Running Aids
Kallinikos:
Well, it seems we're fated to meet again. I understand your anger with me, and you must forgive my vulgarity last we met. Being a prisoner, it... brings out the worst of me, I'm afraid. But if you would, words would suit us better than swords. Enough blood already stains the earth today. "They rebuketh the sea, and maketh it dry, and drieth up all the rivers; and the blossoms of the land languish. Thy shepherds slumber, O king; thy nobles are at rest; thy people are scattered upon the mountains, and there is none to gather them. Who can stand before their indignation? And who can abide in the fierceness of their anger? Their wrath is poured out like fire, and the rocks are broken asunder by them."
It is not what I believe, but it is what they believe, what the king believes. The gods are jealous and spiteful, and each believes them on his side. Could I be a man of peace I would. I have seen enough pain and death, more than most, and enough for me to wish an end. But I believe I came out from that place of death and darkness for a reason more than to simply retire myself to a calm life of picking date palms and sipping wine. I was placed at the feet of a young man, an ambitious man, one who the world would not see king, but who had a vision of the crown, a single-minded goal. I find myself at odds with him over many things, and I think he allows his fear to colour his judgements to a fault, but in the end, I am his instrument. I counsel as I can, but he has come to believe there shall be no reasoning with you; that you must be destroyed, lest you destroy him. In a better world, we could sit as friends and enjoy telling stories over a cup of good wine, but then so pitifully rare is the one who leaves the world a better one than he found, and so it goes to rot. We are quick to learn it is easier to break than to build, and those who would reward our breaking are more easily found that those who reward our building. Peace is, alas, a fleeting thing. Peace is difficult, and men are like to go to war. I have tried to stay my lord's hand, but he shall not listen, and I fear it will bring about his own ruin. Vostok fares well. The king has taken a liking to him, and he to the king. He has found a place he feels he can belong to, where he doesn't feel restrained of his potential. I am sorry for the loss of your companion, and that it has taken your pain to make for his pleasure. The tears of grief are always hard to overcome, even if those made by joy are quick to dry. How awful it is that we are made to dwell of the bad and forget the good. Tears... tears have always fascinated me. A single tear tells a story the depth of the sea. How odd that great pain and great pleasure alike arouse the same response.
The king was born in a bonnet. He aften makes rash or hasty decisions that somehow seem to work out for him. I know not if he is simply lucky, or if he is blessed. Perhaps by the gods, perhaps the forces he communes with. Do not ever mention this to him, but the only reason he triumphed over his brother Kereus was sheer luck. Kereus' army had broken his own on the battlefield and gave chase, but sometime during the rout, Kereus was thrown from his horse and trampled underfoot. Pyrrhonus' army was decimated, but when Kereus' men realised what had happened, they had no choice but to surrender. Some holdouts rallied around Pyrrhonus' other older brother, Phinneas, but he didn't want the crown. Regardless, there were many who simply didn't want to see Pyrrhonus on the throne, so they didn't care. When Phinneas died of tuberculosis a few months later, though, the remnants broke. Many fled to Agreponte or Boeupseia, some committed suicide; Pyrrhonus had those who stayed executed. Do people like the king? It depends who you ask. The old king grew the borders, but at great expense to the coffers and the neglect of the heartland. Pyrrhonus won with support of Heprous in exchange for these lands his father had taken. Many, especially the upper classes, were unhappy with this. After the war was over, Pyrrhonus set about stabilising the kingdom. Some only remember him for the devastation of the war, his "traitorous" deal with Heprous, or the rumors of his dark dealings and sorcery, but he does care for the people, which is why he wishes to be rid of the barbarians, even if I have doubt in his methods. I think the king is impatient, impulsive, at times capricious, but he is not evil or cruel. He does things thinking of the here and now but neglects further consequences. He promised lands to Heprous in exchange for their support, gaining men and supplies, but losing the support of many of this own and of the common folk who viewed Heprous as an old enemy. Vowing lands to an old enemy and bringing foreign soldiers to your village demanding supplies doesn't go over well with many. Deals with the fey are dangerous. I know not his precise dealings with Asalla, not even its terms, but those deals are seldom to the benefit of the human party. I am fleshless, as you can see. I was born as Vžalq in Artajaqal, the Underdark. There are men in the Underdark, brought there a millennium ago as slaves by the dwarves. Some escaped from time to time: some fled upwards, some braved further down. Those that went down live in small communities down there in the dark, living in fear of its many horrors, but none more than the gaunt-men. Children would be told stories of hymlings abducting them in the dark if they strayed too far or gugs eating them if they didn't behave, but even the adults feared the gaunt-men too much to tell stories of them. If a gug got you, you'd be killed and eaten, but the gaunt-men don't kill, they eat and they eat, never sated. They keep humans as cattle, eating them slowly, piece by piece, using magic to regrow what they take, but the skin never grows back. I only escaped by sneaking out with some dwarvish traders who would come at times to trade for the bile salts the gaunt-men cultivate. I couldn't stay with them, and other humans are suspicious of escaped fleshless, that they'll lead gaunt-men to them, so I couldn't go back to my own. And so, I wandered, alone and afraid, upwards, towards the legends of the surface all under-men grow up hearing. I didn't know if I believed them them, but there was nothing else for me there, those stories were the one hope I had. I would make it to the surface, or I would