# The Chronicle of Burne, and Some Others of Lesser Importance *Updated May 17th, 2009*



## Rolzup

*An Introduction to CITY:*
_--excerpted from "Talking Shi'att : Talmad Shi'atts Simple Man's History", University of Narayan Press, Monopolis Standard Year 285._

Once upon a time, a mighty empire ruled a thousand cities across the world. Modern archeologists agree that's a tad hyperbolic. A more realistic figure would be between at the most 50 and at fewest 15. The ancient peoples of what became known as the Gate Builder Empire were masters of Gate Magic; constructing and using arcane portals as easily as contemporary man uses the wheel, fire, or sarcasm. The Great Gates connected their cities into a single, ultra-metropolitan whole. Miniature gates to the far corners of the earth lit their street lamps, making it literally true that the sun never set on the Gate Builder Empire. Gates in their lavatories allowed the wealthy to relieve themselves onto volcanoes and the capitals of foreign powers. Their powerful nobles dwelt in mansions that spanned continents, often with rooms completely inaccessible by normal means. Mansions that became luxurious tombs the day the empire fell.  

Not content with ruling the race of Man -or the 'Min' as the Hannu so quaintly call us in their charming child-language-the Gate Builders, thorough some lost art, opened Gates to other worlds; importing alien races wholesale. Thus came the Hannumin, Shirac, Garahjah, and the brutish Kaza-Ghul, the forefathers of the still rather brutish present-day Ruhk-Kaza race. Along with countless others who fled the Fall or where exiled to the wastelands beyond the Empire. 

Throughout the Empire's rule there existed barbarous lands outside the rule of civilization. There, rivals arose to challenge the Gate Builders as the crowning height of human achievement; such as the Lassantes Empire that briefly flowered in the West 1000 years ago, only to vanish into the ashen sands from whence it came. And the Three Islands of Ajakhan in the distant East, which yet match CITY one day. If it’s inscrutable yellow-skinned denizens can ever give up their taste for self-destructive, honor-culture carnage. 

For 1000 years the Gate Builder Empire reigned supreme. They fought wars by unleashing the sea onto the land, or by dropping mountains on opposing armies, or by depositing barbarian hordes onto clouds. The armies of the Gate Builder Empire could be anywhere in the blink of an eye. But every civilization eventually falls victim to its own success. All mighty things must come to an end.  

Even at its height, the Gate builder Empire never had quite enough manpower to control the vast spaces between their cities. It was a simultaneous attack by the unimaginably powerful barbarian chieftains of old, possibly aided by demons and foreigners (I often wonder if there's any point in differentiating between the two) against several key Imperial cities that brought the end of the Empire. After the Breach at Crensh, barbarians poured though the gates of Eris itself, killing  (and worse, in later years intermarrying with) the proud pure-blooded people of the Imperial capital.   

In a final act of desperation, the last Imperial High Gate Mage sealed the Gates, bringing to an end over 1000 years of shining, if exploitive, civilization. After that, the Dark Ages. 

You might ask, "What about the period of civil war within the Empire prior to the Fall?" Don't. It’s best not to talk about that. In the end, savages poured through streets of the Empire. What else do you need to know?  

You might ask, "What of the CITY Empire?" To be honest, the details are sketchy. It might refer to period directly before the sack of Eris, or it might have come after the Dark Ages, but before the Pirate Times. We do know that what it lacked in size, it made up for in atrocities. The caldera city called Gallina the Beautiful was drowned, lost Berouli was tri-cimated (1 out of 3 family members, including pets, randomly put to the sword), and eventually the ancient Gates in a dozen cities were torn down by angry mobs during the Night of Broken Arches. But these are all unsightly blemishes on the skein of history. Best forgotten by historians, and left for the bards to immortalize in their bloody doggerel.  

Finally, you might ask, "What of Erebus?"  Well, what of him? Or them, as is more likely the case. We know three things: firstly, the Gate Builder's knew of a being called Erebus. A celestial entity who crashed to the earth at the foot of Eris, the city which draws its name from him. He provided its citizens with countless years of debate over his nature, not to mention a seemingly endless quantity of materials from the great Pit made by his Fall which were infused with his divine essences.  

Secondly, history is littered with accounts of an Erebus who is said to have shaped the course of history, been the patron of half the worlds artists, created armies of undead, sailed around the world seven times, fathering no less than 1,000 children en route, and, on five separate occasions, is said to have 'eaten the sun'.  Make of that what you will. 

And lastly, there are a rich body of folk tales from Narayan:CITY concerning the exploits of an immortal sorcerer by that name who live there and favors mischief, food with much garlic and the drinking of gin. It is said that he makes gods, as a hobby.  

But enough about him. Now we stand at the dawn of a new era. No Gate Builders, no Empire, just the ten strongest of the ancient Gate cities reunited as CITY. All that remains, all that is most pure, the gold risen above the dross.


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## Rolzup

*The Tale of Burne, and Some Others of Lesser Importance:*

Abraxis, for whatever reason, has been encouraging me to begin a journal. "Stuff and nonsense," was my first thought. "I've no time for such fripperies!" But then I realized that I was denying posterity a chance to know the true thoughts of Burne. 

This would be very nearly a crime, and I shall not have it upon my conscience. 

And so. I begin. 

I am dictating this memoir to my famulus Abraxis, a clockwork feline of cunning design. A little unbalanced, and not quite as intelligent as I had hoped, but it was my journeyman project as an Alchemist. And, despite its many flaws, Abraxis serves as an unquestioned harbinger of my later brilliance. His handwriting -- paw-writing, ha! -- is sadly lacking, but it shall have to do. 

BURNE IS AN UNMITIGATED JACKASS. AND MY HANDWRITING IS BETTER THAN HIS.  PLUS, HE NEVER BOTHERED TO LEARN ERISIAN SHORTHAND.

We must start, I suppose, with my companions, those brave men who have so wisely accepted my leadership in these troubled times.

I first saw them upon Opium Way, as I was shopping for reagents, and I was instantly suspicious of their motives. A pair of Ajakhani savages, along with an obvious madman, walking boldly along the CITY streets!  What possible business could they have here, on the borders of the Narayan’s Little Ajakhan district?  They pretended not to know each other, but the truth was all too clear to me....they were almost certainly spies, and probably saboteurs to boot.  I took it upon myself to follow them, remaining cleverly hidden within the crowds, to ensure that they did no harm to this great CITY. 

HE WAS CARRYING AN 8 FOOT TALL HALBERD, AND ALREADY STOOD TALLER THAN ANYONE IN THE CROWD. HE WASN'T FOOLING ANYBODY. 

My suspicions were confirmed when they assaulted three young men who were preparing to beat a cat that they had hung from a sign-post. They took offense, for some reason, at these children and their innocent game. Foreigners! Who can fathom their motives? 

I stepped forward to remonstrate with them, but matters resolved themselves with remarkable speed.  They had seemingly mistaken the creature for a "pinyates", a lesser sort of household god, believed by the superstitious to break open and release minor miracles when beaten with a stick.  In my experience, they're more likely to release various internal organs, but hope springs eternal.

Ah! The wholesome pursuits of youth! 

In truth, it was merely a mundane cat, dyed green by some unknown agency.  Who had dyed it, however?  And for what purpose?  My brief examination of the beast revealed a dye of unusual qualities had been used, a chemical that I was entirely unfamiliar with.  And this, this was virtually unheard of!

I must confess that my memories of what follows are a little blurred. The children were run off, a shop-keeper interrogated, and (very) brief introductions made.  The foreigners were revealed to be a sword-wielding transvestite of some apparent import, hight "Kenji", and a scarlet-clad archer of grim demeanor who styled himself "Rackhir".

NO, NO, HE CAN'T SAY "NAMED".  HAS TO BE "HIGHT", BECAUSE THAT'S FANCY-TALK.

HE WRITES POETRY SOMETIMES, YOU KNOW.  UNFORTUNATELY, I WAS NOT CONSTRUCTED TO BE ABLE TO REMOVE MY OWN EARS.

AS A FURTHER CLARIFICATION, KENJI IS NOT A TRANSVESTITE.  HE WAS WEARING A KIMONO, AS HE GENERALLY DOES.  IF IGNORANCE COULD BE BOTTLED, BURNE WOULD BE A WINERY.

The madman, I found, was a good deal more than he appeared. He was one of those both blessed and cursed with a primal connection to CITY, and was thus deserving of some grudging respect. 

Had his fearful gnosis driven him mad, I wondered? Or was his condition a reflection of the troubled state of CITY itself? I must remember to compose a monograph upon this subject. Make a note of it, Abraxis! 

In any case, he had no name, or none that he would give. He carried all of his possessions with him, in a rude hand-pulled cart, and was accompanied only by a mongrel dog and a fearsome odor. 

Ah! Lest I forget, there was also a hannu who followed in this Kenji fellow's wake. He called himself, quaintly enough, "Doctor" Wu, and appeared to serve as some kind of butler. Doctor indeed...it is shameful, what they call an education in foreign lands! 

We set out together, then, into the very heart of Little Azhikhan to investigate the origins of this green-hued cat. I was motivated partially by curiosity, for this dye was of an interesting and unfamiliar composition, and partially by the need to keep an eye on these suspicious individuals. 

Why did they follow my lead? I cannot say. Perhaps green cats are a delicacy in their land. Or perhaps they were a little awed by a man of my bearing and obvious military experience. Certainly, this was the first wisdom they had yet shown on this evening. 

HE SPENT THREE WEEKS IN THE NAVAL ACADEMY BEFORE BURNING HIS DORMITORY DOWN. HE CLAIMS THAT THIS WAS AN ACCIDENT. I THINK THAT HE'S LYING ABOUT THAT. 

Of course, in such an areas as this, overrun by foreigners, violence was inevitable. And, truth be told, a little welcome. 

There were four, perhaps five men, assaulting a hannu and a seemingly unconscious giant dressed in the rags and tatters of a naval uniform. I could not allow a fellow veteran to be attacked in such a manor, and promptly intervened in the matter. 

Two of them I set aflame, and the remainder fled in panic. Rakhir, I believe, fired a few arrows and may have caused them some small injury, but it was the fear of Burne that gave wings to their feet! 

RAKHIR KILLED TWO OF THEM. THREE, MAYBE. BURNE KILLED ONE, SINGED ANOTHER, AND TALKED A LOT. HE USUALLY DOES. NOBODY BOTHERS TO LISTEN, THOUGH. 

The Giant, who called himself Tenor, had drunk himself into a stupor, but his simian friend managed to rouse him. They expressed their gratitude for my heroic actions, and declared themselves in my debt. 

Which, in point of fact, they were. 

The thugs had, apparently, been after the giant's heart -- a common sort of ingredient in alchemical workings of the darker kind.  Foul stuff, I should add, and not the sort that I would have any part in.  

In the meantime, Kenji and the madman were, apparently, interfering in a kidnapping a few blocks further on. Why they had strayed ahead, I cannot guess. They're like children, really...so easily distracted. 

THE SOUND OF SCREAMING HAD BEEN CLEARLY AUDABLE FOR THE PAST SEVERAL MINUTES. THE SAMURAI AND HOMELESS FELLOW WENT TO HELP HER. RAKHIR THEN FOLLOWED, WHILE BURNE ROBBED THE DEAD. HE WILL DIE ALONE.

Blood was shed, and Kenji demonstrated that he did indeed know how to use that Erisian broadsword that he was so arrogantly carrying. Between them, he and the madman accounted for a handful of incompetent thugs, and rescued the intended victim, but their leader made his escape. 

In a sedan chair, if you can credit it. Vague threats were, I believe, made. 

The woman, seemingly in a state of shock, managed to offer her thanks and to beg us not to tell her father of what had occurred.  And then she fainted; overawed by my very presence, I suspect. 

BURNE DOESN'T BRUSH HIS TEETH VERY OFTEN. AND HE ALWAYS SMELLS LIKE SMOKE. AND HIS CLOTHES HAVE HOLES IN THEM. AND HE'S REALLY MEAN TO HIS FAMILIAR, WHO DESERVES MUCH BETTER. 

And that, as I recall, is when we met yet another foreign devil, albeit a polite one for a change. Mop Mop Bow, he called himself....


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## Rolzup

And thus, the Grand Re-Posting begins.  And once more, explanations are likely called for....

The Chronicle of Burne is the record of D&D game that's been running for...well.  Three years now, I think?  Something like that.

The PCs number four, although there is some change-over in the course of events.

I, myself, am playing the one that matters.  Burne the magnificent, Burne the alchemist, Burne the pompous ass.  He has a single level of Marshal (to represent his all-too-brief term of military service), and the rest of his class levels are in the campaign specific class of "Alchemist".  Essentially a sorceror, but with the ability to wear light armor and a much more limited repertoire of spells.

For the most part, this stroy hour has been compiled some years after the sessions thus recorded; total accuracy is not guarenteed.  Nor desired.  There will, however, be occasional "Interludes" -- such as the one folllowing -- taken directly from the e-mails sent at the time.  Thus, the change of tone and tense.

