"Well, I guess that's the next step. Onward!"
Look for somewhere suitably bridgey, then do the thing.
You step up to the canyon, sword drawn and ready. You hold it a little like a dowsing rod as you check out several likely locations. You wonder where would be a good point for it to begin. Twenty feet from the crumbling edge disappearing into the vast gulf of toxic waste? Fifty? Perhaps a hundred? You decide to start well away. After all, this would be a half mile bridge if you're gauging this appropriately. Need a little clearance for it to not fall in or some such. Within about five minutes of walking around and considering several angles you find a place that seems insurable enough, and take a right proper stab at it.
[Pontifex Maximus: 2]
The sword takes root, and from the ground a tree begins to grow, its bark like taut leather stretched over thousands and thousands of bones as it roils and waves out of the ground, rooting itself deeply, shapes of lifeless faces pressing themselves into the membranous skin of the thing as the pillar rises and bends over in a tall arch, growing broader and longer until it comfortably stretches over the canyon, rows of sharp protrusions puncturing it like wisdom teeth. Muscle grows in the gaps, twitching chaotically as it configures itself into the correct shape, thin trails of connective tissue coming out of the great bridge's many teeth. It moves for a while yet, gyrating back and forth along its length in an unnatural time lapse as the laws of the universe bend to accommodate its profoundly strange bulk and capabilities. It moves into place, wide enough to accommodate a crossing army, and begins to breathe slowly.
One feels a certain degree of house cleaning was long overdue. The stout folk, albeit useful, did bring rather samey material with their collective efforts. One can't help but be pleased at this sudden burst of novelty.
Er, you ask, what's that over there? It looks a little ghoulish. It's got two legs, admittedly, and two arms. And it's about ten feet tall at that, and most terribly angular. And it's not so much got a head as it looks like its throat has about triple the teeth allowance it should. Oh my, and those claws. One can't help but be amused - that is the bridgekeeper. It will collect the toll from further travelers - ten pounds of material per person, to be exact (the upkeep may become demanding, you see). Not from you, however, as you're a friend of the sponsor.
You look at the bridgekeeper. It looks back. It seems to have a very good idea of what it's here to do as it sharpens its claws intently and ruminates on a bit of gristle. One feels this was a successful experiment - a sort of proof of concept for reassembling material into a desired shape, you see. You suppose it looks happy enough with its lot in life, and one would say that with how much endorphins were packed into the thing it damn well better be.
"Heh, I'd say you have a reasonable inkling of what my relationship to the thing that dwells in the darkness beyond existence is. I'd enjoy visiting this site you mentioned at some point soonish, I left some things unfinished when I departed Anglefork that I'd like to possibly wrap up. Damn this food is good, though. Never would've thought maggots could be of such culinary value."
Daniels chews for a while longer before something occurs to him.
"Oh, one other thing about the well place or whatever you wanna call it. If you guide me there, that's fine and dandy, but I'd recommend not actually interfacing with the entity at any point if you value the sanctity of your existence and whatnot. It has a tendency of ... well, eating's the best way to put it, those who aren't like me. Body, soul, any evidence you ever existed or interacted with anything, all gone."
He takes a big bite of bacon maggot thing, the subtle pop of the insect larvae between his teeth accentuating his words.
"Also judging by what happened when some minders did try to make a deal with it ... well, doesn't seem like it'd be too good for your personal health."
He leaves the implications of that statement unanswered as he continues eating, presumably eventually finishing the plate.
"Gotta say, that was fucking tasty. Is that a thing you guys make regularly here?"
Give ominous warnings, enjoy food.
The merchants, and the word tingles in your mind, they do have many talents and have had many weeks to apply them. Most often they are merely delicious, but every now and then a heartland delicacy manages to surprise you. It helps, of course, that the flies that make such things possible have traveled along as well. They do marvelous things with insects downriver - not the kinds known by you or her, but meaty and cultured things. A brief sampling of flavors goes through your mind, and despite having just eaten several pounds of meat and desserts you find yourself drooling a little. You quickly finish your food, and this proves an adequate reprieve.