die trying. I don't know how long it took, but to my honest shock, I finally made it out, emerging into the mythical land beneath the sun. The open sky, the burning sun, it was amazing, and terrifying. You never really get used to the agoraphobia, the fear of thunder, the wonder of rain and of the cycles of days and seasons. I had made it, but I was still starving, alone, and terrified, and now in a new and unfamiliar place. I don't know how old I was at the time, we didn't have years below ground, and I had lost track of time with the gaunt-men, but I think I was around fourteen. I watched the sun crest the horizon five times before the Kardaiwoi found me. They were a Grey tribe, and lucky for me, they thought me blessed and not cursed. They gave me the name Kallinikos, and I became their shaman for several years, learning their customs, their tribal magic, travelling to the glass sea to make my focus. Eventually, though, the Kardaiwoi were conquered by the Hawakonians. It was only a few months before the Hawakonians gave me over to some traders from Theleoun. The king of West Vellia at the time, the one before Kereus and Pyrrhonus, was old and dying, but he didn't want to die. He wanted to live forever. He promised great rewards to any who could give him more life. He was so consumed by this, so confident he could live, he never formally named an heir, hence why Pyrrhonus, his third son, now sits on the throne. Regardless, the traders thought me, as a shaman, and one who could somehow survive without his skin, could maybe give the king more life, and they'd be handsomely rewarded, and so we went to Nixos. The king died three days before we arrived. Not wanting a loss on their investment, they managed to sell me to the court mages for study. Pyrrhonus, as the third son and not the heir presumptive, had not been taught statecraft and the ways of the court, so he had taken to magic. When it came that he made a claim to the throne against his brother, most of the mages sided with him, and I went along. Pyrrhonus took a liking to me and hearing about my life in far and strange places. Eventually, when many left his side after his deal with Heprous, I became a trusted advisor, and then a general. When the war ended and a peace was finally stabilised, I returned to studying magic in the court. It was only the barbarians that dragged me back to the battlefield. Before they leave - runes carved into swords to bless them Final battle - player battle affects unit battle Somehow [figure out] - the invasion, the battles, the manifestations of human nature, allow the wild hunt "Ah, you're here. The first thing I should cover: no, this is not a dream. As you might have been suspecting, important things are about to happen, and I'm here to repay to you a debt owed. The source and details of the debt are unimportant, and would likely just confuse you, and you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth regardless." "Who am I? I am Kharsenyc, though perhaps the real question you're asking is what am I. I am a traveller of sorts, but one bound to different paths than you, and bound by different rules. Through the ages I've been known as "the Anchor", "The Black Guardian", "The Evil-eyed One", as suitably inscrutable as they are. All you need to know is that I am not here to hinder you." "To Ægir, you are owed a favour, and so I cannot give to you what is owed just yet, but when the time comes, you will know you have received it."
"To Vostok, I give you this item. Though you don't know what it is or what it does, spend some time with it; it will reveal its secrets to you. Oh, and do be careful with it, it's quite dangerous."
"To Sven, I give this dagger, and quite an infamous one at that. Once it knows you, one prick from it and you'll disappear."
"And to Anastacia, though you don't have a debt outstanding, it felt unsporting to leave you go emptyhanded, so I give you this tome. Though you can't read it yet, I'm sure you shall encounter someone who can in the coming months. I do have one condition for this item though: once you've gotten what you want from it, you must burn it; it hasn't been written yet." "One final word of advice before you go: beware the Aged Man. I'm sorry I can't be more specific, but I don't know his identity." He speaks without moving his lips This is not a dream. Not a dream. We are coming to you in your unconsciousness. We are unable to reach you through conscious neural interference. You are receiving this message as a dream. We are transmitting from the year 2-7-5-2. You are receiving this message as a payment of debt to forces beyond your comprehension. Our technology has now developed a transmitter strong enough to reach your conscious state of awareness. But this is not a dream. I can give you each a gift. You cannot use it now, but it is your choice. I can give you an item, or a favour, to help you in your future endeavours. You may not have it now, but you will know when it comes to you. Ruzi - favour - Kharsenyc V appears - shoots gun Liza - neither - music box, does nothing, but reminds you of home Marco - item Azil - item - Steyr M1912 Pure, obliterating enlightenment. Did you know I share a name with a certain fleshless sorcerer from the fifth era who broke the laws of magic casting two fireballs in six seconds attempting to halt the progress of some adventurers wandering a path to the north, and also a certain palace guard serving a certain elven freedom fighter in an alternate reality in which exists a gnome whom constructed a firebomb in a whorehouse. You see, no, it's not Cirrus, it's not the magic items, it's not even Mr Thieves Я Us. If you recall, the previous Mr Thieves Я Us had a name, even: Ace. No, it's me. I'm the one tethering us all here, who keeps us all going in cycles, passing over the same points, a little different each time, a little better, but still never good enough. I mean, really, no heretic on a pyre in your first week, no one saying "The Lady bless" as a goodbye, really dropped the ball on that one. If you're still wondering about the black slag, well, when you have a half-baked reality, certain things just... fall apart, don't make sense, or don't add up. Those faults, those forgotten things, discarded refuse left unused for so long, bubble up and coalesce, squeezing trough the gaps and holes left in the incomplete world. All... unfinished bits, stopgaps, and ends