opportunity to be that person. So he spread the good word. He travelled to where the net was blind. He supported Noggins' peaceworks. He made a point of contacting people over the net with fears about Neötopia, or Wendigoes in general and trying to win them over. And he was happy. So no, Hob wouldn’t ever live to see a time when there was no risk of war, when there was no threat of the cold wastes of the badlands erupting, where there was no risk of a small minded upstart riling up a militia and seizing some kind of power. Where a madman wiyh a relic could trip uo everything. No one would. But he would do what he could while he was alive to stop the ideas that led to that from spreading. WereGoat fucked around with this message at 23:36 on Jan 10, 2019 |
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Jan 7, 2019 22:02
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Nana the Mother and Bäbi Some Years Later: "There, all done." Nana dusted her gloved hands off and stood to her feet. It was a slow process these days, one that grew slower by the year. Still, it was important to stay active, and there was far too much to do to let a few aching joints stand in her way. She stretched her arms and adjusted her bönnet (a Hat original) as she looked at the hardworking group around her. The cömmunity garden was really taking shape. When they were finished, the abandoned lot it was situated on would no longer be a dreary, trash-strewn mess, but a place of relaxation and goodwill for all. There was still work to be done, but the unexpected appearance of Ringo with tools in hand and a smile on his face had significantly sped up their progress. She smiled down in satisfaction at the planter box before her, neatly ordered rows of little green sprouts stretching towards the sun with all the eagerness of new life. Nana's thoughts and gaze drifted over to Bäbi. The young girl (young woman, before too much longer) was playing with her Uncle Snorkus; the Pigilante leading the two of them on an elaborate imaginary adventure to fight a larger than life villain, with much roughhousing and laughter along the way. It was clear the young man adored the girl, and Nana was so grateful to him for the reliable presence he'd come to be in Bäbi's life. They were splitting up now, both of them separating to 'look for clues.' Bäbi was humming a catchy, familiar song, her face a study in concentration. Nana laughed to herself and Bäbi looked up, flashing her a happy grin. It wasn't until later that day that the song came back to her. Nana tapped a finger against her lips thoughtfully. Where had she heard it before? The melody felt strangely familiar, almost nostalgic. Like something distantly remembered. Like... Nana froze. Like something that had been popular when she herself was a child. --- Nana stood in front of a closed door trying to gather herself. This conversation had to happen eventually, she'd always known that. Bäbi deserved to know the whole story; about the Unexpectables, about her own history. It was time. She resolved herself, then knocked. "Can I come in sweetheart? I need to talk to you about something important." "Come in, Nana!" Came the cheerful reply. Nana went inside. In the end it took more than an hour. Nana started with the first time they had met, and continued with everything else she could think of, answering questions and filling in gaps until there was nothing left to say. They both sat on her bed, Bäbi at the head, knees tucked up under her chin and arms wrapped around her legs. Her face was pensive, serious. "There's nothing there anymore, really. Sometimes a song I've never heard will get stuck in my head or I'll remember the name of someone I never met or something, but that's it." Nana scooted closer, gingerly reaching her arms out and wrapping them around the girl. "What..." Bäbi's voice took on a worried note. "What does this change for... well, for us?" "Oh, sweetheart." Nana squeezed her tighter. "Nothing will change between us. You are my most precious gift. My beautiful Bäbi. I love you, and I will love you every day of my life." Bäbi gave a small smile as she felt warm tears begin to fall on her. Her arms slid out and returned Nana's hug. It felt right. It felt like home. "I love you too..." "Mom." Dog Kisser posted:
Bäbi never regains anything substantial of her previous life as Gräni, just vague impressions and moments of deja vu. In the end, this doesn't affect her significantly, she is gently taught by Nana to let her past inform her present, not define or control it. Bäbi looks toward her bright future with clear eyes and a whole lot of people who love and support her at her back. BHB fucked around with this message at 19:06 on Jan 9, 2019 |
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Jan 8, 2019 23:59
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