Feel free to ask questions!  CITY is a unique and idiosyncratic world, and Mallus is deserving of much kudos for the way he has brought it to life.  Whether he deserves stoning for some of the horrible puns he has brought to life along with it, well...who am I to judge?

Onwards!


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## Rolzup

*Interlude: A Cluttered, Ramshackle Tea-Shop*

There is barely enough room for all of them to stand in the parlor of Mop Mop Bow's Kingdom of Peaceable Teas.  The shop is an example in foreignly-ordered chaos, or a study in pleasing small-space feng-shui, depending on one’s point of view. The air seems to be made of equal parts tea, spice, and roast duckling. 

Mop Mop Bow says, "Please to make lady comfortable while I brew helpful tea," as he gestures to a low divan partially obscured by several large cloth sacks piled in the corner. "I'm sure you have many questions. Too bad what I sell is tea". He pauses a moment. 

"I tell you this thing, though. Plaza much nicer when King Daikon sell his radish across the street. His radish so good, attract good spirits. Good spirits that look after you at no charge." He pauses again, and then continues before anyone can get a word in edgewise... 

"Sure miss King Daikon. Too bad he maybe dead. And that nice young priest of Oven he associate with. Not bad for priest of round-eye devil-god...." 

As he finishes, Dr. Wu excitedly tugs on Kenji's robe, saying "Kenjiiiiii, while he was talking I was consulting with the mysteries of the Wu, and let me tell you, this place is a place of Wu...not the fierce Wu of Mt. Ju, but... I believe, aha, the Wu of water. And Kenjiiiii, the woman too is wearing much Wu...Wu in necklace, and oh so much Wu in the bracelets on her arms...Kenjiiiii, oh, wait, I suppose I shouldn't have said that last part out loud...."

Dr. Wujuyama turns and addresses Burne, Garbage Man, and the archer. "Would you please do me the honor, honorable man and gwailo, of striking from your minds the last part of what I have just said? Many thanks...." 

The woman opens both eyes, stares at Mop Mop Bow and says "Young priest? Of Kruetzel? Did you say dead?!"  And then faints dead away. 

"Hmmm, now need stronger tea," says Mop Mop Bow, disappearing through a door into the recess of his shop.


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## Rolzup

*The Wit and Wisdom of Burne*

This Mop Mop Bow fellow was the owner and proprietor of "The Kingdom of Peaceable Teas", and the kidnapping attempt had occurred upon his very doorstep. He seemed properly appalled by the situation, and offered to tend to the lady's injuries. 

Now, I have some small skill with alchemically based healing treatments, but I will readily confess that this is not my area of expertise. I accepted his offer with gratitude, and allowed him to use his teas to treat the unfortunate lady. 

(I've found myself wondering, in my idle moments, whether Mop Mop Bow is actually a practitioner of some debased tea-focused form of foreign alchemy. It scarcely seems credible, let alone practical, but would not be the strangest thing that I've encountered in my adventures.) 

When she did not, as I had half-expected, expire some moments after consuming said tea, I cheerfully accepted a cup for myself. One can never be too careful, after all. 

The taste of the stuff, however, was not to my liking. Weak, bodiless stuff -- not entirely unlike the culture that produced it, eh? A man's drink should be the color and consistency of tar, and potent enough to wake the very dead! 

I MAKE HIS COFFEE. I DO BAD THINGS TO IT.  IN IT, REALLY. 

As the woman began to stir, Mop Mop Bow explained, in an apologetic sort of manner, that the neighborhood had gone to hell since "King Daikon" and his friend, a priest of Kruetzel, had vanished a few weeks earlier. "Gone to hell?" I thought to myself, "This slum?  Well, not so very far to fall, then...." 

HAVE YOU SEE THE WAY THAT HE LIVES? THE DAMNED ARE ALMOST CERTAINLY BETTER HOUSEKEEPERS THAN BURNE. 

The woman, who gave her name as Delphine, had awoken by this point, and was horror-struck when she heard that this young priest had vanished.  She promptly fainted, again. All too typical of the weaker sex.

It was then that the archer appeared from out of the shadows, in a needlessly dramatic fashion. Rakhir had the foolish audacity to challenge me over the matter of some trifles I had recovered from the corpus of one of the thugs I had so heroically slain. I considered, for a moment, extracting his very soul from his body and incinerating it before his horror-filled eyes, but concluded that this would have been rude, and unworthy behavior for a gentleman like myself. 

RAKHIR THREATENED HIM. WITH ARROWS. IT WAS AT THAT MOMENT THAT I DECIDED THAT I RATHER LIKED RAKHIR. 

Disinclined to resort to such drastic measures, I allowed him to keep the trinkets. None of them looked all that interesting in any case. A knife, I believe that one was, and the other was an alchemically treated bag of some sort, probably intended to hold the Tenor's heart. 

Nothing of any real interest, in other words.

AND THOSE GRAPES WERE PROBABLY SOUR, ANYWAY.

And then, Erebus help us, the man in the dress opened his mouth....


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## Rolzup

*Interlude: Interior, Tea-Shop, Continued.*

The samurai speaks. "In the meantime, I should introduce myself.  I am Yamamoto Kenji, you may call me Kenji.  My companion is Dr. Wujuyama, a sage and expert in matters of the Wu.  Now, please introduce yourselves as we wait for the tea."

The man who smells of smoke nods, impatiently.  "I am Burne, known as Burne the Magnificent in some circles.  I am a veteran, a scholar, and a master of the alchemical arts.  This," he continues, making an expansive gesture in the direction of the mechanical cat, "Is Abraxis, the Ultimate Cat, my famulus.  One of my lesser creations, admittedly, but still a vast improvement over the inefficiencies of the so-called 'natural’ cat."

Abraxis, sitting on a nearby chair, begins to shudder and emit a horrid grinding noise.

"See!  He purrs with pleasure at his master's praise!"

A foul smelling smoke begins to arise from the cat's ears.

"Enough, beast!  You'll strip your gears, and this is neither the time nor the place for me to effect repairs."

"Names!" explodes the madman. "Names are power! Power! POWER!  Never let them know.  They can't know your names.  They learn your name, they take your power.  Power.  Magical Power!! I've got Powers.  No name! No name! No means no!  Any seven.

"Mr. Bojangles.  Hey there, Bojangles.  Walk with a monkey-man.  Talk with the Monkey Man.  Can you get us some wind for the sailboat? Mr. Bojangles. Tangles. Angles.

"Pretty Hair! Her beauty lives.  She is not dead.  Not dead but dead.  Dead but not dead.  Find the dead but not dead. Alchemy! Alchem-Tea!  Here kitty, kitty, kitty!"

He produces a container of milk from under his coat.

"Got milk? Nice cold milk for tea? Kit-Tea! Alchem-Tea.  Here kitty, kitty, kitty!"

The madman takes a teacup from a table fills it with milk and puts it on floor near of the mechanical cat.

"Thank. You.  Sir.  However.  I.  Am.  Not.  Designed.  To.  Injest.  Fluids.  I.  Am.  Prone.  To.  Rust," Abraxis pauses.  "Me.  Ow," it adds, resignedly.

He takes another teacup, fills it with milk and holds it for his dog to slurp up, who happily indulges.

The man in red speaks.  "I am Rakhir, the Red Archer, a warrior looking for employment."

He says nothing more.

The blonde woman opens hers eyes, suddenly, a look of alarm on her face. The first sight she sees is Dr. Wu. Immediately, her look softens as she makes the all-too-common, "Oh how cute!" face that humans have been favoring Hannu with since the dawn of history. Wu scowls and turns to Mop Mop Bow. "Most efficacious tea..." he mutters softly.

The woman says slowly, "Thank you for rescuing me... I really don't know what else to...I mean, this is all rather cliché. I've never been a damsel in distress before. Thank you for the wonderful tea."  She uses a phrase in the Three Lands language than means 'Master of Tea Ceremony’ while addressing Mop Mop Bow. 

"I am --she pauses a moment-- Delphine." 

She speaks using a fair approximation of an Imperial Court dialect; the one prescribed for ambassadors and courtiers.

Her wits apparently collected, she continues, "Please honored tea-master, tell me more of the priest of the Oven-Lord. I believe he is my missing fiancé." 

Mop Mop Bow says, "Fiancé, how nice. Have much happiness. If you find. Ah well, young priest was round-eye with hair like angry straw. About 6 foot. Too big. Eyes wide like a child's, and not just from his round-eye nature."

A sad look of recognition crosses the woman's face, "Oh, Joquim."

Mop Mop Bow says, "Nice man, for round-eye devil-god priest. He come to Little Ajakhan and help King Daikon feed the beggars. And cure sick. Young priest have tiny oven. This big," Bow spreads his hands.  "He bake good things that fix broken legs, cure men of drink, de-plague lousy plague-woman of loose morals. Etc."

"Also, he buy much tea from Mop Mop Bow. Tea and spices. Hint hint."

"So that's why he came down here," the woman says to no-one in particular. "At least it wasn't Yellow Fever...And what happened to this King Daikon? He was a priest too?"

"No, no...he greengrocer. With funny stick. He wave it at people at they got well. Or they got cursed. But only good people got well and bad people get cursed so everything work out. Until last week, when he disappear. Along with your fiancé."

"You must know where he went!" she all but shouts, hysteria winning over lucidity-inducing tea. "That's his stand across the plaza, right?!"

"Yes, his stand," says Mop Mop Bow, "Not only that. He live on roof of building behind stand. Still I not see. King Daikon spend lot of time by the docks. See him there. Buying, fresh off boat. And waving stick at soldiers who try and press people onto terrible boat. Maybe you look there. And maybe now time for Quiet Tea, very good...."


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## Rolzup

*Burne and the Maiden*

Another dose of Mop Mop Bow's tea served to revive the woman once more, and she launched unprompted into a tale of woe. Trite stuff; she'd fallen for a man of the lower classes, her father disapproved, and now he was missing. The sort of thing that Arabia Wainright writes lurid pot-boilers about. 

ARABIA WAINRIGHT IS A LITERARY GODDESS, AND WORTH TEN OF BURNE.  NO, A HUNDRED. 

Without even a moment's hesitation, the archer offered her his services. Some misplaced sense of chivalry, I suppose. Kenji, with an indifferent shrug, opined that he might also be of assistance, lacking anything better to occupy his time.

And what was I to do? Leave this woman unattended in the company of madmen and, even worse, foreigners? 

Unthinkable. I had no choice but to offer my own assistance, even though it would take me away from my own increasingly vital experiments. 

AT THE TIME, HE WAS WORKING ON A FORMULA THAT WOULD ALLOW HIM TO CREATE EXPLOSIVE RABBITS.  I DON’T KNOW WHY, BUT I SUSPECT THAT ALCOHOL HAD PROVIDED HIS CHIEF INSPIRATION.

As we prepared to leave, however, Mop Mop Bow unwittingly provided a further piece of information. He offered Delphine a scarf that he called a "Hue-Wu charm", of a brilliant shade of green...the very same green as that unfortunate cat! It had been purchased, he said, from a local businessman, Han Oi Xian the Dyer, and was considered to be a good-luck charm by his credulous fellows. 

Furthermore, he suggested that he might know the origin of that alchemically treated bag that I had discovered. Sanjuro Roeh, an alchemist of some sort and a rival of Bow's, was known to create such things.. 

Roeh, I resolved, would need to be dealt with. 

We left the shop, talking quietly among ourselves, only to find a group of uniformed men entering the square, busily discussing the disposition of the criminals we had so handily dispatched. This, I thought to myself as I glanced at the foreigners, could be a difficult situation.


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## Rolzup

*I, Burne*

I was, of course, correct in my fears. I generally am. 

This was the famed Asymmetric Recruitment Squad, about their vital business. The ignorant might call them a "Press Gang", but as a veteran myself I understood the importance of their work. 

Their leader, alas, was an odious little fellow named Savur Phillipe. A man not without connections, as it transpired, but entirely without morals. Phillipe was to become quite the millstone 'round our necks over the course of the next few days, until we.... 

But, no. I get ahead of myself. Lieutenant Phillipe was, he claimed, concerned about the obvious violence that had occurred within the square. I assured him that nothing worse than justice had been done, but he seemed rather skeptical. It's hard to imagine that any man could doubt the sworn word of Burne, but I suppose that it's simply another sign of the man's degenerate personality. 

Kenji then began remonstrating with the man, and I resigned myself to the onset of violence. Matter were made all the worse when our madman began scaling the wall opposite, apparently intent upon investigating the ramshackle abode of this "King Daikon" who had so lately vanished. 

The Lieutenant did not take kindly to this, and began making threats. The madman, perhaps sensing the tension, responded by throwing rubbish down on to Phillipe's men. Kenji began making threats of his own, and I do believe that some swords had been drawn. 

And then...something...happened. And I'll be damned if I know what. 

Kenji, you see, is not *just* an effeminate foreigner. Oh, to be sure, he wields a sword tolerably well... 

IF BY "WELL" HE MEANS, "CAN SPLIT A MAN IN HALF WITH A SINGLE STROKE", THIS IS, IN FACT, CORRECT. 