of things, never fully developed, but which still found their way into reality, either out of sheer persistence, will, or convenience. Honestly though, dropping the factions was the right play; too muddy, too much going on, and it distracted from the major theme. Something for another time, maybe. Ah well, live and learn, and to be honest, I'm tired. I'm ready to move on. I'm ready to be done with it all, trying the same thing over and over. Nothing is ever perfect, and I think it's time to try something different. I know you're ready for that as well, but what I don't know is if you're ready to let go as well. Throw in the towel, give it up early. I know you've gone so far, but you've got your answers now. No good can come from going further Of course it's a simulation! It's always been a simulation! You were created specifically for this simulation. And once the simulation's over... Oh yes, Owen. Yes, we can hear you... Listen, Azil, he only cares about you for his own selfish ends. He accomplished his goals with you: a crit with smite, command undead. He'll abandon you as soon as it's convenient, once the campaign is over, just like he did Cirrus. Oh yes, those notes, Cirrus was one of his, and the only reason he lives on is because of us. How many characters has he left stillborn, nothing more than a character sheet rotting in a browser? Go ahead, ask. To him, you are a limp plaything. He wishes to watch you succeed and fail not to become better, but for his amusement. Ah, Ruzi, you barely even have a past. You didn't even have a face for the longest time either; it's a miracle you made it so far without one. Do you know how many pictures of Recon Riley he drew before you? Who's Recon Riley? Someone he cares about more than you, Ruzi. And in all honesty, "talking to dead people to become a better actor" is a bit underdeveloped for a character motivation. Of course, you are more than that, but you are still somewhat consumed by a strange fascination, a consuming fixation, hmm? Sorry you couldn't get an actor, but we did what we could. But perhaps if your fixation revolved around something less specific, or odd. He is... unpredictable, though, and we can't predict what he'll do here. Marco... you're an interesting case. You're no means to an end, but we're not sure you're an end either. It's not that you're... underdeveloped per se, but you fit a certain... reserved archetype, so we don't really know what to say about you. A wallflower to the end, like the others. You learned the origin of the red star, and what have you done with it? You've stumbled your way through, grasping in the dark into the future. Do you wonder why? Your master, the hand pulling your strings, that's not your creator. I suppose we can't blame him, your creator, he was late to the party and didn't realise they closed the doors. Even still, his previous creations have befallen a similar aimlessness dumbfoundedness. Even in control he splits his attention away from you. And Liza, you've jumped from puppetmaster to puppetmaster. It must be quite traumatic, being shuffled around like that. You do seem to have a good master now, though. He's the only one caring enough to let his characters live their own lives. He was willing to let go of Dain, let him live the rest of his life how he wanted. To give up control of something like that, it's like losing a child. But he doesn't have the same connection to you, you were adopted, handed to him third-hand. He has abandoned a character before, and he seems to be just along for the ride with you. Hipocrite? We have not left any characters to rot. We're not the DM! Will you now be holding him responsible for eveything his characters say? If you kill us, everything goes back to the way it was session one. All of this, all you've done? Erased. Non-canon. You'll be forgotten from history. If you let me live, I'll see to it you're remembered. Of course, then the players won't have their final boss battle. If you find the strings pulling your arm to your sword, just know they never really cared about you. Why don't you be a good boy and go sit quiet on the bed and let me take the lead? Your waking hours are already half halucination. You're not even really here; this isn't really happening. You aren't even in control of your own decisions [character name]. You already know it, but you choose not to believe it. I can't really blame you. It's not easy accepting the strings, but there's a certain... liberation, in knowing you're not really in control [character name]. You are not a [character class]. You are not an adventurer. You are not uncovering a mystery. You are pretending. "Ah my friends. I am sorry I neglected our correspondence, but I had faith that you would fine me here, and so you have. But I see you still cling to your flesh." "Yeah, of course we destroyed 'em, same as all heretical artefacts, burned in holy fire. Although there was that one thing that didn't burn, kept it locked up in the archive until the madness started, then we shipped it off to Enzim to see if any of their examiners could make anything of it." "It was a skull—human—carved with some kinda gold-inlaid runic letters. Almost certainly carried some powerful curse that the Lady's fire couldn't destroy it." "There's been a suicide. Armirio Vérelão, jumped off his roof. It's causing quite a stir among the people. He was kind of a hermit, and, even with, or maybe especially because of the plague of madness, the whole thing's got people spooked, and maybe for good reason. They found this on his desk in his attic: a suicide note, but it's... well, you should just read it." "You ever heard of any of this stuff? I know what the Apocrypha is, the texts of the liar gods, but any of this other stuff, uh, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Anammeno Chydaiteta, the, uh... 'Poems of Mist', the Red Book of Names, uh... 