And she's well aware, Mr. Daniels - exploded heads and business like that do not a glowing recommendation make. At least not for minders - you appear to have made it out perfectly fine, no? And you also happen to have a thing it is interested in, which will obtain you a wish and questions. And as it happens, she can help you obtain another. Would you know yet more?
"Yeah, I'm not experienced using my feets for drinking so pouring sweet alcohol into my mouth would be helpful. All right, may the best man win!"
Begin the contest, first round for honor of Ęgir, second for Odin, third for Freyja because she and the demon both have great tits, and each subsequent cup for honor of whatever god or primordial being that comes into mind.
I'm a big man with a big strong liver, coming from generations of mead drinkers, trained and hardened in cold winters of Siberia with pure vodka. I should say I have advantage here.
I make sure to offer my own imaginary drinks as well. It's not fair for one side to be providing all the mind altering substances.
If I'm not a clear winner after getting decently drunk, kick the demon under table with APOCALYPTIC power. After all, nobody said HOW one should end under the table...
[Drink, Drink, This Town Is So Great: 3+1]
You have the first drink be poured down your throat, and even through the vague unreal haze of things you know instantly the burn and taste of the great healer, the booze hitting you in the back of the head like a brick. That one was for Ęgir, giant of the sea, brewer for the gods, you shout as you have Earnest put down the cup. The devil laughs, her eyes flashing as the elder puts an empty cup down as well, grinning wider than before. Nicely done! First swig is a rough one for most - you seem to be holding together well! Especially given the number of apples you ate beforehand! You hear the seductive noise of hard liquor bubbling back into your cups.
[Drink, Drink, 'Cause It's Never Too Late: 6+1 vs. 3]
The second is for Odin, clever bastard among clever bastards, and together you drink the waters of wisdom! The devil seems terribly amused once again - for Odin, she echoes, sounds like a right hearty sort! The elder pours one down the devil's throat and she shakes her head. There's a good man, she's feeling the wisdom coming already! You get yours as well, and you feel one of your eyes go out of focus while the other gets suddenly sharp, a clear sign of divine favor if you've seen one. You give the devil your focused one-eyed stare. Eye of the tiger, she points a little unsteadily.
[To Drink, Drink, To No Big Surprise: 6+1 vs. 4]
And the third for Freyja! She with the melons to launch a thousand ships, and to which the earth can have but mere grapefruits in comparison - though a more splendid set of grapefruits than those of present company are rare indeed! Why thank you, the devil nods, two vodkafruit in her hands, don't mind if she does! She sinks her teeth in, and you have some of your own. She finishes them in record time, a rapid infusion of mental vodka making her nearly fall out of her seat as she tries to stay still, your discerning eye unwaveringly on her.
[But What Words Rhyme With Buried Alive: 6+1 vs. 1]
And then the two of you have the third round slammed down for you - you hold fast as you let incredibly real drunkenness wash over you and scour away the merely mental kind, while the devil's horns just curl suddenly as the two magnify each other - she leans forward, those were some potent fruits you got there, sir, she'd like to subscribe for some more if you've... and the rest becomes a little inaudible as her face sinks into the table.
You rise to your feet, your second wind having given you a positive energy to stand tall despite having exactly one and a half limbs to your name, and the devil is raised to her feet by the elder, only to slide under the table after he lets go of her. A cheer goes through - well done, the elder says! And with that, let the festival of the return be considered open! The sound of a dozens of drinks being quaffed to your health go through the space around you like an ocean wave, and you sit back down.
Now, the elder says as he spins wildly around you, bubbles of spirits rising from him all around, now the drinking really begins! A victory speech from the winner!
"..."
Continue to observe. This is a bit surreal.
((I'm afraid to say that once again I'm off for this weekend. Sorry about that.))
The alderman seems content with what he's seen - not good news in particular, he says to you as the warden runs off to get the attention of its fellows, but at least there's cause to hope for improvement! Have to keep these fellows in good shape, you understand, it's really all for their own good. He motions with his enormous hand as you head out, wardens filtering out of the main hall into the cell blocks with armfuls of prisoners that they toss one by one into their respective cells. They bow in passing at the alderman and also at you, and he offers them best wishes and hopes to hear of any further progress.