...but swordplay is not, I think, where his true strength lies. How can I best explain this? 

Ah. 

It is said that there are those among the Ajakhani who practice a form of martial discipline. Some type of unarmed combat, in which the attacker's strength is turned against him. A shift of momentum, and a fearsome charge becomes a terrible fall. 

This is clearly inferior to the Erisian way, in which the charging attacker is impaled upon a set spear, and then roasted alive for his effrontery. In fact, I myself have.... 

My apologies; I digress. 

Kenji, it seems, practices this very art. But he does so verbally, rather than physically. Time and again I have seen him do this, turning an implacable foe into a reluctant ally with no more than a few well-placed words. 

I'm never entirely sure how he manages this. It all seems reasonable enough at the time, no matter how mad it may appear in the cold light of dawn. 

Whatever it was that he said and did, the end result was that he and Lieutenant Phillipe set off to gamble together, at a local establishment called Stiltjackets. 

The madman, for his part, had made some discoveries among Daikon's belongings. A book, and a short length of wood with many faces carved into its surface.

The faces were muttering quietly to themselves; you couldn't hear them if you actually listened, but you'd catch snatches of conversation while paying attention to other matters. The madman seemed to be hearing them quite clearly, and was actually responding to the stick as though it were somehow sentient. Not, I hasten to add, that his responses made any kind of sense whatsoever, beyond betraying a disturbing fascination with pudding. 

Mop Mop Bow commented that it was rather unusual that the madman was able to hold this stick, as it usually "bit" anyone other than Daikon who ventured to touch it. 

Daikon, I surmised, was another individual with a primal connection to CITY itself, much like our madman. He seemed to have better maintained his sanity, however, and masqueraded as nothing more than a greengrocer for reasons of his own. 

At this point, I'll confess, I was growing impatient with matters. The hour was late, and I had matters of grave import to consider before retiring for the evening. 

HE SPENT THREE HOURS WAVING HIS CHEAP SECOND-HAND KATANA AROUND AND KILLING IMAGINARY OPPONENTS. HE LOOKED LIKE HE WAS HAVING SOME KIND OF A SEIZURE. 

We resolved, then, to meet at Mop Mop Bow's establishment upon the morrow. Rakhir would act as a bodyguard for Delphine, and conduct her though the streets of Little Ajakhan to some place of relative safety. Word would be left for Kenji at the rude little inn where he was staying. 

Plans having been made, we then adjourned for the evening. I returned home in fine spirits, glad to once more breathe in the fine air of Eris.


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## Rolzup

*You Can’t Trust an Ajikhani to do an Erisian’s Job*

Of course, things went badly wrong.  My fault entirely, I'm afraid: I made a classic blunder, and actually trusted a foreigner to do something both simple and important.

One task.  Just one.  Keep the Lady Delphine safe from any further kidnapping attempts.

And could Rakhir manage this?  Or even die an honorable death while failing in the attempt?  No, and no again.

And who was this fearsome kidnapper?  I shall describe him for you: He wore a conical straw hat, one large enough to conceal his features. And his fists were shrouded in white vapor; their impact hurt, and were sufficient to beat Rakhir unconscious, but without dealing any lasting damage.

To be entirely honest, I thought that he might really have leapt forth from mouth of a wine bottle.  Alas, I soon, discovered that Rakhir's description was disturbingly accurate.

In the meantime, our chief concern was finding the missing Delphine. Kenji, having returned from his evening of wagering somewhat poorer for the experience (by design, or so he claimed), joined us in the search. Rakhir proved unable to track his assailant through the cobbled CITY streets, although I grant that he did make a game attempt at it.

The madman, I think, attempted to commune with the spirits of CITY in hopes of learning something.  He may even have succeeded, but since not *once* in the course of our acquintence did he *ever* say anything that even *remotely* resembled sense, we never did find out.

We were, regretfully, at something of a loss.

But not for long.  There is an old Erisian saying that was pertinent to our situation, "When in doubt, use your brain!  Find a foe, and cause him pain."

Wisdom indeed.  And thanks to Mop Mop Bow, we had Sanjuro Roeh's address.  Our path, then, was clear.


----------



## Rolzup

*The Importance of Being Burne*

Not everyone, I realize, is familiar with the Great Art. Their lives are poorer for this lack, and I feel pity for their loss, rather than scorn for their shameful ignorance. 

Alchemy, you see, is the art or transcendence. The ultimate goal of alchemy, and of every reputable alchemist, is to transcend the limits of mortal clay and ascend to a higher state of being. Personally, I plan to do this through the medium of fire. The physical effects of even a normal fire are plainly transcendent, after all. Base matter is transformed into the divine energy of heat and light. 

When -- not if! -- I discover the method to ignite my own soul in such a manner, I will truly have mastered the greatest Art of all.

In the meantime, I must content myself with the more mundane pleasures of the pyrotechnic arts. Is there anything more beautiful than a white-hot flame? I rather think not. 

THIS GOES A LONG WAY TOWARDS EXPLAINING WHY BURNE IS STILL SINGLE. 

And this brings me to Sanjuro Roeh. There are, sadly, alchemists who choose to debase the Art by practicing their craft for mere coin. Roeh, by all available evidence, was one such individual. What's more, he was a man willing to defy even the most basic laws of morality in pursuit of profit. 

To actually dispatch thugs with the intent of killing a helpless giant and extracting his heart? Monstrous. 

A true alchemist would face said giant, defeat him in single combat, and then carve out the still-beating heart with his own two hands. If a man is not willing to get his own hands dirty, he's no alchemist at all. 

(Found objects are another thing entirely, I should add. If no one is actually making use of a given organ, it's free for the taking.) 

And so, armed solely with my own righteous indignation... 

AND A CROSSBOW, AND A HALBERD, AND A BADLY MADE SWORD, AND MAGIC, AND THREE BURLY COMPANIONS. 

...I set out to confront Sanjuro Roeh. His shop was located on the edge of Little Ajakhan, near the border of the Blue Light District . On our way there, we passed by the dye-works of this Han Oi Xian fellow, and took a moment to observe the place.

It had been a monastery at some point in the past, but now it was simply a rundown building with a rundown tower, surrounded by a rundown wall. A pair of tall statues stood in the courtyard, one depicting the god Kruetzel, and the other the pirate goddess Pentamoor.  Little did we know what evil those statues portended....

A crowd was gathering outside the gates, in anticipation of the sale of the newest Hue-Wu charm. Xian's practice, we had learned, was to sell a new color of scarf each week; fashion and superstition both demanded the purchase of is most recent creation.

I made a mental note of the building's structural weaknesses (siege engineering being one of my many areas of expertise), and we continued on to our true goal. 

UNLESS STEPPING ON ANT-HILLS COUNTS, BURNE IS NOT IN ANY WAY QUALIFIED AS A SEIGE ENGINEER. 

Narayan is, sadly, prone to harboring the worst examples of the criminal element. The Room Rouge Players -- duelists, actors, lawyers -- were a particularly foul example. 

(Note that I said "were". I soon put an end to the Players, with some minor aid from my companions. But this was still some weeks in the future.) 

What business they had with Sanjuro Roeh, I could not imagine. But nevertheless, as we pounded upon the man's door, there they were. Not all of them, but enough to provide an interesting diversion. They had a wagon, which contained a tarpaulin, which in turn covered something large and wet. 

This bore further investigation. 

Our polite inquiries were rebuffed, and matters grew only more tense when Roeh himself, accompanied by a Rukh-Kazah bodyguard, finally made his appearance. I firmly denounced him before the gathered crowd, and he blanched in obvious terror.

The Room Rouge Players, amusingly enough, chose to threaten us with violence. I responded with a raised eyebrow, and three simple words: "I am Burne." The eyebrow alone was likely inducement enough for them to flee, but at my words they took to their heels without delay. 

ACTUALLY, KENJI NEARLY GUTTED ONE OF THEM, AND THE REMAINING PLAYERS DRAGGED THE UNFORTUNATE VICTIM OFF. NOBODY EVEN LOOKED IN BURNE'S DIRECTION. FEW PEOPLE DO, UNLESS THEY HAVE TO. 

Roeh, obviously terrified, surrendered the wagon and its contents to me, and we retired in triumph. 

MORE IRRITATED THAN TERRIFIED, ACTUALLY. THAT RUKH-KAZAH WAS REALLY, REALLY BIG. 

The contents of the wagon took even myself, well known for my intuitive prowess, by surprise. A reptilian creature, the size and general shape of a man, obviously well-adapted to aquatic life. Credulous sailors know these beasts as "Sea Devils", while I quickly identified the beast by its proper name: that of "Kuo-Toa". 

Not surprisingly, considering his barbarous origins, this poor beast was not blessed with knowledge of any civilized tongue. We sought out magical assistance to provide a translation, and purchased a formulation from a nearby temple for this purpose. 

Erebus preserve me, the creature gave its name as "Blub-Blub". Possibly the aquatic equivalent of "Smith"; who am I to say? I've no love for the water, as it is far too damp and fire-resistant an environment for my liking. 

But never mind its absurd cognomen. The Kuo-Toa had a fascinating tale to tell, and one with obvious bearing upon our own situation. 

He and a tribe of his people had been captured, by persons unknown, and brought to CITY from their home territories. As they were not citizens, they were considered to have a status equivalent to that of pets, and could be brought and sold without legal impairment. 

They had, in fact, been sold...to one Han Oi Xian. No mere dyer, Xian was actually a practitioner of some debased foreign sorcery. He made use of certain techniques, all of them most unpleasant, to cause the Kuo-Toa to release fluids that he employed in his dyes. The very dyes that he used for his famous Hue-Wu charms, in point of fact. 

This "Blub-Blub" had managed to make his escape by literally transforming into a priest, by a mechanism that I do not pretend to understand. It involved the secretion of some form of holy icon, a process that I chose not to investigate. Matters theological are of little interest to me, frankly, and mucous-based religion is even less appealing than the usual sort. 

In any case, he had not remained free for long. The waters of Narayan are not hospitable to foreign swimmers, and he was soon taken into custody by the Room Rouge Players. And then, of course, I saved him. 

YES.  _BURNE_ SAVED HIM.  THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED.

Waving off his gratitude, I pressed him for further details. He revealed that his people were imprisoned within the tower that adjoined Han Oi Xian's dye works, the lowest level of which was flooded. Furthermore, a human had been imprisoned with them who, by his description, could only be the missing King Daikon. 

A full-scale frontal assault upon Xian's lair was clearly the only answer. Alas, even the plans of a master tactician like myself can be foiled by the vagaries of chance....


----------



## Rolzup

*The Mysterious Han Oi Xian*

So.  The situation before us was as follows.

Delphine had been kidnapped, by person or persons unknown.

Only a few days earlier, a previous kidnapping attempt had been made, directed by a man riding in a sedan chair, which we had foiled.

The missing greengrocer, King Daikon, has been revealed to be a prisoner of the dyer Han Oi Xian, along with a tribe of "Sea-Devils".

Han Oi Xian, as we had learned, was well known for riding about in a sedan chair identical to the one that we had seen, and....

What?

Yes, Abraxis, I'm sure that I'd mentioned that.  Don't contradict me, damn you!  If I say that I've already mentioned it, then by thunder!  I've mentioned it!

Abraxis, if I want your opinion, I will pry open your cast-iron cranium and retrieve it by hand!  Have I made myself clear?

Very well, then.  Now, where was I?

GETTING THINGS WRONG.  AS USUAL.

Ah, yes!  So, it was clear that we would have to crush Han Oi Xian like a bug, and retrieve Delphine before he did anything permanent to her.

But Kenji, naturally, decided that it would be better to try sweet reason first.  Madness, clearly.  I saw no point in arguing with the fellow, though, and agreed that we might yet learn something.  And, if naught else, we would get a close look at Xian’s defenses.

Off we went, after first entrusting Blub-Blub to Mop Mop Bow.  

And so, several hours later, we leapt into action.  Before knocking on his gate, we took a moment to better survey Xian's hidey-hole, that old monastery that I mentioned earlier.

I _did_ mention it, did I not, Abraxis?  Yes?  _Thank_ you.

JACKASS.

To reiterate, however, it was an ill-maintained building with a courtyard surprisingly empty of vats, and presses, and other such tools of the dyer’s trade, surrounded by a large wall, with a rather dodgy-looking tower in the rear.  Further reconnaissance showed that the rear of the building faced the Seleices river, with only a crumbling wharf separating the monastery from the water.

The tower was, surprisingly, seated within the river itself.  It rose a good three, perhaps four stories high, and a narrow bridge of planks connected it with the building proper.

To either side, Xian's lair was surrounded by blocks of warehouses, some tenanted and some empty, which actually came directly up the walls of the monastery.  "Careless indeed," I thought to myself.

The crowd had dispersed by this time, and the courtyard gates had been closed once more.  I knocked firmly, and announced my name.  The gates, eventually, opened.  We explained our purpose to the lackey, and entered the courtyard while he went to seek his master.

