"Probably, I suppose. I'll see you in a bit then."
Well, let's follow the shouting in that case. Time to go make some people regret whatever course of fate brought them in contact with me.
The shouting has largely subsided by the time you make it to the docks, but you find the place easily enough. It's the largest warehouse in town, sturdy enough to have withstood the quake, and definitely sturdy enough to withstand a short siege, which seems to be the situation that's developed in the area. Most of the royal guards appear to be covering the two large entrances on opposite sides of the building and watching carefully for any escape attempts. A few are watching the dormers set into the warehouse's roof - you see one guard in particular nocking an arrow on her longbow as another one keeps a watchful eye on the windows.
[A Poke In The Eyes: 2 vs. 1+
1]
The spotter marks a shadow up top, and makes a discreet nod - the archer aims and looses an arrow at it without a word, the projectile flying into the window and disappearing. Eh, she says. Probably missed. Yeah, the spotter concedes, there'd probably be more screaming if she did. So that's one and a half for nineteen, he counts as he hands her another arrow. Oh come on, she grumbles back, one and a half? Definitely two, that second guy definitely fell off the attic. She heard it herself! Concentrate, the guy says back, or else she'll never make two in twenty. They both recommence scanning the roof.
As you watch, you notice the commander of the royal guard has walked up by your side. Remarkably quiet when she wants to be. You're finally here, she says with an air of relief, choosing not to question your noodly shape and count her blessings. You notice some distance behind her a delegation of the smarter guards, currently working on what looks like an improvised battering ram. Can you resolve this quickly? There are about a dozen holdouts in there, presumably not well-armed, but very much intent on wasting her time. If you could somehow make them regret this decision - preferably in an extremely painful fashion - she'd be very appreciative.
"Víðarr? Váli? Baldr? Höðr? Did anyone see how I ended up here?"
It sounds like time to try levitating down. Eyes closed. If I can't see them, they can't see me.
By the way, my totally real gods need ability to speak with my mouth whenever they want to say something to these mortals.
The resounding silence of "no comment" is all the answer you get from your gods. You suspect your wasted state might be filtering down to them more than they'd care to admit.
[A Quick Way Down: 1]
Lacking better input, you close your eyes and let your mind take you where it may, and where it takes you is on a long trip off a very short branch as you spread your arms and belly flop onto the soil below, getting a hearty faceful of dirt as you bounce off the ground and roll downhill, drunkenly flailing as you try to make the world stop spinning. Fortunately the environment compensates your incapabilities as you roll onto one of the nearest teepees. In fact, you nearly roll over it entirely, but the slight incline left in the wake of its collapse under your weight stops your progress.
As something panics below you, you utilize the momentum to half-roll to your feet, standing nakedly atop the freshly created ruins. A few Gallflies gather, lumpy and bulbous to a man, and whisper to each other as they regard you with obvious worry. You are about to offer greetings, but when you open your mouth only a 20-pound burp tinged with a little bit of vomit comes out. You decide to try and make up the difference with expressive gesturing, but when you lean forward to engage your tenuous balance gives in and you instead find yourself sprawled on the dirt, your naked ass in the air as the whispers turn to outright chatter.
Thomas shrugged. "Nothing that special, really. It was just the one big one. Quite an exciting duel, though. But yes, I am headed north toward Elizabeth. Then beyond that, past where the road ends. There is an airport... er, a place where metallic dragons land and take off. That is where I am headed. I am not sure how far past Elizabeth it is; hopefully someone there knows more detail."
Converse.
You're
looking for the Dragons? She seems incredulous. Most people tend to have a very healthy fear of them. Though she can see, she glances at the sword again, how you might not be quite like most people in a great number of ways.
She offers a smile. She was thinking of heading north also. Perhaps getting away from, she indicates the craters and the surrounding landscape, all this, you know. You wouldn't mind if she came along, would you? You seem like you would do well on the way. Rather... strong, she gently touches your arm again.
"I'm starting to dislike this place."
I guess there's only one real choice left. Downstairs into the light we go.
They sure know how to build their houses unsafe around here. You turn toward the only reasonable way remaining, and head downstairs, a bright light shining toward you from the open cellar door. The swaying of the staircase hardly even registers to you anymore.
[By The Light: 6]
Of course, this only makes it slightly disorienting when you get down there proper, the doctor following closely behind. If the rest of the house is teetering back and forth, the cellar appears to be the pivot around which it is doing so.
The first thing you notice is undoubtedly the enormous crack running across half the floor, up the wall and across the entire ceiling, imitating a seismic fault as its two sides rub against each other, heat and a great deal of light emanating from it as some form of eldritch friction takes place within the makeup of the house's foundation. The doctor steps in front of you a little as she takes a closer look. Good lord, she says. Is that thing
wagging the rest of the house? She looks at you, pointing at the crack. You're seeing this as well, aren't you, she says before suddenly what looks like a lightning bolt strikes out from the fault, wrapping a nearby barrel of well-aged ale in a bright and fuzzy webbing before pulling it into itself, never to be seen again. The doctor wisely backs away in response.