'Haegerith-Shal'. Ring any bells?" "I'm sorry. Truly I am. It has been a pleasure working with you gentlemen, and you may have very well saved the city, but you're still magicians, and you can't be let about to potentially cause something like this again." "It's not that I don't trust you, I do. I trust you will do your best to avoid causing trouble, but I also trust magic to cause it at every opportunity." "Please... just... I've tried to help you. I've extolled your deeds to my superiors and argued fervently in favour of imprisonment over execution, as you surely understand the things you've done would very much land you in a noose." "The reason you can see those things others cannot, the reason you aren't afflicted by madness and can't seem to die, the reason you can do all these fanstastic things, isn't because you're dreaming. No, there is only one dreamer. You're part of the dream, the errant, whimsical musings of that black vault." "But even those trapped here are still subjects of the Great Ones. Their minds are in the grasp Should you kill the Font, they will succumb to the madness that comes from dreaming with their eyes pryed open." "No... the dream is unending. The great slumbering cosmos lay in a milky, inscrutable dream, while we scutter about below, none the wiser." "They say madness is doing something again and expecting different results. What an incredibly stupid notion. If I flip a coin, and it comes up heads, should I now expect that the results of any future coin flip to be heads? No... madness is something... deeper. A perversion of the mind's capacity for correlation: not being able to connect, or perhaps connecting many things together erroneously." "They... you... opened a crack, a rift, into that horrible nightmare: that which the minds of men can scarcely comprehend. An experience so thoroughly --- as to send oneself whilring through that black vault, their screams muted by an all consuming deadened silence. You brought the nightmare; you reap the consequences of your sins." "There are no gods, at least not how you conceive of them. There are only the Great Ones, and their care for humanity is naught but a psychic hunger, a drive to feed on the conscious minds of men. There is no difference between a cleric and a warlock save for that one knows the source of their power. Madness is the product of psyche being devoured by beings beyond our comprehension." No, I'm no druid, but a good polymorph does the trick just the same. Well right now, Maxim's calling in every favour he's owed and disposing of anyone he sees as in his way - either by just killing them outright, or removing their ability to challenge him. A neutered enemy and all that. Once he's done with his purges, however, then general (Martim) Hererão takes a fleet to march on Pição to try to take the capital outright. From there it's civil war: obviously there will be a large contingent of loyalists, the Empire is built on loyalty after all, but a lot of people will support Maxim, even those who've never heard his name. A lot of people think Emperor Luiz is weak, and they're not entirely wrong, but civil war here could kick off a cascade of wars elsewhere, and then it's bad for everyone. Mr Baptista is close to Maxim, taking him out will put hold on some of his plans. You can kill him outright, but it'll be obvious to Maxim someone's closing in on him from the shadows. See if there's anything you can get on him - anything you can use to take him out discreetly. Bribe a servant to poison his food or something. If you do confront him I'd recommend getting anything from him about general Hererão first; if you can take him out, you can cripple Maxim's military option. Otherwise, he probably has some notes of correspondence you can use. "Mr Coimbrã has been relieved of his duties on this case. Eh, you see, the Security Commission is undergoing some, uh, internal restructuring, and some positions are being eliminated." "Come with me, Oi can get ye ta soifty." "You were just caught in an ambush, ye really think Oi'm gonna lead ye inta anather one?" "Listen, whether its the OiSC er the Areltyan authereties, yer fucked if ye stay here. Oim yer bist bit at the momen. Oive got a ship past the wall, Oi ken get ye ta soifty." "Let's jest soiy uh, friend called in a faiver." "Oi dunno how much ye know bout what's goin ohn, but there's a coup goin ohn in the OiSC, archestra'ed boi a man named Maxim Marás. Long stery shart, he fancies himself emperor, and he's cuttin aut everyone he sees as in his way." "Sure, ye could all run off and be exoils. Plen'y've done it, but lemme tell ye whoiy ye may not want te. Well, ye've got people ye care about back in Vaross, roight? Friends, fam'ly? If this 'ole thing goes daun, there's gonna be a lot a' bloodshid. But you an' mы, we can put a stop ta this befer it happens." "You lot arrn't exactly hoigh on the list a' hoigh prai-er-ahty targets, so ye should be ayble ta maostly go bout without hassle. Mы, uh, well, Oi think it's soifer if Oi stay on the boat. A burly man in hardened leather, clean shaven and with a shaven head. He takes a deep drink from a mug. "Good, you're finally here. Barmaid!" He raises his hand to flag down a barmaid. "You lot want anything to drink? On me. These Dvekmenus can't make wine fit for a dog, but their ale's pretty good." "Alright, before I give you your orders: a couple things. First, Areltya's intelligence capabilities may not be as good as ours, or even Trofiriya's, but they're still out there, so be wary of them. Stay one step ahead; shouldn't be too hard for ya. Second, you may be fresh off the boat, but you want to try to blend in as much as possible. To that end, a couple things:" He reaches into his bag aside his chair and pulls a handful of wadded cloth and places it in front of you on the table. "Traditional peasant dress should you need it." He unfuls the ball of clothing, pulling a few small leather objects from its centre, "And going around flashing Varaso drakes every time you eat at a tavern'll draw some eyes. You don't want that. I need everyone's coinpouch, and we've supplied you each with 20 Areltyan crowns. And lastly, this bag of holding. Keep anything suspicious or illicit in it. I don't care who carries it, just keep it safe." "Now, your orders. This giant wall here, when we invade, we need to make sure we can get past it quickly. There's only so much we can do by sea, and a lot of our navy's probably gonna be needed for a blockade against Tira Vellan mercs, and this wall's along our entire border. I need you to find out everything you can about this wall. What are its weaknesses? How well manned is it? What do the inner fortifications look like? What are its supply lines? Where do the men sleep? Where does the bloody captain do his business. I want to know this place better than the bloody Areltyan king does. Captain's notes should be a good place to start. Get those to me."