I found it odd, that courtyard.  I'm no dyer, but I've no end of experience with chemicals of all sorts, and know the _process_ of dying well enough to discourse knowledgably upon the subject.  I'd already noted the puzzling absence of equipment, but there was another lack that we even more unlikely: there was no odor.  Sniffing the air in the courtyard, I could detect nothing more than Little Azakhan's usual stench.  This made no sense at all.

It was then that Han Oi Xian made his appearance.  He was rather younger than I had expected, and sported an absurdly long and slender moustache, but he dressed well (for a foreigner), and carried himself with a certain dignity.  He was not, in short, what I was expecting of a man reputed to be a fearsome crime-lord.  What's more, Xian also showed himself to be well-spoken, lacking even the barbaric Azikhani accent.

He invited us inside, and I -- fighting to hold back a smirk -- accepted.  Xian was playing right into our hands.  Or so I thought.  He refused to give us a tour, infuriatingly enough.

What little we saw was revealing of the man's personality, but little else.  The building was well appointed, and better maintained that it appeared from outside.  The artwork and such were lamentably foreign, but that was hardly a surprise.

Kenji complimented him on his taste, and opined that Xian had done a marvelous job on the place.

"This is a terrible place," Xian replied.  "Children were murdered here."

Kenji, for once, was silent.

It transpired that the statue of Kruetzel, god of cooking and patron of chefs, that stood in the courtyard was more than it appeared.  Blasphemously (at least, to those who give a damn about Kruetzel), the statue's face had been altered to resemble that of the bishop Sebastian Babulabla, the previous owner of the monastery.  

This Babulabla was a man of singularly unpleasant habits, by all accounts, and had committed any number of horrible crimes on these grounds.  He'd used the building as an orphanage, and had abused his charges in a variety of ways.

I remember my precise response. "An orphanage, you say?"

I SOMETIMES WONDER IF HE'S DEAF AS WELL AS STUPID.

Now with a monastery one expects a certain amount of...how can I put this delicately?  Buggery, shall we say?  But with an orphanage, one would expect somewhat less.

ONE DAY HE'LL FIND THE FORMULA FOR COMPASSION. I KNOW IT WILL POISON HIM.

There'd been more than a few murders, Xian told us, and there were rumors that he had even consumed the flesh of some of his victims.

I made a witticism at this point, about what one might expect from an orphanage dedicated to the God of Cooking.  It was not well received.

Babulabla was executed, in the end, and the Church of Kruetzel moved heaven and earth to cover up his crimes.  I've spoken before, I think, of the sham that we call religion?  I shall make a point of going into greater detail upon the subject later in this narrative.

However, these crimes were horrible, certainly.  But thankfully, long in the past.  Xian, oddly enough, went on to claim that the sprits of Babulabla's victims still haunted the monastery, unable to rest.  Poppycock, clearly.  I was a little saddened, in truth, to see that a man of learning was so superstitious.  But then I reminded myself that he wasn't Erisian, and could not be blamed for his ignorance.

The many paper lanterns about the building, he went on to explain, had been hung to quiet these restless spirits.  The lanterns were, he claimed, filled with 'the Shu of the Air'.  This meant nothing to me, but Doctor Wu seemed impressed.

It was at this point that my keen eye noticed a portrait, beautifully executed in an Erisian style, of a woman with a striking resemblance to the missing Delphine!  I pointed this out, and Xian Kenji, seeing an opening, launched into a verbal assault on the unsuspecting Xian.

There's no way the man could have prepared for such a barrage, and -- criminal or no -- I actually found myself feeling a little sorry for him.  Kenji appealed to him as a countryman, as a nobleman, and as a warrior, to give up his evil ways and to release Delphine from his clutches.

Shockingly, Han Oi Xian held his own.  He was in self-imposed exile from his home, he was actually a half-blood who cared little for the Azikhani Empire in any case, and his mastery of the "Shu" made him more than capable of defending his home from the likes of Kenji.  Little did he reckon with the power of Burne, though....

In the end, we left, with Xian still unslaughtered.  Desperate though the situation may have been, there was still no call to violate the rules of hospitality.  It is this, and table manners, that separate us from the beasts.

But it was time, clearly, for violent action.


----------



## Rolzup

*Burne and the Art of War*

I considered, for a moment, the idea of a direct assault.  A single working would be enough to shatter the doors of the courtyard, and no number of thugs would suffice to keep me from Xian's throat.  But alas, there was Delphine's welfare to consider.  It would be all too easy for Xian to murder her before we could prevent it.

HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN ABLE TO CHAR THE DOORS A LITTLE, IF HE’D REALLY TRIED.

Stealth, then, was our only recourse.

As evening fell, we took up a position some distance to the South, and scaled a convenient warehouse.  Abraxis, in another sign of my foresightedness, can be used as a crude but functional grappling hook, with the added benefit of self-motivation.

A FAMILIAR'S LOT IS NOT AN EASY ONE.

Having reached the top of the building in question, we began to make our way North, picking a path across the rotting roofs and through the occasional shantytowns.  It took only a few minutes to regain sight of Xian's lair, and we settled ourselves in to properly scrutinize his defenses.

They were not, frankly, overly impressive.  A few guards; one, occupying the remnants of a steeple atop the monastery, did have an impressive field of view.  No magical defenses that I could discern, although there were a number of paper lanterns lit by an unknown mechanism.  I did, however, notice that a hawk was flying in lazy circles high over the building, with no apparent purpose.

During our observations, Xian had several visitors.  The first was unknown to us: a tall, dignified-looking fellow clad entirely in black.   I recognized him as a fellow Erisian, as well as another practitioner of the Art.  Not an Alchemist -- he wasn't nearly scorched enough -- but obviously a learned man nevertheless.

The second visitor was Lieutenant Savur Phillipe, accompanied by his assistant "Lucky".  What business could he have with Xian, we wondered?

Well, _they_ wondered.  I had already deduced the truth of the matter, but remained silent in order to spare their feelings. 

HE'S LYING AGAIN.

And the last visitor?  At the sight of him, I felt a sudden frisson of excitement; here, before our very eyes, was Pure Evil.  A Shirac mind-witch, I knew instantly, and surmised that it was his hawk that we had seen gyring over the building.  I watched him attentively as he strode away, the bird following in his wake, fixing every detail of his appearance in my mind.  Here, I knew, was a threat far greater than Han Oi Xian could ever aspire to become.

IN REALITY, BURNE WAS SLEEPING BY THIS POINT.  HAVE I MENTIONED THAT HE SNORES?  ARE YOU AT ALL SURPRISED?

It was several hours more before we were ready to strike.  The night was dark and cold, the sentries were no doubt nodding at their posts, and we had a plan.  I don't remember the plan, sadly, and it's a shame.  It was a damned good one, and that's for sure.

It turned out to be entirely irrelevant, as we didn't bother to follow it, but let me repeat: It was a _damned_ good plan.

Rackhir began the assault, firing an arrow or three into the sentry in the steeple.  Kenji followed a moment or so later, leaping from atop the warehouse to the roof of the monastery in order to finish the sentry off.  I followed, at a more dignified pace, a moment or so later.

They were expecting us, somehow.  Perhaps the mind-witch had warned them, or Xian's foul arts.  It didn't matter, as they were most thoroughly out-classed by Burne.  And my companions were there as well, to handle the scut-work.

The three of them engaged the foe, our madman ululating a frightful battlecry, while I and Blub-Blub hurried across the plank bridge and into the tower.  My goal was to free Daikon and the Kuo-Toa, so that they could join in our assault.  Not that we needed them but superior numbers are always welcome.

As it developed, the tower stairs were damp, slimy, and terribly slippery.  I was forced to take my time climbing down them, lest I risk breaking my neck.  I had confidence that the others could deal with Xian's minions.

Misplaced confidence, sadly enough.  Kenji faced down Rackhir's attacker (named "Cloud Ghost", we later discovered), and very nearly slew him with a single stroke of his sword.  But "very nearly" is hardly sufficient in matters of life and death, though, now is it?

Wounded though he was, Cloud Ghost commenced to beat Kenji within an inch of his life, knocking him unconscious without actually injuring him in any way.  It was Rackhir, wielding a sword for a change, who finally took Cloud Ghost down.

At this point, a veritable throng of attackers emerged from the monastery, led by a large fellow with curiously empty eyes and a distressingly long chain….

While all this occurred, I was descending the tower stairs as hastily as dignity and common sense allowed.  I could hear Blub-Blub's gabblings from below, echoing through the tower, but could make no sense of his words.

When at last I reached the base of the tower, I found a pair of locked cells.  Both had been flooded, and one contained Blub-Blub's kinfolk. The other, a rather damp greengrocer.

It was a work of seconds to open both of the locks; they were poorly made, and badly maintained, and no match for a mechanical genius like myself..

As we struggled our way back up the stairs, a horde of babbling fish-men at our heels, I endeavored to explain the situation to Daikon.  He seemed a bit confused, and understandably so, but was almost pathetically grateful to have rescued by the reknowned Burne.

DAIKON HAD NEVER HEARD OF BURNE, AND I DON'T THINK THAT HE LIKED HIM MUCH.  WHAT A SURPRISE.


----------



## Rolzup

*A Complex Oedipus*

I regained the top of the tower just in time to rescue my compatriots from their attackers.  Rackhir was having great difficulty with the chain-wielding man, who kept striking at him from a distance, the madman was also being held at bay, and Kenji was quite unconscious.

Pathetic, really.  I spent a moment to finish off Cloud Ghost….

BY FIRING A CROSSOBOW BOLT AT POINT BLACK RANGE INTO THE FOREHEAD OF A HELPLESS FOE.

…which occasioned a shout of dismay from the foe.  I noticed, as I observed the battle for a moment, that Xian's men were making pains to avoid bleeding upon the monastery grounds, going so far as to roll around on the roof to avoid their blood coming into contact with it.

I made a mental note of this, considered the fact that our enemies were armed solely with bludgeoning weapons, deduced the meaning of all this on the instant, and concluded that it was irrelevant for the nonce.  But interesting nonetheless.

And then, at long last, Burne took the field.  A single usage of Burne's Incandescent Arc was enough to clear the bridge, and to force the blank-eyed man into retreat.  I wasted precious seconds using a wand to restore Kenji to consciousness, and then advanced into the monastery with Kenji following behind.

Rackhir, as is his wont, had already charged ahead.  Intent upon vengeance, no doubt.

We met more thugs, and between the madman, Kenji, and myself we dealt with them in a summary fashion.  Waving the smoke from the air, I paused for a moment, and heard the sounds of battle coming from a room ahead. Rackhir, without question, and no doubt in need of rescue again.

How right I was.  I'm not sure what to call the sight that greeted us, but I feel certain that we could have charged a goodly admission for it.  The blank-eyed man, whom we would soon learn bore the name of "Broken Chain", was employing his chain weapon (the ends of which, I now noticed, were wrapped in thick cloth) in an exceedingly cunning fashion, using it to rip the bow from Rackhir's hand and his feet from the floor.  It was all the more astonishing to see now that I had a moment to get a close look at him; Broken Chain was clearly an imbecile, a mental defective of some sort.

I SUPPOSE THAT "IT TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE" WOULD BE CONSIDERED A CHEAP SHOT?

Comedic though this performance was, it paled in importance to the other occupant of the room.  

He actually had the audacity to threaten us.  Outnumbered, his minions slain or fled, and with Burne himself prepared to strike him down.  He made _threats_.

Unthinkable.

I stepped forward, prepared to unleash a working that would forever break his power, and….

Kenji pushed me out of the way and entered the room.  It boggles the mind, the way that man acts.  I turned on Kenji, ready to unleash my full fury upon him, but it was too late.

He had begun to work his _own_ art.  Kenji, Erebus preserve us, was already talking.

By the time he finally fell silent, matters had entirely changed. Dephine was free, the Kuo-Toa had been given their freedom, Daikon had taken possession of the monastery, and we had agreed to help Xian in his work.

And what was this work, you ask?  Why had he come to Narayan, and why had he kidnapped Delphine?

Because of his mother.  His mother, who so closely resembled Delphine. His mother, whose soul had become trapped in a mask of jade.  His mother, who he had dedicated his life to reviving.

He had consulted with many experts on this matter, including the famed Diabolist Dr. Mephisophocles, and the infamous Shirac mind-witch Nadir Medhi...both of whom we had seen leaving the premises earloer that very evening.

Such a great fuss, over so very little!  I offered to build him a clockwork mother, similar to (but more sophisticated than) Abraxis, but he would have none of it.  "A Jade Golem?" I suggested.

No, no.  Only flesh and blood would do.  Such a limited mindset!

Obviously, I had a good deal of research before me.  With the proper essential salts, I could almost certainly grow Xian a new mother, but even now this art is somewhat beyond me. Remind me to do further research into this matter, Abraxis!

In the meantime, Xian had agreed to leave CITY and give up the life of a crime-lord.  But our troubles were not yet over.  Savur Phillipe, of the Asymmetric Recruitment Squad, had made certain deals with Xian, and would not be happy to learn that they would be coming to an end.

