"Hmm, guess that's enough of training for now. So let's talk some more. You said your... countenance rubs onlookers' minds in the wrong direction, right? How many people did become its victim? Did they die or...? Not to bring bad memories or anything, it's just that I have been brewing a theory of my own."
How many people indeed, your cellmate considers sadly. Her poor old husband, the lord of the castle. Her lady-in-waiting. The majordomo. Possibly a few others - it was hard to tell how many of them were affected from the day before, when it was not quite so pronounced. Not all of them died. The majordomo began to see only blue, and that was from but a glance. Her lady-in-waiting, her husband... oh dear.
She chokes up a little. What happened to them, one is better off not knowing. And if you want to know still, she is not sure she can explain it. The minders called it "alienation". An uncharacteristic understatement, but there are times when even minders are at a loss for words.
"What? I live just outside Albany. What's the best way to get back there from here?"
Give what is surely the wrong answer to that question.
Albany, the guard repeats. Albany, you confirm. She thinks carefully. Perhaps this was not the best way to phrase the question, she admits, clenching her jaw for a second. How did you get in here?
The girl tries to wave you off, saying that there's no point in the captain of her royal guard shaking down every random peasant that wanders up, impertinent though this may be of them. The guard thinks a moment and nods in agreement. After all, why mess around on her own when she can delegate?
The captain of the royal guard gives a stern shout, and soon enough a jolly fellow guard runs up. She points him toward you. To the processing area, she says. Standard investigative protocol. The way the guard chuckles does not fill you with confidence.
He puts a large and uncomfortably strong hand on your shoulder. Would you care to try and make this difficult, he asks with a glimmer in his eye.
"'s not really my insides that's the problem we're trying to solve here. Do you have anything at all for burns?
Anything at all will do.
Hell if that doesnt work, maybe... Well, the Sun burnt me so can the Moon Heal me?
[Relaxed Medical Standards: 1]
She could just cut off the burnt parts, she says. So the... burns don't... spread? She thinks they work that way, right? It's what you do when frostbite turns your bits black. And fire's a lot like frost. So it all checks out. C'mon, nobody else lets her use the knife on them anymore! Just a little bit of excision. That's all she asks.
You consider the multitudinous ways in which you could say no, some sterner than others. But you have a better word for the occasion.
MOON
[Word: 3]
You stand triumphantly as absolutely nothing happens. Though feels like something is happening. Or should be happening. No sign of any activity, though. You look at the doctor. She seems to be wondering whether to interpret your word as consent, her fingers visibly itchy on her knife.
"Ah, you haven't heard of this kind of magic? I was hoping you had. Well, I can show you, but this is a dangerous word. I almost got myself hurt when I tried it out. How about we go outside so there's some space in case anything goes wrong? We have to if we're going to the well, anyway."
I lead the girl out of the minder tower.
Pish posh, all the good stuff is dangerous. Handling these things intelligently and responsibly is what minding is all about. And she
is a minder, so naturally she's as qualified as anyone you're likely to find. But have it your way. She follows you out as she puts on a practiced expression of intelligence and serene composure.
Coming out of the tower, she gets to put it to good use, because the first thing you observe is the holy circle. Quite a lot of people seem to have gathered there by now, and, well, it looks like they've got a stoatman (or perhaps just a misshapen regular person) they've decided to mutilate. At the center of it all is Mr. Daniels, stark naked and violently excited, the crowd whipped up into a veritable blood frenzy.
Said frenzy recedes a little when a knight interrupts the proceedings, seemingly about to ruin their good, clean fun.
Jack grins.
"I suggest a compromise! Why not have a mallet break each of its hands and feet, and a person shall hold onto each of those broken appendages to keep it paralyzed in pain while the ritual commences."
Now then, to prepare the guy a little bit.
Once the marmot's hands and feet have been appropriately broken - not smushed entirely, that'd make it too hard to hold on - or if it holds still while we wait for someone to go get a mallet or whatever to do that, take my three dead rats and tie them around its neck by their tails. Try to tie their tails together, in a sense. The crushed ones by its shoulders and the strangled one on its chest.
Then once all those preparations have been made ... begin the sacrifice.
[Thirst for Blood: 5]
Your suggestion meets with hearty approval, and a mallet is procured in no time at all while you make a necklace of rats for it. The marmot person awakens at the first strike, held down by four people as the large fellow (apparently a mason) smashes one of its feet with it. The form of the strikes is admirable when one bears in mind his lack of training. The creature screams foul curses at first, then invokes the Great Leader between bouts of shrieking agony, its voice echoing throughout the courtyard and no doubt beyond as well. Most of the others do not seem to mind at all, observing with smiles on their faces.