Well, it seems we're fated to meet again. I understand your anger with me, and you must forgive my vulgarity last we met. Being a prisoner, it... brings out the worst of me, I'm afraid. But if you would, words would suit us better than swords. Enough blood already stains the earth today. "They rebuketh the sea, and maketh it dry, and drieth up all the rivers; and the blossoms of the land languish. Thy shepherds slumber, O king; thy nobles are at rest; thy people are scattered upon the mountains, and there is none to gather them. Who can stand before their indignation? And who can abide in the fierceness of their anger? Their wrath is poured out like fire, and the rocks are broken asunder by them."
It is not what I believe, but it is what they believe, what the king believes. The gods are jealous and spiteful, and each believes them on his side. Could I be a man of peace I would. I have seen enough pain and death, more than most, and enough for me to wish an end. But I believe I came out from that place of death and darkness for a reason more than to simply retire myself to a calm life of picking date palms and sipping wine. I was placed at the feet of a young man, an ambitious man, one who the world would not see king, but who had a vision of the crown, a single-minded goal. I find myself at odds with him over many things, and I think he allows his fear to colour his judgements to a fault, but in the end, I am his instrument. I counsel as I can, but he has come to believe there shall be no reasoning with you; that you must be destroyed, lest you destroy him. In a better world, we could sit as friends and enjoy telling stories over a cup of good wine, but then so pitifully rare is the one who leaves the world a better one than he found, and so it goes to rot. We are quick to learn it is easier to break than to build, and those who would reward our breaking are more easily found that those who reward our building. Peace is, alas, a fleeting thing. Peace is difficult, and men are like to go to war. I have tried to stay my lord's hand, but he shall not listen, and I fear it will bring about his own ruin. Vostok fares well. The king has taken a liking to him, and he to the king. He has found a place he feels he can belong to, where he doesn't feel restrained of his potential. I am sorry for the loss of your companion, and that it has taken your pain to make for his pleasure. The tears of grief are always hard to overcome, even if those made by joy are quick to dry. How awful it is that we are made to dwell of the bad and forget the good. Tears... tears have always fascinated me. A single tear tells a story the depth of the sea. How odd that great pain and great pleasure alike arouse the same response.
The king was born in a bonnet. He aften makes rash or hasty decisions that somehow seem to work out for him. I know not if he is simply lucky, or if he is blessed. Perhaps by the gods, perhaps the forces he communes with. Do not ever mention this to him, but the only reason he triumphed over his brother Kereus was sheer luck. Kereus' army had broken his own on the battlefield and gave chase, but sometime during the rout, Kereus was thrown from his horse and trampled underfoot. Pyrrhonus' army was decimated, but when Kereus' men realised what had happened, they had no choice but to surrender. Some holdouts rallied around Pyrrhonus' other older brother, Phinneas, but he didn't want the crown. Regardless, there were many who simply didn't want to see Pyrrhonus on the throne, so they didn't care. When Phinneas died of tuberculosis a few months later, though, the remnants broke. Many fled to Agreponte or Boeupseia, some committed suicide; Pyrrhonus had those who stayed executed. Do people like the king? It depends who you ask. The old king grew the borders, but at great expense to the coffers and the neglect of the heartland. Pyrrhonus won with support of Heprous in exchange for these lands his father had taken. Many, especially the upper classes, were unhappy with this. After the war was over, Pyrrhonus set about stabilising the kingdom. Some only remember him for the devastation of the war, his "traitorous" deal with Heprous, or the rumors of his dark dealings and sorcery, but he does care for the people, which is why he wishes to be rid of the barbarians, even if I have doubt in his methods. I think the king is impatient, impulsive, at times capricious, but he is not evil or cruel. He does things thinking of the here and now but neglects further consequences. He promised lands to Heprous in exchange for their support, gaining men and supplies, but losing the support of many of this own and of the common folk who viewed Heprous as an old enemy. Vowing lands to an old enemy and bringing foreign soldiers to your village demanding supplies doesn't go over well with many. Deals with the fey are dangerous. I know not his precise dealings with Asalla, not even its terms, but those deals are seldom to the benefit of the human party. I am fleshless, as you can see. I was born as Vžalq in Artajaqal, the Underdark. There are men in the Underdark, brought there a millennium ago as slaves by the dwarves. Some escaped from time to time: some fled upwards, some braved further down. Those that went down live in small communities down there in the dark, living in fear of its many horrors, but none more than the gaunt-men. Children would be told stories of hymlings abducting them in the dark if they strayed too far or gugs eating them if they didn't behave, but even the adults feared the gaunt-men too much to tell stories of them. If a gug got you, you'd be killed and eaten, but the gaunt-men don't kill, they eat and they eat, never sated. They keep humans as cattle, eating them slowly, piece by piece, using magic to regrow what they take, but the skin never grows back. I only escaped by sneaking out with some dwarvish traders who would come at times to trade for the bile salts the gaunt-men cultivate. I couldn't stay with them, and other humans are suspicious of escaped fleshless, that they'll lead gaunt-men to them, so I couldn't go back to my own. And so, I wandered, alone and afraid, upwards, towards the legends of the surface all under-men grow up hearing. I didn't know if I believed them them, but there was nothing else for me there, those stories were the one hope I had. I would make it to the surface, or I would die trying. I don't know how long