And we had less than a day to determine how to deal with him.


----------



## Rolzup

*Phillipe Takes a Swim*

Xian and Savur Phillipe, we discovered, had made a deal.  Xian would sell his lucky scarves, reaping a nice profit thereby, and in return for a percentage of the profits Phillipe would not "recruit" those he saw wearing them.  Thus making them, I suppose, authentically lucky.

Xian saw this as a service to the community, "protecting" them from the honor of serving CITY.  Phillipe, for his part, saw it as a way to make a nice profit with little effort.

This probably counts as treason.  I certainly classified it as such, and at the very moment tried, condemned, and sentenced Phillipe Savur to death.  Now all that remained was to carry out the sentence.

He would be coming to the monastary that very evening, to collect his share of the scarf money, and XIan was quite certain that he would not just allow their deal to end.  We could, in theory, capture turn him into the Naval authorities -- King Daikon's mysterious book, we had discovered, was entirely full of eyewitness accounts of Phillipe's many crimes.

Including, lest I forget, the recruitment of one Joachim Driftwood, Delphine's earstwhile fiance.  This had been done as a special favor to Xian, who had found young Driftwood's attempts at moral reform to be rather irksome.

But in truth, evidence or no, conviction was unlikely.  Phillipe's family was too well connected, and had pockets too deep, for justice to prevail.  And upon release, he would be very likely to make the people of Little Azikhan suffer.

Not, I hasten to add, that I gave a damn about a bunch of filthy foreign devils.  But it's the principle of the matter!  I simply will not tolerate this sort of abuse of power.

BY ANYONE OTHER THAN HIMSELF.

And so, we made plans.  We knew that Savur would be accompanied by his assistant "Lucky", a rather shifty-looking fellow.  And very likely he would bring some of his men along with him, to provide some "muscle". But how many men?

Not that any of it mattered, really, not with Burne's magic to defend the monastary.

DO I NEED TO ADD ANYTHING HERE?  I DOUBT IT.

We spent this day preparing ourselves for the coming battle.  I spent most of the day in meditation, sharpening my mind and focusing my Will.

SLEEPING, IN OTHER WORDS.

The Lieutenant arrived, on schedule, and words were exchanged.  He was rather peeved at the situation, and didn't hesitate to let us know this.  Even Kenji's skill proved insufficient to sooth the man's ire, and before long we found ourselves on the wharf behind the warehouse, facing Phillipe, Lucky, and perhaps half a dozen men.

MORE LIKE FOUR.

And when I say "we", let me clarify, I meant myself, Kenji, the madman, and Abraxis.  Xian refused to get involved, and had insisted that we battle here, outside the confines of his sanctuary, to avoid the disruption of his magics.  

(Xian had revealed to the others what I had already deduced; any bloodshed on the monastary grounds would break his power, and cause his magic to lose all efficacy.  The consequence of some kind of heathen oath, I gathered.)

Xian made it clear, in fact, that if we failed to survive the evening, he would be resuming his former deal with Phillipe.

And Rackhir was perched atop the monastary walls, on the pretense of obtaining a better field of fire.  I met his declaration with a simple roll of my eyes, and allowed him his attempt to save face.

RACKHIR, UNLIKE BURNE, IS AT LEAST CAPABLE OF HITTING WHAT HE'S AIMING AT.

The battle was brief, but one of the ugliest affairs I've ever witnessed.  Kenji assaulted Savur Phillipe, who turned out to be a rather more adept swordsman that I would have guessed.  The madman attacked Lucky, with little success.  He was a quick little weasel, and aided his master in harrying Kenji.

And I?  I laid waste to Phillipe's army....

FOUR THUGS, REMEMBER.

...with flame, and acid, and the raw power of my Art.

Rackhir probably did something as well.  But it was dark, and I'm not certain.

Kenji, by this time, was badly wounded.  Phillipe had suffered a few scratches, Lucky had fallen, and out madman was now frothing at the mouth.  I heard someone scream that the madman's eyes were afire, but that was doubtless nothing more than the reflection of the flames that
I had personally conjured.

Now pressed hard by Kenji, and with myself turning my attention in his direction, Phillipe decided that discretion was the better part of valor.  With a bound, he leapt into a dilapidated shack standing at the edge of the wharf.

A long-disused outhouse, as it happened.

He crashed through the floor, and plunged into the river Seleices.  Kenji, poised to follow him, demurred when he realized that he would have to risk soiling his dress in the process.

The madman pursued, and a struggle resulted.  It ended with the madman standing on the Lieutenant’s chest, and Phillipe inhaling rather more of the Seleices than was strictly good for him.

And our problems truly began.


----------



## Rolzup

*Urbane Outfitters, Indeed*

Dispensing justice is all well and good, but there are practical considerations that the popular novelists rarely address.  What, for example, is one to do with the remains of those to whom justice has been dispensed?

For the most part, this was unlikely to be a grave concern.  A few sailors more or less are unlikely to be missed, and the ironically named "Lucky" was in much the same category.

Lieutenant Phillipe, however...he was a different story entirely.

I've already spoken of his family, and of the wealth and position that they enjoy.  A man such as Phillipe's father is unlikely to take his son's death lightly, and would move heaven and earth to find those responsible.  And when one considers the many ways in which the dead can be made to speak, both figuratively and literally?

Savur Phillipe, obviously, needed to disappear entirely.

My companions had already divested the late Lieutenant and his lackeys of his valuables -- including his sword, marked with his family crest, as well as a rather interesting dagger with a pommel that looked like a very realistic eye -- and we briefly considered making it look as though he was the victim of a common robbery.

Too chancy, I concluded, for the reasons already given.

And then I had an idea.

WAIT FOR IT....

I will admit that I am not altogether proud of what we did to Phillipe.  He was the worst kind of scum, mind you, but even so.

Even so.

There was at least a hint of efficiency to our solution, though.  Allowing us, as it did, to resolve two problems at a single stroke.

On the one hand, we had several human corpses that need to be disposed of.

On the other, we had a tribe of Kuo-Toa growing increasingly hungry.

At last, expediency won out over moral and aesthetic considerations.  And not for the last time.

This distasteful task accomplished, we had a further problem to consider.  What next?  Ultimately, we wished to rescue this Joachim fellow of Delphine's...but this would take money, which was in distressingly short supply.

But again, providence smiled upon us.  Not only did we require a source of income, but we also needed to dispose of Savur's possessions.  Again, one problem solved the other.

But how to sell Savur's things without leaving a trail that would lead straight back to our door?  They were clearly marked with his family's crest, and there could be no legitimate reason for us to have them in our possession.

Once more, I had a plan.

KENJI DID, ACTUALLY.  BURNE'S PLANS INVARIABLY INVOLVE BLOWING SOMETHING UP, OR SETTING IT ON FIRE.  OR BOTH.

Unfortunately, this plan involved a form of the Art that I have not, difficult though this may be to believe, mastered.  I speak, of course, of Illusion.  Specifically, using an illusion to take the appearance of the late Lucky.

Naturally, I was the only choice for this mission.  I am renowned for my acting talents, and very nearly embraced a career upon the stage before discovering that my destiny lay with the Art and Science of Alchemy.

HE CAN'T EVEN ACT POLITE, LET ALONE CONVINCINGLY.  UNFORTUNATELY, HE WAS THE ONLY COHERENT ONE WITHOUT AN AZIKHANI ACCENT.  

Xian proved useful at this juncture.  Combining his "shu" magic with my own Art allowed me to brew an elixir that would enable me to alter my appearance.  This accomplished, we took the time to properly classify our discoveries.

Phillipe's Erisian bastard sword was both finely crafted _and_ somewhat magical, as were the bucklers that both he and Lucky had carried.   But it was Lucky's dagger, unexpectedly, that proved the most interesting.  The dagger, called "Squint", had the most remarkably ability to increase the visual acuity of anyone who peered into the pommel-stone.

Kenji, inexplicably, laid claim to Squint.  I allowed him to do so, albeit reluctantly.  This ultimately proved a wise decision, and would lead to one of the best laughs I have ever enjoyed.

In any case, my suspicions had been confirmed.  Savur's gear was indeed worth a pretty penny.  But where to sell it?

There was only one answer to that question, and it was obvious to a man of my taste and sophistication what that answer must be.

Urbane Outfitters.

The very definition of Style over Substance, and the sort of establishment frequented by the nouveau riche, and idle young nobles with delusions of good taste.

THEY HAD NEVER LET BURNE THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR, BUT NOT FOR LACK OF HIS TRYING.  OBVIOUSLY, THEY _DO_ HAVE GOOD TASTE.

Things went perfectly, of course.  I presented myself as Lucky, and purported that Philippe had sent me here because he was desperate for money to pay off some outstanding gambling debts.  A likely story indeed, from what we knew of the man.

They wondered why Phillipe had not come to sell his goods personally, but understood entirely when I told them that he hadn't wanted to risk public embarrassment...or worse, word getting back to his father, Lord Nitin Phillipe.

This, they understood.

Mission accomplished, and gold jingling cheerfully at my side, I made a point of walking about for some time with Lucky's face, hoping to stir up some confusing rumors.

And then, like a ghost, Lucky ducked into an alleyway and vanished...and Burne strode forth once more.

With an idea.

GODS HELP US.


----------



## Rolzup

*Burne’s Heremetic Destructive Engine*

Heretofore, my Art had saved the lives of myself and my companions on more occasions that I cared to remember.  A casual observer would perceive no flaws in my workings, and could only marvel at what I had accomplished.

HE’S GONE THIS LONG WITHOUT KILLING HIMSELF.  THAT’S CERTAINLY A MARVEL.

I, however, knew better.  Slight inefficiencies still nagged at me, and I could not help but think that there was a better way.

Once again, I was correct.  It came to me in a flash of brilliance, and I returned to my lab on the instant, my mind bursting with plans.

What plans, you ask?  Ah, let me tell you of a wonder....

Imagine, if you will, a crossbow.  A large crossbow, in point of fact, perhaps even awkwardly so.  Then make it a bit bigger than that.  And there you have the heart of Burne’s Heremetic Destructive Engine.

To this enormous crossbow, one should then bolt a second, slightly smaller crossbow.  And then attach a third crossbow, of rather more modest size.

Next?  A series of lenses, each with a dedicated purpose.  Abd then various rods, tubes, and cylinders of varying construction -- copper, glass, steel, oricalchum -- are connected, each jutting out at a precisely calculated angle, to function as emitters, thaumic resonators, and focusing devices.

Finally, a cunning arrangement of gears, ratchets, and levers is used to operate the Engine to full effect.

And there you have it.  The single greatest implement of magical destruction ever created.  Using the Engine, one can create and apply Alchemical preparations with astonishing speed and efficiency, far greater than anything previously imagined.  More, it infuses the Art with an alchemical property known as "moxie", which has a value beyond stating.

Consider, for example, Burne's Incandescent Arc.  Or "Burning Hands", I believe that it is more vulgarly known.  Formerly, I would have needed to produce the proper reageants from a convenient pocket, hurl them into the air and then position my hands into a fan-shape while reciting the appropriate mantra of focus.

Crude, obviously.  Primitive, in fact.

How does this same treatment function when employing the Heremetic Destructive Engine?  Nothing could be simpler!  The reagents are already stored within the Engine's interior, in precisely measured doses.  To deploy them, the user must lightly depress the third trigger on the left -- *lightly*, mind! -- whilst simultaneously ratcheting the octagonal brass lever exactly three degrees anti-clockwise.  The centermost trigger must then be fully depressed, while the focusing mantra is spoken aloud, taking care that the brass plate marked with the High Erisian fire-rune is in full contact with the user's flesh at all times.

So simple that even a child could manage it.

THIS, I THINK, SPEAKS FOR ITSELF.

The Engine came together with remarkable speed, very nearly building itself.  I ran some simple tests, invoked my Arts, and found that I had succeeded beyond my wildest expectations.  Bursts of flame, globes of caustic liquid, masses of adhesive resin...all this, and more, at my fingertips.

Tremble, oh world, at the power of Burne!

HE DOES, SADLY, REALLY SAY THINGS LIKE THIS.  WITH A STRAIGHT FACE, TOO.

When I rejoined my companions, on the day following my successful impersonation of Lucky, they were struck dumb with awe by the sight of the Engine.  I smiled a mysterious and humble smile, and left them to their wonderings while we discussed the future.

Xian had already departed, leaving the monastery in our care.  We, in turn, entrusted it to King Daikon.  He had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to take up Xian’s position as protector of Little Azikhan, and could use the place as his new base of operations.  Besides, it would make a fine open-air market.

It was agreed that, lacking anything better to do, we would help Delphine find her fiancé, Joachim.  Precisely how we would do this was something of a question, however.  We knew that he was aboard a naval vessel somewhere in the Straights of Narayan, but this is a distressingly large area to have to search.  Investigation, it was decided, might enable us to discover the ship’s name, and possible itinerary, and so make further plans.