You head up the stairs, and back into the old wooden cathedral. Next, the office! Have to file a report, you understand. The king has to hear about all this. And about you as well, most likely. He leads you back out into the streets and you head along the low alleys filled with corpses that twitch at your passing, continuously hounded by creatures with what look like giant rats for heads if rats had very human arms instead of legs, each wielding a spike or a hammer or something similarly painful. Many such things prowl the streets, tapping and stabbing at each corpse that isn't moving, kicking them down the street if they do not respond. Street sweepers seem to be as cheerful as ever, the alderman notes half to himself.
A yellow trio of eyes glares at you from one particular alleyway. Twelve o' clock, it whispers at you in several asynchronous voices, and all is well. You quicken your pace until you reach a ruined, leaning tower made of white brick turned yellow with age and misrule, the building it once belonged to seemingly crushed underneath a collection of statues, many of them depicting things clearly intelligent, yet not in any way, shape or form human. Here you are, the alderman says, Administration Square! This is where the magic happens, he growls in a manner not unlike laughter as he kicks open the tower door and you ascend an incredibly steep and astoundingly rickety set of steps.
The alderman's office takes up the entirety of the not inconsiderably sized tower, and the writing desk alone makes up fully half of it, your head not rising nearly above it. The alderman looks a little too small to use it, in fact. The rest of the room is similarly cramped with things far too large, from shelves to reports to what look like disused, dusty aquariums where dead fish twitch briefly to life in the congealed water after the alderman taps on them lightly and rumbles to himself with obvious satisfaction. Before the desk is a rug definitely made of a human being - several, in fact, stitched together in quite a creative fashion - you can't step on it without making something gently dislocate or press into something else painfully, judging by the sound your own foot makes when descending on it.
After a quick look and a gentle brushing of some dust off his most cherished trophies - chief among which seems to be a wildly deformed skull on a spike, its eyes nearly melted together, its teeth curled and fingernails coating it like scales (The Administrative Prize For Least Content Populace, apparently) - the alderman sits down at the desk and steeples his fingers, his lamprey mouth experimenting with a number of shapes before approaching one that looks like a smile. You notice he's got a wicked bone stylus in hand, dipped in something thick and dark as he has simultaneously started to write his report.
So, wonderbringer, how do you find this fair town, he asks. Very promising, don't you think? He's had some restoration work done since he was inspected - he likes to keep up on these things. Not like those lazybones in other border towns, they hardly bother doing anything until inspection time rolls around,
then they're suddenly deeply concerned for the well-being of their wards. It's sickening, sometimes.
"Yeah!" I shout back. "It looks like there's a way out."
I put on my boots, drop the slippers, and walk over to inspect the alcove with the furniture.
You get your boots on, figuring them to be more appropriate for cave exploration, and head into the alcove after untying your improvised rope. There seems to be a way out, you tell the doctor! Excellent, she shouts to you. She'll be down in a bit then.
[Investigating the Premises: 5]
That being said, you look into the alcove, and it becomes immediately apparent that it was vacated in a hurry - and certainly not very long ago at that. Perhaps as recently as fifteen minutes ago. Probably, it occurs to you, when you went and opened that hole to take a look down, even.
Something stirs in the darkness. You turn to look, and see two glinting eyes like dinner plates. Oooooooohhhh, comes a voice from them. You're not a stoatman at all, are you?
Leif Erikson, Miner
- Half-basket of apple-like mushrooms
- Itchy Woolen Britches (worn)
- Traces of Mischief: No Arms
- Apples to Apples: Through Apples To The Stars
- A Word: INEVITABLE
- A Word: APOCALYPSE
- Body Count: 228
- Mead of Poetry (4 shining revelations remaining)
- Enders' Friend: The Grave of Red Clouds Parting
- Inscribed Wooden Stylus
- Iron spear
- 1.03 gp
- The Box: ?