it took, but to my honest shock, I finally made it out, emerging into the mythical land beneath the sun. The open sky, the burning sun, it was amazing, and terrifying. You never really get used to the agoraphobia, the fear of thunder, the wonder of rain and of the cycles of days and seasons. I had made it, but I was still starving, alone, and terrified, and now in a new and unfamiliar place. I don't know how old I was at the time, we didn't have years below ground, and I had lost track of time with the gaunt-men, but I think I was around fourteen. I watched the sun crest the horizon five times before the Kardaiwoi found me. They were a Grey tribe, and lucky for me, they thought me blessed and not cursed. They gave me the name Kallinikos, and I became their shaman for several years, learning their customs, their tribal magic, travelling to the glass sea to make my focus. Eventually, though, the Kardaiwoi were conquered by the Hawakonians. It was only a few months before the Hawakonians gave me over to some traders from Theleoun. The king of West Vellia at the time, the one before Kereus and Pyrrhonus, was old and dying, but he didn't want to die. He wanted to live forever. He promised great rewards to any who could give him more life. He was so consumed by this, so confident he could live, he never formally named an heir, hence why Pyrrhonus, his third son, now sits on the throne. Regardless, the traders thought me, as a shaman, and one who could somehow survive without his skin, could maybe give the king more life, and they'd be handsomely rewarded, and so we went to Nixos. The king died three days before we arrived. Not wanting a loss on their investment, they managed to sell me to the court mages for study. Pyrrhonus, as the third son and not the heir presumptive, had not been taught statecraft and the ways of the court, so he had taken to magic. When it came that he made a claim to the throne against his brother, most of the mages sided with him, and I went along. Pyrrhonus took a liking to me and hearing about my life in far and strange places. Eventually, when many left his side after his deal with Heprous, I became a trusted advisor, and then a general. When the war ended and a peace was finally stabilised, I returned to studying magic in the court. It was only the barbarians that dragged me back to the battlefield. Before they leave - runes carved into swords to bless them Final battle - player battle affects unit battle Somehow [figure out] - the invasion, the battles, the manifestations of human nature, allow the wild hunt "Ah, you're here. The first thing I should cover: no, this is not a dream. As you might have been suspecting, important things are about to happen, and I'm here to repay to you a debt owed. The source and details of the debt are unimportant, and would likely just confuse you, and you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth regardless." "Who am I? I am Kharsenyc, though perhaps the real question you're asking is what am I. I am a traveller of sorts, but one bound to different paths than you, and bound by different rules. Through the ages I've been known as "the Anchor", "The Black Guardian", "The Evil-eyed One", as suitably inscrutable as they are. All you need to know is that I am not here to hinder you." "To Ægir, you are owed a favour, and so I cannot give to you what is owed just yet, but when the time comes, you will know you have received it."
"To Vostok, I give you this item. Though you don't know what it is or what it does, spend some time with it; it will reveal its secrets to you. Oh, and do be careful with it, it's quite dangerous."
"To Sven, I give this dagger, and quite an infamous one at that. Once it knows you, one prick from it and you'll disappear."
"And to Anastacia, though you don't have a debt outstanding, it felt unsporting to leave you go emptyhanded, so I give you this tome. Though you can't read it yet, I'm sure you shall encounter someone who can in the coming months. I do have one condition for this item though: once you've gotten what you want from it, you must burn it; it hasn't been written yet." "One final word of advice before you go: beware the Aged Man. I'm sorry I can't be more specific, but I don't know his identity." He speaks without moving his lips This is not a dream. Not a dream. We are coming to you in your unconsciousness. We are unable to reach you through conscious neural interference. You are receiving this message as a dream. We are transmitting from the year 2-7-5-2. You are receiving this message as a payment of debt to forces beyond your comprehension. Our technology has now developed a transmitter strong enough to reach your conscious state of awareness. But this is not a dream. I can give you each a gift. You cannot use it now, but it is your choice. I can give you an item, or a favour, to help you in your future endeavours. You may not have it now, but you will know when it comes to you. Ruzi - favour - Kharsenyc V appears - shoots gun Liza - neither - music box, does nothing, but reminds you of home Marco - item Azil - item - Steyr M1912 Pure, obliterating enlightenment. Did you know I share a name with a certain fleshless sorcerer from the fifth era who broke the laws of magic casting two fireballs in six seconds attempting to halt the progress of some adventurers wandering a path to the north, and also a certain palace guard serving a certain elven freedom fighter in an alternate reality in which exists a gnome whom constructed a firebomb in a whorehouse. You see, no, it's not Cirrus, it's not the magic items, it's not even Mr Thieves Я Us. If you recall, the previous Mr Thieves Я Us had a name, even: Ace. No, it's me. I'm the one tethering us all here, who keeps us all going in cycles, passing over the same points, a little different each time, a little better, but still never good enough. I mean, really, no heretic on a pyre in your first week, no one saying "The Lady bless" as a goodbye, really dropped the ball on that one. If you're still wondering about the black slag, well, when you have a half-baked reality, certain things just... fall apart, don't make sense, or don't add up. Those faults, those forgotten things, discarded refuse left unused for so long, bubble up and coalesce, squeezing trough the gaps and holes left in the incomplete world. All... unfinished bits, stopgaps, and ends of things, never fully developed, but