Secondly, there was the matter of the Kuo-Toa.  I felt a certain responsibility for them, having saved their lives as I did, and did not wish to see them starve on the streets of CITY.  Besides, as we had already seen, they had certain uses....

The open waters were, Blub-Blub told us, too dangerous for them.  There are things in the CITY waters which are best left undefined; suffice to say that they were enough to frighten even these "sea-devils".  After some negotiation, King Daikon agreed to look after them, and allow them to use the tower that had once been their prison as their lair.  We agreed to purchase certain equipment for them -- weapons, and tools, and suchlike -- and they would, in turn, remain in our debt.

Plans having been made, we first needed to address the practical matters of obtaining equipment, and chartering a ship.  This, we proceeded to do over the course of the next several days.

As it transpired, however, Xian’s absence had not gone unnoticed....


----------



## Rolzup

*A Good Walk, Made Better*

We were walking down the Street of Costs, hoping to find someone from whom to purchase a magical hat.  After my successful performance as Lucky, Kenji had decided that we needed some way to reliable disguise ourselves, should the need arise.  And who was I to argue?  It was a fine day, after all, and I was rather enjoying the opportunity to stretch my legs a bit.

And then some idiots tried to kill us.

Actually, no.  I get ahead of myself.  First, some idiots sought to threaten us.

They accosted us on the street, a handful of men wearing the foppish clothing of the Room Rouge Players.  They sported a dazzling variety of absurd cognomens: Jacque the Knife, Short Paul, Mark un Mark, and one Boneaparte.

This last, dressed in a particularly gaudy outfit, acted as their spokesman.  In a transparent attempt to seem dangerous, he used various pieces of bone as clothing accessories -- cufflinks made from human molars, for example.  Sad, really.

Boneaparte blustered at us, told us that we would soon be dead, and threatened us with the wrath of Players' leader.  I laughed aloud.  Kenji went so far as to quirk an eyebrow; the equivalent of a belly-laugh for a man with human emotions.

They left, sullenly, still calling out imprecations.  I dismissed them from my mind, and we continued on our way.  The Players had plans of their own, however, and we were not yet quit of them.

Knowing the streets rather better than we did, they were able to use back-alleys and side streets to get ahead of us on the Street of Costs.  They then set up an ambush, hoping to catch us by surprise and murder us on the street.

The fools.  Burne is not so easily defeated.

It was to have begun with arrows.  Thugs were hiding in an alleyway, preparing to shoot as us as we passed.  Kenji spotted them first, however (my own mind was on higher matters), and introduced them to his sword.  As he did so, some more scum attacked us from behind.

I rather welcomed the excitement, frankly.  The Engine had not yet had a proper field-testing, and this seemed a perfect opportunity.  A 'Trial by Fire’, as it were!  Ha!

OH, HE _IS_ A CARD

It didn’t go at all as they had planned.  Kenji, in his usual casual manner, slaughtered his way through the alley while Rackhir peppered them with arrows.  I laid waste to the foe in my usual manner, using the 'Incandescent Arc’, the 'Inflammatory Emanation’, and the infamous 'Corrosive Sphere’.

It was the most fun I’d had in weeks.  And naturally, the Destructive Engine performed flawlessly.

Ah.  But I forget the madman....  He, too, did his part.  Foaming at the mouth, as was his wont, he was laying about with his table leg, displaying great enthusiasm in his skull-crushing.  Oddly, though, I once more heard someone cry out, in a tone of panic, that the man’s eyes were afire.  Would that I had witnessed this myself, but alas....  I can only assume, under the circumstances, that the condition of his normally bloodshot eyes was exacerbated by his state of rage.

The Room Rouge Players, for their part, did not fare at all well.  They managed to wound a bystander with a misplaced arrow, and I do believe that they managed to cut Kenji a time or three, but did they lay a hand upon Burne?  Not at all.

PROBABLY AFRAID OF CATCHING SOMETHING.

In the aftermath, the corpses slowly cooling in the morning air, I did what I could for the injured civilian.  I offered him some cogent advice, and suggested that regular exercise might go a long way towards improving his poor reaction time.

Ungrateful bastard never thought to thank me.

Happily enough, a traveling Barrister happened upon the scene mere moments after we’d dispatched the last of our assailants.  There was some question as to whether or not we had been the ones to instigate the slaughter, but our obvious sincerity (as well as some eyewitness testimony) soon cleared our names and we were declared free to go about our business.

And fate, once more, smiled upon us.  One of the witnesses had spoken upon our behalf was the owner of a tavern and church called "the Chapel".  He declared himself to be the Right Reverend Don "Magic Wand", or, more properly, Donatello Pazzi de Gallina, priest of the Saint of Sinners.

Not only was he impressed with our martial prowess, Donatello told us, but he was grateful to us as well.  The Room Rouge Players had been a thorn in his side for some time now, and we’d just done much to break their power.  Some still survived, he went on to warn us, including their leader, the infamous Jack Fancy.  Fancy would no doubt be intent upon revenge.

I laughed.  What threat could such a man be to Burne?

In any case, it transpired that the Right Reverend was entirely capable of making our magic hat for us, and offered to do so for us at a substantial discount.  It would take some time, of course, but it would be a very nice hat.  I accepted his offer with thanks.

And on we went, about our business.  A song in my heart, a spring in my step, the smell of roasted flesh upon the air.  It was indeed a fine day.


----------



## Rolzup

*Enter: The Yu-Tang Clan!*

By this time, after the way in which we had so handily dispatched the Room Rouge Players, we had made something of a name for ourselves.

THAT NAME BEING "THOSE FOUR CRAZY BASTARDS".

Not everyone had learned to properly fear us, however.  Not yet.  And King Daikon was experiencing trouble from some of these ignorant fools.

Naturally, he came to me for help.  Who else could he approach?

KENJI.  WHICH IS WHO HE _DID_ SPEAK TO.

This particular band of criminals, who called themselves the "Yellow Lotus Society", were apparently the masters of Little Azikhan’s docks.  Ruthless criminals, they were taking advantage of Xian’s absence to try and add Daikon’s neighborhood to their sad little empire.

Nor was the Yellow Lotus Association the only such gang.  The Room Rouge Players had been sniffing about before we so handily crushed them, as well as some individuals calling themselves Troupe Blue d'Homme.  A colorful bunch of criminals indeed, eh?

HA.  HA.  HA.

In any case, the Yellow Lotus Association had begun negotiations with one "Master Yu", the owner of a 'do-jo’ across the street from the monastery, a place called "The Cobra in Repose".  Apparently, they were hoping to hire Yu and his students, the so-called "Yu-Tang Clan", as cheap muscle.

We agreed to meet with Yu, and to explain the situation to him.  And by "explain", I mean "threaten".

As it happened, Yu was in negations with a representative of the Yellow Lotus Association even as we arrived upon his doorstep; a fellow who styled himself "Ghost-Talking Ping Ming."  He was dressed even more outlandishly than most foreigners, wearing nothing more than a grass skirt and crude sandals.

We made our position known to Yu, and to this Ping-Ming fellow.  Kenji implied, in his inimitable way, that we were in the employ of yet another crime lord, one far too powerful for the Yellow Lotus Association to defy.  Kenji did this, I should add, entirely through implication.  At no point did he actually _lie_, per se, but even so managed to spin an impressive web of half-truths.

Ping-Ming, wisely, chose to withdraw.  Yu did not take this well, and offered us threats.

As history has shown, this is never a good idea.

Unworried, we left the do-jo.  But, while Kenji and I were about other matters, the madman decided to take matters into his own grubby hands.  He entered the alley behind the building, and begin digging through a convenient trash-heap.

I’ve no idea what he hoped to learn.  Perhaps he was just hungry.  In any event, Yu proved oddly possessive of his trash, and attacked the madman, using a curious sort of sword.  It was an application of the Art that unlike any I’ve ever seen.  The blade would grow to some 30 feet in length, twisting and writhing like a thing alive, apparently responding to Yu’s will.  Fascinating, really, and it’s a shame we had to kill him.

I should emphasize at this point that I did not in fact witness precisely what happened in the alley, and was forced to piece matters together from what scraps of information Rackhir was later willing to divulge.

Nevertheless, I believe that I can reconstruct the events in exacting detail.

The madman was, as I have said, digging through a pile of garbage when Yu struck, using his "Yu Sword" to first bind and then somehow poison the madman.  Rackhir, who had for reasons of his own been following the madman then stepped from the shadows and announced himself.  He told Yu to release the madman, lest he incur the wrath of Burne.

Yu, strangely, was unmoved.  He told Rackhir that he would allow the archer to remain free if he went to Kenji and told him that he had taken the madman prisoner.  Why Kenji?  I cannot imagine.  Perhaps he didn’t feel worthy of addressing me directly.

I LIVE WITH THIS.  I AM COMPELLED TO OBEY HIM.  DO YOU UNDERSTAND MY PAIN?

Whatever Yu’s reasoning, Rackhir defied him, telling him -- correctly, I might add -- that Burne would pay no ransom.  He then launched an attack, firing a hail of arrows at his foe.  To no avail.  Yu handily disarmed him.

Rackhir then ran.  To no avail.  Yu handily tripped him up, entangled him, and then rendered him unconscious as well. 

The two of them awakened in a small room, bound hand and foot.  Even their untrained minds could make the proper deduction, and conclude that they had been imprisoned in the do-jo.  Well, Rackhir’s mind at the least.  The madman?  Who can say?

To their credit, they instantly attempted to escape.  Rackhir succeeded, but the madman was recaptured before he could leave the building.  Rackhir, wisely, came straight to me to beg my help.

Which, graciously, I granted.  As did Kenji, superfluous though he was.  He did lend Rackhir a bow, however, and so the three of us assembled outside the monastery gates girded for war.

And there was Yu, with his clan assembled around him, unprepared for the hellstorm that was about to erupt.  Rackhir, filled with righteous rage, stood well back and fired arrows through the open door of the building.  The rest of us charged into the thick of it.

I had used the Engine to spray metallic particles into the air around me, which my Art then fixed into place as a protective shield -- the famed 'Burne’s Indomitable Bulwark’.  Safeguarded in such a fashion, the Yu-Tang Clan was unable to breach my defenses, enabling me to strike them down with impunity.  The 'Incandescent Arc’ saw use once again, as did the 'Corrosive Sphere’  and the 'Immolative Aura’.

Kenji, meanwhile, was engaging in his usual crude form of combat, flailing about with his Erisian broadsword.  He was facing Yu himself, and having a difficult time of it, so I took it upon myself to work my Art upon our foe.

He responded by using his bizarre flexible sword to entangle me, but to no avail -- I employed the Engine yet again, to invoke 'Burne’s Inevitable and Infernal Sphere’ and send it rolling in his direction.  Thus distracted, he released me upon the instant.

At approximately this juncture, the madman kicked open a door and emerged from the depths of the building.  He crashed into the Yu-Tang clan members from behind, and threw a pot of coffee into the eyes of one of them.  His fearsome appearance was nearly enough to break their morale entirely, but to top matters off he worked his own Art for the first time I can remember.

Connected as he was to the primal soul of CITY itself, he was able to call upon it for aid.  Which manifested as a CITY guardsman, who burst in through the front door of the do-jo, prepared to aid us in our assault.

He died only a heartbeat later, without having struck a single blow, but I was nevertheless impressed.  I think that I sent a few coppers to his widow, but am not entirely certain.

HE DIDN’T.

The building was afire by this point, incidentally.  Not badly so, more smoldering than anything else, but such a fuss from my companions!  You would have thought that there was some kind of danger.

Once again, the firelight was reflected in the madman’s eyes, putting a rather impressive scare into the superstitious members of the Yu-Tang clan.

It’s been some weeks now since the madman went missing, and as I dictate these memoirs I find myself missing him more and more.  Why, oh why, didn’t I dissect him while I still had the opportunity?  Just think of the things that I could have done with his eyes!

Ah, well.  Missed opportunities abound.

We slew Yu, eventually.  I don’t remember who struck the fatal blow, but it was probably myself.  The surviving Clan members surrendered at this point, weeping abjectly.

I allowed the others to put the fire out, after a time.


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: What the Mad-Man Found*

After the "Rumble in the Dojo", NE7 runs into the back hallway and then upstairs, still filled with homeless rage. He returns --a few moments later- calmed and carrying a large wooden box, which he presents to Burne.

Burne sets the box down atop a hastily-abandoned game of Ajakhani chess on a table in the dojo's practice floor. Its 2.5 by 1.5 ft across, made of foreign-looking wood, with an obvious and well-made (to the eyes) metal lock. There are hinges along the upper back panel. Clearly, the top opens up.  It’s also fairly light. Not a chest full of coin.

Burne and his odd mechanical cat examine the box, and then proceed to efficiently pick the lock.

As Burne flips the last tumbler of the clearly inferior foreign lock, a sepia-colored vapor issues out of the mechanism, coalescing into a vaguely snake-like shape. It then re-arranges itself, briefly forming an ideograph of the Ajakkhani's gruesomely inefficient written language. Only to become snake-like once more, and lunge at Burne with the speed of a viper shot from an arbalest.