When the mason gets to the third limb - the left hand - you can almost pinpoint the moment in which the marmot breaks. The hands are so much more sensitive, are they not? The creature gasps for air, courage going out of it completely. Its voice nearly gone from screaming, you hear it beg for death. The crowd emits a collective gasp. The three-eyed man looks intrigued, but stays silent. The old fellow raises an eyebrow, having remained largely disinterested throughout despite his close proximity.
"It speaks!" shouts a woman joyfully and laughs. The crowd cheers in unison, raising their arms. Just takes a little convincing, one man jeers from the back. Even a stoat can learn, another shouts. The ritual attendees guffaw. It is far, far too late for begging. The stoat's expression radiates perfection. Feelings of defeat, betrayal, loss. The back of your mind tingles as you contemplate its thoughts. The abandonment of all hope. What you are observing is true...
"Halt!" a voice interrupts your thoughts. You stumble a little, shaking off your little reverie. The mason has stopped, smiling at the new arrival. You look to see who it is.
It is a tall, grim and perhaps a little emaciated woman decked out in shining plate, her hand resting on a fine sword. The crowd glares at her like a pack of beasts, and the old guard steps forward, asking her to clarify the issue. She gives him a disdainful look - the stoat knows its place, she says. Grant it its request. She phrases it like an order, and you observe a flicker of doubt in the eyes of some of the congregation. The old man looks over at you, admitting that he would appreciate a greater degree of efficiency about this as well. Would you mind getting to the obliteration? This is a learning experience, not a torture session.
As he speaks, the knight draws her sword, beginning to stride toward you and the slab. She will do it. Move out of the way.
Eric Codeburn, COMPUTISTICS SPECIALIST
- Wounds: 4
- A Word: SUN
- A Word: MOON
- Anglefork Castle: Minister of Moronic Affairs
- The Impromptu Prophecy: Child of the Sun and Moon
- Adherents of the Great House: Enemy of Memory
- Well and Truly Narked Upon: 1
- Friends in Low Places: a Successful Transaction
- Subordinate Shining Stone (in orbit, 2 tons)
- Army of the New State: 600 Stoatmen
- Army of the New State: !!!!
- Gross Incandescence: Extra Crispy
- The Good Doctor: the Preferred Treatment
Leif Erikson, Miner
- Reappropriated, Clean Skirt
- 1 gp
- Anglefork Castle: A Different Sort of Confinement
- The Box: the Incident
- Induced Lucidity: Immaterial Concerns
- The Prison Stone
- Elongated Affairs: Beneath Contempt
- Elongated Affairs: A Noble Task
- Elongated Affairs: The Numbers of the Stoat
Eileen Minett, Vinyl Collector
- A Word: HUNGER
- Queenly Garments: the Humble Dress
- Sticks: 0.95 (total)
- Rat Pantheon: Disliked
- Traces of Mischief: Mouthful of Blackness
- The New Queen: ?
- Doomstones: A Disinterest
- Origins: Witness to Dissolution
- Tower of the Mind: a Tempting Idea
- Gross Incandescence: Highly Illuminated
- Inscribed Brick ('Water')
- The Voracious Dark: the First Deal Made
- Body Count: 1
- Army of the New State: !!!!
Jack Daniels, Karate Man
- Wounds: 1
- Voluntarily Naked
- The Winding Path of Inspiration: the Sword of Destiny
- The Winding Path of Inspiration: Something Profane?
- The Winding Path of Inspiration: Something Priceless?
- The Winding Path of Inspiration: Something Purple?
- Doomstones: an Interruption
- A Place In History: A Debacle Unanswered
- 2 rats, crushed
- 1 rat, strangled
- 1 rat, live
- Gross Incandescence: Unilluminated
- Travels In The Fourth Dimension: Sunday ± 2 Days
- The Impromptu Prophecy: Sol In Absentia
- The Turnkey's Prized Knife (loaned)
Thomas Minstep, Insurance Agent
- Anglefork Castle: Deluded Resident
- Traces of Mischief: Sandy Groin
- Gross Incandescence: Partly Illuminated
- Tight Leather Pants
- Travels In The Fourth Dimension: Friday, July 23rd, 409 S.D.
- The Majordomo: Happy to Help
- The Queen's Guard: Initial Processing