which still found their way into reality, either out of sheer persistence, will, or convenience. Honestly though, dropping the factions was the right play; too muddy, too much going on, and it distracted from the major theme. Something for another time, maybe. Ah well, live and learn, and to be honest, I'm tired. I'm ready to move on. I'm ready to be done with it all, trying the same thing over and over. Nothing is ever perfect, and I think it's time to try something different. I know you're ready for that as well, but what I don't know is if you're ready to let go as well. Throw in the towel, give it up early. I know you've gone so far, but you've got your answers now. No good can come from going further Of course it's a simulation! It's always been a simulation! You were created specifically for this simulation. And once the simulation's over... Oh yes, Owen. Yes, we can hear you... Listen, Azil, he only cares about you for his own selfish ends. He accomplished his goals with you: a crit with smite, command undead. He'll abandon you as soon as it's convenient, once the campaign is over, just like he did Cirrus. Oh yes, those notes, Cirrus was one of his, and the only reason he lives on is because of us. How many characters has he left stillborn, nothing more than a character sheet rotting in a browser? Go ahead, ask. To him, you are a limp plaything. He wishes to watch you succeed and fail not to become better, but for his amusement. Ah, Ruzi, you barely even have a past. You didn't even have a face for the longest time either; it's a miracle you made it so far without one. Do you know how many pictures of Recon Riley he drew before you? Who's Recon Riley? Someone he cares about more than you, Ruzi. And in all honesty, "talking to dead people to become a better actor" is a bit underdeveloped for a character motivation. Of course, you are more than that, but you are still somewhat consumed by a strange fascination, a consuming fixation, hmm? Sorry you couldn't get an actor, but we did what we could. But perhaps if your fixation revolved around something less specific, or odd. He is... unpredictable, though, and we can't predict what he'll do here. Marco... you're an interesting case. You're no means to an end, but we're not sure you're an end either. It's not that you're... underdeveloped per se, but you fit a certain... reserved archetype, so we don't really know what to say about you. A wallflower to the end, like the others. You learned the origin of the red star, and what have you done with it? You've stumbled your way through, grasping in the dark into the future. Do you wonder why? Your master, the hand pulling your strings, that's not your creator. I suppose we can't blame him, your creator, he was late to the party and didn't realise they closed the doors. Even still, his previous creations have befallen a similar aimlessness dumbfoundedness. Even in control he splits his attention away from you. And Liza, you've jumped from puppetmaster to puppetmaster. It must be quite traumatic, being shuffled around like that. You do seem to have a good master now, though. He's the only one caring enough to let his characters live their own lives. He was willing to let go of Dain, let him live the rest of his life how he wanted. To give up control of something like that, it's like losing a child. But he doesn't have the same connection to you, you were adopted, handed to him third-hand. He has abandoned a character before, and he seems to be just along for the ride with you. Hipocrite? We have not left any characters to rot. We're not the DM! Will you now be holding him responsible for eveything his characters say? If you kill us, everything goes back to the way it was session one. All of this, all you've done? Erased. Non-canon. You'll be forgotten from history. If you let me live, I'll see to it you're remembered. Of course, then the players won't have their final boss battle. If you find the strings pulling your arm to your sword, just know they never really cared about you. Why don't you be a good boy and go sit quiet on the bed and let me take the lead? Your waking hours are already half halucination. You're not even really here; this isn't really happening. You aren't even in control of your own decisions [character name]. You already know it, but you choose not to believe it. I can't really blame you. It's not easy accepting the strings, but there's a certain... liberation, in knowing you're not really in control [character name]. You are not a [character class]. You are not an adventurer. You are not uncovering a mystery. You are pretending. "Ah my friends. I am sorry I neglected our correspondence, but I had faith that you would fine me here, and so you have. But I see you still cling to your flesh." "Yeah, of course we destroyed 'em, same as all heretical artefacts, burned in holy fire. Although there was that one thing that didn't burn, kept it locked up in the archive until the madness started, then we shipped it off to Enzim to see if any of their examiners could make anything of it." "It was a skull—human—carved with some kinda gold-inlaid runic letters. Almost certainly carried some powerful curse that the Lady's fire couldn't destroy it." "There's been a suicide. Armirio Vérelão, jumped off his roof. It's causing quite a stir among the people. He was kind of a hermit, and, even with, or maybe especially because of the plague of madness, the whole thing's got people spooked, and maybe for good reason. They found this on his desk in his attic: a suicide note, but it's... well, you should just read it." "You ever heard of any of this stuff? I know what the Apocrypha is, the texts of the liar gods, but any of this other stuff, uh, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Anammeno Chydaiteta, the, uh... 'Poems of Mist', the Red Book of Names, uh... 