- Induced Lucidity: the Aftermath, or the New Beginning
- Compatibility: Minding
- Tricks of the Mind: Perception, Memory
- Tricks of the Mind: Engagement, Negation, Abstraction, Prestige
- Tricks of the Mind: the Self, the Other
- Gods of the Underground: Did You Just What
- A Visit From The Stork: Is What You Yes
- The Voracious Dark: Two Deals Made
- The Voracious Dark: The Promised Sixth
- Moth's Flight: the Way to Rise
- The Miracle of Life: Wayward Rabbit
Eileen Minett, Vinyl Collector
- Distilled alcohol (in flask)
- Spirits of salt (in clay jar)
- Soaps of elk, bear, bat and snake
- 4 flasks of lamp oil
- Oil lamp (lit)
- Linen stoat shirt (worn)
- Stoat trousers (worn)
- Comfy slippers (worn)
- Never-made scimitar (blackened, slightly dull)
- Tooth-handled hunting knife
- Black leather boots
- An assemblage of amber and amethysts
- Silver thread-necklace
- Onyx spiral earrings
- 2 oaken rings
- Rusty, bloodstained knife
- A Word: HUNGER
- A Word: SYNTHESIS
- A Weapon: Explosive Cysts
- Grenade Jumping: A Solid Technique
- The Good Doctor: Secret Histories
- Sword of the Sand People: Cleaning Supplies
- Sword of the Sand People: The Services of a Minder
- Higher Tonight: There And Back Again
Jack Daniels, Karate Man
- Red and gold vest and breeches combo (worn)
- Leather boots (worn)
- Rubber mattress (filled with water)
- 14033 gp (in sack)
- Poor Unfortunate Soul: Forever Captive
- The Queen's Guard: Actual Asset
- Powers of the Beyond: Gardener of Thoughts
- Garden of Thoughts: the Stoat-Magistrate
- Dusty Wooden Speaking-Trumpet
- Crossbow Bolt (in throat)
- A Word: REND
- A Word: SILENCE
- A Weapon: Murder-Thought
- Uncoupled: Strength
- Wooden Door
- The Winding Path of Inspiration: Run Like Hell
- Induced Lucidity: A Garden Well-Tended
- Elongated Affairs: Enemy of the New State
- A Place In History: Vastly Unreliable
- Anglefork Castle: the Great Worm
- 2 rats, crushed
- 1 rat, strangled
- 1 rat, live
- Travels In The Fourth Dimension: Sunday ± 2 Days
- Doomstones: So High Up But Such A Bitter View
- The Majordomo: A Great Divide Between Us Now
- The Voracious Dark: Decreasing Demand
- The Voracious Dark: More Specific Requests
- Body Count: 3
Thomas Minstep, Insurance Agent
- A Word: ABSENCE
- A Word: GOODBYE
- A Word: WORM
- A Weapon: The Sword They Fear
- Make A Man Out Of You: Battle-Tested
- Ranging fork
- 2 feet of sinew-thread
- Tooth-needle
- Traces of Mischief: Whole-Body Radioactive Burn
- A Bowl, Black and Knobby
- Tight Leather Pants (worn)
- Incredibly Tight Blue Dress (worn, mutilated, mildly provocative)
- Travels In The Fourth Dimension: Sunday, July 25th, 409 S.D.
- The Queen's Guard: A Reward Well Earned
- The New Queen: Lasting Gratitude
- Lonely Roads: Walk Away
- The Box: Absolutely Delightful
- Body Count: 2
Oscar Wilde, Chemistry Teacher
- A Word: REVELATION
- Wounds: 1
- Traces of Mischief: Glowing Facial Rift
- The Serpent's Egg: Dissemination
- Body Count: 4
- Cornerstone Helm (worn, collecting light)
- Time-ender's measure (wrapped, processing? stopping?)
- 10 m of rope
- Half a candle
- 1 rat, skinless and smoked
- 6 gp
- Poor Misshapen Dice
- Lock of Hair (unidentified)
- Iron nail, unused
- An Inauspicious Key
- Burlap Foot Wrappings (worn)
- Burlap Hand Wrappings (worn)
- Moth-Eaten Hat (worn)
- Respectable Brown Skirt (worn)
- Old Brown Waistcoat (worn)
- Bright Yellow Tunic (worn)
- A Wealth of Burlap Ribbons
- The Winding Path of Inspiration: The Less Dangerous Friend
- The Crawling Township: Motivational Wanderer
Author
Topic: Our Salvation: It Is Written (Read 262302 times)