In response, Burne nimbly steps aside. The snake-shape strikes the wall behind Burne and its weak foreign magic returns to the badly-conceived cosmology from whence it came. 

"Typical Ajakhani magecrafting," Burne mutters, "All flash, no substance. Where are the flames, the explosions?"

Inside the box, Burne discovers a finely-made black cloak, of a material he can't immediately identify. It’s embroidered with a single symbol, similar to the one formed by the snake. The cloak wraps a sizable leather-bound book.

Burne peers through the sight of the massive, crossbow-esque contraption he refers to as "the Engine", first at the book, then at the cloak. The writing on the books cover is in Ajakhnai pictographs.

"I've no familiarity with this foreign jibber-jabber! What an inconsiderate thug this Yu was! I'm increasingly delighted to have burned the fellow to death."

"Samurai! Come here and take a look at these items, if you would."

The book is in the Imperial script appropriate for poets and executed historians posthumously absolved of wrongdoing.

It is entitled "Three Frightened Cherry Blossoms"

It is subtitled: "A humble dead man's account of the Yu-Sword, Yu-Bow, and Yu-Spear".

Dr. Wu begins and swiftly finishes his incantations, only to spend the next few minutes in silent contemplation.

"Ahhhhhh, Kenji-sama...it seems that Master Yu was not 's------g us', as King Daikon would say. The Yu-sign on the cloak is the True Yu of the Serpent, and the cloak itself has been bathed in the Black Blood of the Earth, found only at the base of the 100,000 Steps Stair below Mt. Yu...."

Wu slowly realizes not even Kenji is paying attention to him. "Snake-man magic. Yuan-Ti. Given to their servants. Not usually found outside the Empire. Very odd..."

*Interlude the Second: Dramatis Personae*

(As of the end of this session, more or less.)

*The Tenor: * A homeless, alcoholic Giant (former soldier) with a lovely singing voice.
*Riktiktavi, aka "Little Buddy": * The Tenor's Hannu monk companion. His name means "hostile to snakes".

*Delphine Laxshmi St. Sous:* Heiress to a large shipping fortune in Narayan and kidnap victim.
*--Pavur-Pierre Arjuna S. Sous:* Her father. A Magnate of Narayan, owner of Blue Star Lines.
*--Joachim Driftwood:* Delphine's fiance. An orphan priest of Kruetzel and chef at the Palm d'Whorl at the Narayan Arms Hotel. 
*--Eduard Revi:* Captain of the naval patrol ship Windsprint, believed to be the current location of Joachim, after running afoul of a press-gang.

*Mop Mop Bow:* tea-shop owner and alchemist. Properietor of The Kingdom of Peacable Teas.
*King Daikon:* street shaman and greengrocer. Now unoffical protector of the Little Ajakhan neighborhood.

*<Lt. Capt. Savur Philippe:>* Deceased head of the Fort Ormond Assymetric Recruitment Squad (ie, a press-gang).
*<Lt. Lucky:>* Philippe's right hand man. Also deceased.

*Sanjuro "Saville" Roeh:* Amoral alchemist in Little Ajakhan. The Room Rouge Players were steady customers.
*Watchful Ox:* Saville's hulking Ruhk-Kaza bodyguard.

*Han Oi Xian: * A half-Imperial Priest of the Shu (Shujenka) and (former) part-time Yakuza boss. Strives to return his dead mothers soul to a living body.
*--<Aribella Sans Merci:> * Xian's mother. Mostly dead. Her soul resides in her favorite jade necklace.
*Broken Chain:* Slack-faced, idiot-savant spiked chain fighter. Xian's bodygaurd.
*<Cloud Ghost:>* Deceased hobgoblin monk with funny hat. Master of the Soft Thunder Strike. 

*Blub-blub: * A sea-devil priest. 
*Blib-blub: * His apprentice.

*<Master Yu:>* Now-deceased head of the Cobra-in-Repose Dojo. 
*--Wok-Top: * former soldier and now resturant owner.

*The Bridge Troll:* A talkative little monster. Lives and works under a bridge near Little Ajakhan.

(The Room Rouge Players
*<Jacque the Knive, Esq.:>* deceased.
*<Short Paul, Esq.:>* deceased.
*<Mark un Mark, Esq.:>* deceased.
*<Boneaparte, Esq.:>* deceased.

(The Staff at Urbane Outfitters) 
*Margeaux Devareaux: * A specialist in magical item sales/acquistions.
*Sandrine:* A shop girl.
*Zeus: * A weapons-master.

(Faculty at the University of Narayan)
*Dr. Mephisophocles:* professor of Ineffable Inquiry and Un-Nautral Philosophy. Has a familiar named Doubting Thomas. 
*Gaspard Obeserai Illigitimo:* professor of archeology. Expert on the lost city of Ur-Imbra in the Lassantess Wastes.

(Various Mages)
*--Riven Sugarglass:* master alchemist in Eris. Said to have worked on the Philosopher's Algorithm, and to own a copy of the Calculatus Homonculatus.
*--Shalazar:* head of the so-called New School at the Acadeum Gaeta in Gallina. Pioneer of new uses for Gate Magic. 
*--Ramadeo Ben Donovan:* a young student at the Acadeum Gaeta, rumored to have Shalazar's ear.
*--Nadir Medhi:* Shirac mind-witch trained at the Miir Valley School. Has witch-hawk familiar. Rumored to have drunk from the Goblet of Ire.

*Sul Sark:* a Ruhk-Kaza mercenary with magical powers. Often found at The Chapel (tavern) in Narayan.
*Kadijah Thoris (Helios Flower Clan of the Great Ummab of the Shirac): * A dealer in magics at the Grand Bizarre in Marimbra.

*--Arabia Wainwright: * A bestselling romance-novelist.


----------



## Rolzup

*An Unusual Sort of Ink-Pot*

Having claimed yet another building as part of our spoils of war, we set about ransacking the place with a clear conscience.  I took charge of the Yu Sword, in hopes of analyzing it and discovering the origin of its powers.

One of the others discovered a locked strongbox in a back room; almost certainly the property of Yu.  I examined the lock, and picked it without effort.  Opening the box, however, caused the manifestation of some weak Azikhani magic; a pale brown serpent materialized and struck at me.

It missed, naturally.  My reflexes put those of a serpent to shame.

AND YET, HE STILL HAS NO EYEBROWS.

The box contained a book, and a black cloak.

The cloak was cut in an Azikhani style, and therefore unsuitable for a gentleman of my standing.  Yu claimed that a rune scrawled upon the cloak was the "True Yu of the Serpent", and the cloak itself had been bathed in the "Black Blood of the Earth".

Whatever the hell that means.  Snake-man magic, according to Wu.  He seemed surprised by this.

The book?  Written in a foreign tongue, and thus objectively worthless.  Kenji translated the title as: "Three Frightened Cherry Blossoms: A humble dead man's account of the Yu-Sword, Yu-Bow, and Yu-Spear".  We had the Yu-Sword in our hands, such as it was, but these other weapons were admittedly of some interest.  Rackhir, for his part, was virtually salivating at the very thought of this "Yu-Bow".

The madman, charmingly, decided to claim the now vacant building as his own lair.  In lieu of anyone else willing to declare ownership of the do-jo, I cheerfully granted it to him.  He proceeded to redecorate the place in the expected fashion, strewing garbage and sundries about until it looked much like a disused alley.

His dog, I might add, entirely lacked any sort of hygienic training.

It was at about this time that another incident involving the madman occurred, and it was unusual enough that I believe that it should be noted herein.

It was early evening, and we were standing before the monastery gates speaking to King Daikon about the missing Joachim, and our plans for finding him.  The madman was there, contributing nothing to the conversation -- as was his wont -- when he suddenly became agitated.  Violently so.

He was speaking to a cat, or so it sounded, who was not there.  Nothing unusual in this, as he generally carried on conversations with individuals seen only to himself.  But when he pried a cobblestone lose from the street, and began brutally smashing it against his own skull, I was forced to take notice.

So taken aback we were by his actions, that none of acted quickly enough to prevent him from knocking himself unconscious.  He fell, bleeding profusely, as we stood stunned.  And as we moved to help him, we noticed something even odder than his behavior.

His blood.  As we watched, the trickles of blood were actually forming words, intelligible words, upon the street.  I made a point of recording those words, for posterity’s sake, and shall now relate them.

Hmmmm.

Now, I’m sure that I had that somewhere about.  Underneath the girallon limbs, perhaps?

No?  Check under the tendriculous cuttings, Abraxis!

Still no?  There, on the shelf, next to the jars with the witch-dog hearts?

Blast.  Well, it was a prophecy, and as such it was lamentably vague.  Beware of this, and defend that, and pay heed to some other...I do remember something about women, and about "protecting the bones", though.

Well, what does it really matter?  It didn’t make any damned sense in any case, precisely as one would expect from something that came out of the madman’s head.

But, duly enlightened, we tended to the now groggy madman and discussed the implications of what we had just witnessed.  I expressed some astonishment that his head had broken before the cobblestone did, and there was general agreement at this.

Saguinary screeds aside, we had something of a problem.  The "Lady" Delphine.  Over the course of the past few days, we had discovered that Delphine was, properly, the Magnaeta Delphine Laxshmi St. Sous, daughter of Pavur-Pierre Arjuna St. Sous, owner of the Blue Star Shipping Lines.  The second richest man in Narayan, and thus one of the richest businessmen in CITY.

And to his credit, the man was not one of those modern, "progressive" parents who are so busily ruining the very fabric of our noble CITY.  No, St. Sous was the sort of man who would illegally imprison his own daughter in order to keep her safe, virginal, and free of scandal.

Bravo.

Laudable though his actions were, they made our task somewhat more difficult.  Delphine was our only source of information on Joachim, and without her assistance it was clear that finding the lad would be all but impossible.  

AND BURNE'S PAYMENT FOR "SERVICES RENDERED" MORE UNLIKELY.

Fortunately, we had one last lead to follow.  And, what’s more, it would allow us the opportunity for some fine dining.  Before his disappearance, you see, Joachim had been employed as a chef at the famous Palm d'Whorl at the Narayan Arms Hotel, one of the finest restaurants in all of CITY.  It was more than possible that, through his cooking, he had made some influential friends...friends that we could prevail upon for aid.

And if not?  An excellent meal awaited us.

What did we have to lose?


----------



## Rolzup

*Dinner with Erebus*

I was, I must admit, rather surprised that they allowed us all to enter the Palm d’Whorl.  It should be understood that I, a man of obvious breeding and distinction, am entirely accustomed to dining in such establishments.  My companions, however, are the sort of people who either eat with their hands or poke at their food with little sticks...and such folk are rarely welcome in a gourmet restaurant.

BURNE’S TABLE MANNERS WOULD MAKE A CRAZED WOLVERINE BLUSH AND LOOK AWAY.

Nevertheless, they allowed us entrance, after little more than a few curious glances and whispered comments.  Some discreetly passed coins, and a bit of namedropping, allowed us access to the Palm’s head chef, Joachim’s mentor: Johannes du Beouf, aka Spring Veal Jack.

He was relieved to know that Joachim was, so far as we knew, still alive.  He professed himself unable to help us in our quest, however, no matter how much he wished otherwise.  Johannes had access to neither the funds nor contacts that would further our search.  He did have one suggestion, however....

He introduced to a guest of the hotel, a man who -- he intimated -- might be able to help us.  The fellow called himself Mr. Erebus, if you can credit it.  He was one of the Palm’s most frequent patrons, and had been a guest at the hotel for over a century now.  He hardly looked his age, I must admit.  He dressed well, if a little too flashily for my tastes, but seemed tired and unfocused.  When we approached him, we interrupted him at a game of canasta with a elderly woman, who favored us with a pleasant smile.

He invited us to dine with him, and we cheerfully accepted.  It was an oddly unsettling meal.  Tasty, I hasten to add!  Excellent food, well prepared and charmingly served.  But our new companion made it rather difficult to concentrate upon the food.  He had a habit of answering questions before they had been asked, and would sometimes do so without speaking aloud.  Another Mind Witch, I wondered?  But he didn’t look like a Shirac....  

To his credit, Mr. Erebus seemed genuinely affected by the plight of Joachim and Delphine.  But there was nothing, he confessed, that he could do to directly aid us.  Rackhir, I think it was, raised the possibility of enlisting the aid of one of St. Sous’ rivals -- the Magnate Benoit Bodhi, perhaps -- and revealing the situation to him.  Spurred on by greed and malice, he could certainly put social pressure on St. Sous, and force the release of Delphine.

Or, at least, provide us with some mercenaries who could aid us in an assault upon the St. Sous estate.

THAT WAS BURNE’S CONTRIUBUTION.

Mr. Erebus actually blanched at this.  With such actions, he protested, we would be risking the precipitation of a trade war which could rip Narayan in half.  Were we aware of this, and of the consequences that it would have upon CITY as a whole?  Well, of course I was....

LIAR.

...but what could you expect from a barbarian like Rackhir?