[The Better Half: 2]
You look thoughtfully at the relatively normal half of the cellar. It seems to feature a good deal of stuff - old furniture, including a few cupboards and cabinets. You poke at some of the sacks arranged in a row, revealing a downright decadent stockpile of salt, and also an errant sack of potatoes that's made its way in there. A particularly gauche tapestry seems to have partly fallen away from the wall, revealing a not-quite-man-sized rift in the wall which seems altogether less fresh than most of the structural defects of this house. You hear the scratching of stone on stone emanating from it, and sigh before looking back at the side of the room with the crack.
Yep, much of the good stuff seems to be over in the direction of the hungry reality aberration. At a glance, you see a stepladder in one of the corners, a bed no doubt belonging to a former servant complete with a set of rather humble men's clothing arranged on top of it, and a stack of barrels rolling gently back and forth as the cellar oscillates around them.
"Riiight. So what do you do here?"
Cautiously step inside, try to squeeze some blood from this stone.
The watchman cautiously avoids your eye as you squeeze through the crack after kicking it to a slightly more open state. Something cracks as the door gives way. Nothing to worry about, you are advised.
The place looks no brighter on the inside, although your face is proving to be a fairly handy flashlight. It's about what you would expect from a lone shed in a dismal swamp - a desk covered in rusty, though well-used embalming tools strewn about, horned skulls looking down on you from above. Your eye wanders along the wall and- oh dear, that is most definitely a human skeleton resting against that wall. Brown-boned and covered in scraps of skin and sinew as of yet unclaimed by swamp, it grins at you much like you'd expect before twitching suddenly, a low unearthly groan escaping from what should rationally be a complete lack of vocal cords.
Stare not, the watchman says, putting his misshapen shoulder to work as he pushes the door closed. You take this wonderful advice as his knobbly hands guide you to one side where a moldy, uneven leather loveseat upholstered seemingly entirely from the cured faces of various animals rests. On one side of it rests a bog-mummified person wearing only a shockingly well-preserved metal helmet with a faceplate reminiscent of a Chinese guardian lion. The rest of its outfit seems to have gone missing along the course of time and tide, though it appears not to particularly mind. To the left of it on the other cushion is a curious array of glass eyes, sharp implements and a good few stoppered bottles - the watchman gathers these up in a worn leather bag before taking a lumbering look around to see where he could put them - he settles on the mummified one's lap, and you note its hands start to fiddle bonelessly with the kit, fingers crawling over it like worms as it tilts its helmeted head this way and that.
The watchman guides you carefully to sit next to the helmeted thing, the loveseat conforming wetly to your shape, reminding you of a dozen questing snouts as it wriggles over you partly of its own accord. You try to find a place for your eye to rest - first on the watchman, who slides out of the way in displeasure, then on the skeleton again, which hisses in response, then on yet another pile of mystifying tools, which shuffle a little. Finally, you decide to simply stare dead-on at one of the wall-mounted skulls - either out of politeness or legitimate deadness it makes no move in response.
You let a brief silence descend as everything within gets comfortable with your presence. Um, you begin as you try to remember what your question was, what do they all do here? The question hangs with particular relevance as the watchman thinks and makes a discomfiting damp noise.
Here they while, he settles on an answer eventually. Fish. Every few years warn wanderers direly. Sometimes celebr-
The mummified one starts floppily banging its hand on the helmet, producing a ringing clear enough that you wonder how much of a head it actually possesses under the metal. Teeaaa, it forces out a long whine. The skeleton echoes this with a meaningful groan. The watchman shrugs. Tea sometimes also, he says as he goes to retrieve something gently hissing from behind the sofa. Want some?
Leif Erikson, Miner
- Naked
- A Word: INEVITABLE
- A Word: APOCALYPSE
- Induced Inebriation: Utterly Wasted
- Body Count: 228
- Mead of Poetry (5 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 Thief of Thoughts
- An Ancient Sea: The Hedonist's Inspiration
- The Miracle of Life: An Improper Guest
Eileen Minett, Vinyl Collector
- Naked
- Rusty, bloodstained knife
- A Word: HUNGER
- A Weapon: Explosive Cysts
- Grenade Jumping: A Solid Technique
- The Good Doctor: Fellow Naked And Confused Traveler
- Higher Tonight: There And Back Again
Jack Daniels, Karate Man
- Naked
- Red and gold vest and breeches combo
- Leather boots
- Traces of Mischief: 90% Boneless
- Wounds: 1
- 14033 gp (in sack)
- The Queen's Guard: Tentative 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
- Tower of the Mind: Endless Well of Mystery
- 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
- The Good Doctor: An Eager Listener
- Body Count: 3
Thomas Minstep, Insurance Agent
- Troubles In Anglefork Town: Bearer of the Sword
- A Word: ABSENCE
- A Word: GOODBYE
- The Doom Guard: A Productive Discussion
- A Weapon: The Sword They Fear
- 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 Good Doctor: An Island of Sanity
- The Queen's Guard: A Reward Well Earned
- The New Queen: Lasting Gratitude
- Lonely Roads: The Man, The Legend
- The One They Fear: A Satisfactory Contract
- The Box: Absolutely Delightful
- Body Count: 2
Oscar Wilde, Chemistry Teacher
- A Word: REVELATION
- Wounds: 2
- Traces of Mischief: Glowing Facial Rift
- The Serpent's Egg: Dissemination
- Body Count: 4
- 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
- Fuligin Gates: A Guest At The Watch-House
Author
Topic: Our Salvation: It Is Written (Read 262245 times)