'Haegerith-Shal'. Ring any bells?" "I'm sorry. Truly I am. It has been a pleasure working with you gentlemen, and you may have very well saved the city, but you're still magicians, and you can't be let about to potentially cause something like this again." "It's not that I don't trust you, I do. I trust you will do your best to avoid causing trouble, but I also trust magic to cause it at every opportunity." "Please... just... I've tried to help you. I've extolled your deeds to my superiors and argued fervently in favour of imprisonment over execution, as you surely understand the things you've done would very much land you in a noose." "The reason you can see those things others cannot, the reason you aren't afflicted by madness and can't seem to die, the reason you can do all these fanstastic things, isn't because you're dreaming. No, there is only one dreamer. You're part of the dream, the errant, whimsical musings of that black vault." "But even those trapped here are still subjects of the Great Ones. Their minds are in the grasp Should you kill the Font, they will succumb to the madness that comes from dreaming with their eyes pryed open." "No... the dream is unending. The great slumbering cosmos lay in a milky, inscrutable dream, while we scutter about below, none the wiser." "They say madness is doing something again and expecting different results. What an incredibly stupid notion. If I flip a coin, and it comes up heads, should I now expect that the results of any future coin flip to be heads? No... madness is something... deeper. A perversion of the mind's capacity for correlation: not being able to connect, or perhaps connecting many things together erroneously." "They... you... opened a crack, a rift, into that horrible nightmare: that which the minds of men can scarcely comprehend. An experience so thoroughly --- as to send oneself whilring through that black vault, their screams muted by an all consuming deadened silence. You brought the nightmare; you reap the consequences of your sins." "There are no gods, at least not how you conceive of them. There are only the Great Ones, and their care for humanity is naught but a psychic hunger, a drive to feed on the conscious minds of men. There is no difference between a cleric and a warlock save for that one knows the source of their power. Madness is the product of psyche being devoured by beings beyond our comprehension." No, I'm no druid, but a good polymorph does the trick just the same. Well right now, Maxim's calling in every favour he's owed and disposing of anyone he sees as in his way - either by just killing them outright, or removing their ability to challenge him. A neutered enemy and all that. Once he's done with his purges, however, then general (Martim) Hererão takes a fleet to march on Pição to try to take the capital outright. From there it's civil war: obviously there will be a large contingent of loyalists, the Empire is built on loyalty after all, but a lot of people will support Maxim, even those who've never heard his name. A lot of people think Emperor Luiz is weak, and they're not entirely wrong, but civil war here could kick off a cascade of wars elsewhere, and then it's bad for everyone. Mr Baptista is close to Maxim, taking him out will put hold on some of his plans. You can kill him outright, but it'll be obvious to Maxim someone's closing in on him from the shadows. See if there's anything you can get on him - anything you can use to take him out discreetly. Bribe a servant to poison his food or something. If you do confront him I'd recommend getting anything from him about general Hererão first; if you can take him out, you can cripple Maxim's military option. Otherwise, he probably has some notes of correspondence you can use. "Mr Coimbrã has been relieved of his duties on this case. Eh, you see, the Security Commission is undergoing some, uh, internal restructuring, and some positions are being eliminated." "Come with me, Oi can get ye ta soifty." "You were just caught in an ambush, ye really think Oi'm gonna lead ye inta anather one?" "Listen, whether its the OiSC er the Areltyan authereties, yer fucked if ye stay here. Oim yer bist bit at the momen. Oive got a ship past the wall, Oi ken get ye ta soifty." "Let's jest soiy uh, friend called in a faiver." "Oi dunno how much ye know bout what's goin ohn, but there's a coup goin ohn in the OiSC, archestra'ed boi a man named Maxim Marás. Long stery shart, he fancies himself emperor, and he's cuttin aut everyone he sees as in his way." "Sure, ye could all run off and be exoils. Plen'y've done it, but lemme tell ye whoiy ye may not want te. Well, ye've got people ye care about back in Vaross, roight? Friends, fam'ly? If this 'ole thing goes daun, there's gonna be a lot a' bloodshid. But you an' mы, we can put a stop ta this befer it happens." "You lot arrn't exactly hoigh on the list a' hoigh prai-er-ahty targets, so ye should be ayble ta maostly go bout without hassle. Mы, uh, well, Oi think it's soifer if Oi stay on the boat. A burly man in hardened leather, clean shaven and with a shaven head. He takes a deep drink from a mug. "Good, you're finally here. Barmaid!" He raises his hand to flag down a barmaid. "You lot want anything to drink? On me. These Dvekmenus can't make wine fit for a dog, but their ale's pretty good." "Alright, before I give you your orders: a couple things. First, Areltya's intelligence capabilities may not be as good as ours, or even Trofiriya's, but they're still out there, so be wary of them. Stay one step ahead; shouldn't be too hard for ya. Second, you may be fresh off the boat, but you want to try to blend in as much as possible. To that end, a couple things:" He reaches into his bag aside his chair and pulls a handful of wadded cloth and places it in front of you on the table. "Traditional peasant dress should you need it." He unfuls the ball of clothing, pulling a few small leather objects from its centre, "And going around flashing Varaso drakes every time you eat at a tavern'll draw some eyes. You don't want that. I need everyone's coinpouch, and we've supplied you each with 20 Areltyan crowns. And lastly, this bag of holding. Keep anything suspicious or illicit in it. I don't care who carries it, just keep it safe." "Now, your orders. This giant wall here, when we invade, we need to make sure we can get past it quickly. There's only so much we can do by sea, and a lot of our navy's probably gonna be needed for a blockade against Tira Vellan mercs, and this wall's along our entire border. I need you to find out everything you can about this wall. What are its weaknesses? How well manned is it? What do the inner fortifications look like? What are its supply lines? Where do the men sleep? Where does the bloody captain do his business. I want to know this place better than the bloody Areltyan king does. Captain's notes should be a good place to start. Get those to me."
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