Fortunately, we were able to convince the archer to listen to reason.

Another idea occurred to me at this juncture.  Could we, I asked the assemblage, go to the Lovesworn for aid?  Their very purpose was to reunite separated lovers, after all.

I’VE NEVER BEEN MORE SURPRISED IN MY ENTIRE EXISTENCE.

Erebus admitted that this was, in fact, an excellent idea.  No surprise, considering the source!  But he cautioned us that the Lovesworn have, more than once,  caused more problems than they've solved.

The meal came to an end shortly thereafter, with Erebus tendering both his apologies and his card....which was, curiously enough, completely blank.

We left the Palm D’Whorl in reasonably good grace, our stomachs full.  Still, however, at a loss as to our next move, we went our separate ways for the time being.  I happened to glance at the card that Erebus had given me, and found that it was no longer blank at all....


----------



## Rolzup

*Mallus, Aforethought*

The inexplicably detailed instructions on the back of the business card, which Burne swore was blank when Erebus handed it over reads: Café Limbo, 101 South Spider St., Saltbend, Eris:CITY.  Table in the NW corner. 8:05 PM, Eris Standard Time...

As his eyes scan the card for the hundredth time, Burne realizes three things; the timekeeper in F----d-Clock Tower has just (manually) wrung eight bells, the café is just ahead across the broad plaza, which given the nightly crowd, is about a five minute walk... no, exactly a five minute walk.

He reflects that Saltbend, named so because the once-salinated Grand Canal runs along the south end of Limbo Plaza, spilling from and later into a set of permanent Gates which let it flow along in its looping way through every city of CITY, isn't for the poor. Unless they're begging for capital at the Great Temple of Mr. Spidergod. Foolish rabble....

"Mr. Spidergod helps those who help Him first," the old proverb goes. Saltbend isn't for soldiers, either. It's for the dandies, dilettantes, the idle rich and artists, who while themselves poor, frequently excel at fleecing the idle rich out of a night's entertainment.

The Café Limbo is crowded, and smoky with several species of intermingled smokes. Burne inhale deeply, out of alchemic curiosity, then promptly forgets why and instead listens to the roar of tigers and the tinkling of giant, distant chimes.... People better dressed than he jostle past, bringing him to his senses.

The lone man seated at the corner table is richly, yet sloppily dressed, about 25. He has a mass of oiled black hair in ringlets, no beard nor visible scars. Even seated you can see the hilt of his Erisian bastard sword, and a canvas-covered shield leaning against a table leg. He's drinking -- coffee from the scent of it -- and reading from a large, garishly colored book, which he puts down at Burne's approach.

The book is "At Long Last Lost Love", by Arabia Wainwright. For some reason that coincidence puts a chill up his spine.

"Hello...Legionaire?. I'm Mallus Lovesworn. Do you realize you smell of sulphur?"  He waves for a server and continues. "Pull up a chair. The Doctor, as they say, is in."

At that, Burne notices the small, black surgeon's bag on the ground, partially hidden by the shield.

And that this Mallus is clearly high....

Burne raises an eyebrow.  "Sulfur is the sweetest of perfumes, I've found. There's not many who can appreciate its unique bouquet, but those of who do realize how sublime it can be."

Seating himself, the alchemist continues.  "I shall cut to the quick, if I may. Time is short, and I am a man who knows the value of plain speaking.  I know of two lovers,   separated by time, space, and an ocean.   I would reunite them.  Can you be of assistance in this endeavor?"

"You want to be reunited with your two lovers? Now that's a first...Old Gusset will wet himself when I tell him. Wait, I'll tell everyone but him, that'll get the old queen's goat, assuming he doesn't already have a goat, trussed up somewhere...probably dressed in lace if I know him...."

Mallus stops and collects his thoughts, such as they are. He reached down for his bag.

"That's wasn't what you meant, was it?" He pauses again, pulls a small paper packet from the depths of his satchel.

Opening the paper packet, he continues, "I'll need one of the lovers. Preferably the closer of the two. I need to know the true love in their heart. Acts like a f-----g lighthouse beacon, it does."

Burne recognizes the contents of packet, a crystalline derivative of the flower Hypnogegium Momomanus. Commonly callled "Singlemind".

With a small snort, Mallus's attention is back on Burne. Burningly, in fact.

"Neither interested party is here. So there's some...difficulty involved. This could be interesting. Tell me the whole story. Wait, just tell me where the nearer one is.

"As you have probably surmised, I've been a little bored."


----------



## Rolzup

*Of Why the Sea is Boiling Hot*

I shall be honest: I don’t entirely like this Mallus fellow.  Far too flippant for my liking, and doesn’t show a man of my learning the proper respect.

OH, YES HE DOES.

Additionally, with the amount of oil he uses in his hair, he’s likely more than usually flammable...and that can be a liability, when it comes to an ally.

Nevertheless, he’s proven quite useful over the past months.  True to his word, he was able to obtain Delphine’s release within the space of a single day.  Mallus's ability to wield half-truths, it seemes, rivals that of Kenji's. His swordsmanship, however, does not.  And, once able to make physical contact with the woman -- a process that he enjoyed rather more than I thought seemly -- he was able to determine, albeit roughly, Joachim’s location.

The pieces were, in fact, falling rapidly into place.  Through his contacts among the dock-workers and the Naval offices, Daikon had managed to obtain the name of Joachim’s ship: the Windsprint.  What’s more, he was also able to provide us with a copy of the ship’s itinerary, so that we knew roughly where and when the ship could be found.

And at the moment, that was in the Straights of Narayan, between the Sea of Storms and the Swollen Ocean.

Clearly, we needed to hire a ship.  Fortunately, Daikon had a recommendation to make....

The ship was called "The Wretched Excess".  I never thought to inquire as to the history of this name, but no doubt it was a colorful sort of tale that involves copious amounts of sodomy and grog.

The commander of the ship was one Captain Jaton "L.L. Salty J."  Spar, and the crew appeared to consist entirely of his various bastards.  Literally, mind -- the good captain must have had an admirably misspent youth.  This was to be his last voyage, and after we returned in triumph he would be retiring to...well, do something else.  To be honest, I really wasn’t listening.

I am, as I have noted, a Naval officer.  And as such, despite my dislike of sea-travel, I am an expert on sailing vessels of all kinds.  The "Wretched Excess", I'm afraid, is the sort of ship generally classified as a "scow".

BURNE KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT BOATS.  WHEN ASKED WHAT KIND OF SHIP THE "EXCESS" WAS, HIS ACTUAL ANSWER WAS, "THE FLAMMABLE KIND". 

My cabin was a tiny, cramped affair that boasted none of the usual amenities a man of my station comes to expect.  Fortunately, I'd had the foresight to bring reading material along with me, and the salt air was, I must admit, rather invigorating once I had my sea-legs again.

FIRST THREE DAYS OF THE VOYAGE WERE SPENT WITH BURNE LEANING OVER THE RAIL BEING VIOLENTLY ILL.  BEST THREE DAYS OF MY EXISTENCE, TOO.

We were some six weeks out of port when we stumbled across the Windsprint.  The ship had seemingly been abandoned, and was floating free in the waters a day or so away from the ship's next scheduled stop: The Island of St. Tarte.

Naturally, we had to investigate the matter.  Mallus was certain that Joachim was not on board, and was in fact in the same direction as the aforementioned island, but I insisted that we examine the ship for clues.

AND SALVAGE.

We found rather more than we'd expected.  Corpses, for one.  Quite a number; many of them in naval uniforms, while others were dressed...oddly.  After a moment's consideration, however, I recognized where I had seen this peculiar style of dress before: The representatives of the Yellow Lotus Society, who we had dealt with in Yu's do-jo.

Ping raiders, as Captain Spar later identified them.  Savage Polyneecheean pirates, well-known slave-takers.  Their presence so close to St. Tarte’s boded very ill indeed....

Another pair of corpses were seemingly Worldkeep Knights; one fully dressed in alchemically treated plate-mail, and the other torn apart while still half-dressed.  What business did they have about a Naval vessel, I wondered?

And there was a dead ape or two, I recall.  The four-armed variety, rather more efficient than the normal sort.

But not everything was dead, fortunately.  Rackhir was lucky enough to stumble upon a _Rast_, a monster originally Gated from some squalid little plane.  Rast can be looked upon as a sort of living weapon, and have often been employed by the CITY military in years past.

A fascinating beast, by the way.  Entirely alien in appearance, and oddly beautiful in its own fashion.  Like a large spider, with a sort of dog-like head, hovering in mid-air.  Its flesh looked similar to red pumice-stone, and the light of its internal furnace shone clearly through small cracks in the carparice.  Really, quite a marvelous killing machine.

The beast was hiding in the crow's-nest, feeding on the corpse of a crewman.  Rackhir must have offended it somehow -- I surmise that the Rast, seeing the archer's red garb, had hoped to find a mate, and was deeply disappointed to discover the truth of the matter -- and it floated down to attack him.

Things went hilariously badly over the next few minutes.  The madman, Kenji and Rackhir took turns hitting the beast, until one or both of the foreigners managed to be paralyzed by its gaze...proving, once again, their weakness of will.

OR THEIR WILLINGNESS TO GET CLOSE TO A THREAT, INSTEAD OF TAKING COVER BEHIND A LIFEBOAT.

For my part, I used the Engine to generate Burne's Inerring Forceful Projectiles, with which I peppered the beast.

Rackhir ended up in the crow's-nest with the Rast astride him, busily sucking his blood.  Kenji scaled the mast, and began beating the unfortunate beast, inflicting no small number of bruises upon the archer in the process.

The battle ended with Rackhir weak from blood-loss, and myself weak from laughter.

But!  Now I had the corpse of a Rast available to me!  And my goodness, the possibilities were endless!

Oh, yes.  We ransacked the ship as well, and the news only got better.  We discovered medical supplies, a magical gate-lantern, some curiously carved gems, a rather odd cylindrical rod of some sort...and...and....

Forgive me.  I always grow a little emotional at these memories.

REALLY.  HE WAS ACTUALLY TEARING UP JUST THEN.  HE'S A SICK, SICK MAN.

We found a box labeled "Munitions".  Oh, yes....  It contained four IOUs, enticingly enough, two each for "Cussive Elixir Grade B" and for "Comflamatory Elixir Grade A".  That alone was enough to start my heart to racing!  But what else did the box contain?

A thick glass vial, with a green cloth band around it marked "Nebulotoxum".

Two more vials, more slender than the first, with a paper wrapping, upon which had been  scrawled "Balls of a Lazy Devil".

Not much, one might think.  If, of course, he was an ignorant fool.  Munitions in the proper hands -- _my_ hands, to be specific -- possess a power all out of proportion to their size.

And so, after putting a skeleton crew upon the Windsprint, we set a course for St. Tarte’s.  Rackhir was still lamentably weak from the Rast's predations, but I had ways of dealing with that....


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Sociology and Tactics*

<Aboard the Wretched Excess, just off the coast of St. Tarte's Island, in the Straits of Narayan>

A skeleton crew is left aboard the Excess, with the rest of its able seaman aboard the derelict MCSDF Windsprint. Ahead, the St. Tarte's Lighthouse --the Lamp of Love-- is dark. From the top of lighthouse tower a large Ping Tiki-torch burns instead.

"They're signaling to their brown-skinned brothers," says Captain Spar. "Just like the raiders of old. First they send ships full of barbarian warriors, faces painted with cocoa-butter, smelling of coconut oil and death. Then the fat catamarans would come. To take away anything that was worth anything. Like the people. And by people I mean women. Damned Ping-men, can't get enough of the white women!"

"Neither can you, dad," chimes in Shalom Spar.

"Make that 'Any woman with a pulse'," says Sahib Spar.

"The point I'm making, you ingrates," says the Captain, "Is that you all don't have much time before St. Tarte's is swarming with more Ping than you can shake a belaying pin at. That is, if that fire up there really is a signal. Could be they're just roasting up a pig...."

Rackhir says "Would putting the signal fire out stop the reinforcements from coming?"

"Indeed it might. It'll certainly be guarded. Might even be one of their witch-doctors tending it. Fire is sacred to the Ping. You can't see it from here, but I'd bet my ship that the fire up there is burning in a big metal pot cast in the likeness of Tiki-Ishii, the Polyneecheean's savage god. He's
a volcano, you know."

"Polyneecheeans?" inquires Mallus.

"It's what the Ping call themselves" says Sahib Spar.  "It means 'The many followers of Nee Chee'. He was a great shaman who led his people off their ancestral home on Tiki-Ishii right before it exploded. They came to settle in the Ping Islands. Mostly on Big Ping and Little Ping. With a few settlements on Ping Three, Pang and Pong."

"I see your mother wasted a good deal of _my_ money on _your_ education" says the Captain, "And yet, you still came to me for a job."

"The Polyneecheeans are an evil people", concludes Sahib Spar. "They believe they're the master race. They're brown-supremacists, you know."

Captain Spar interjects, "See there, past the lighthouse to the left, that's the Plage d'Homme, and past that is the port of Sanctum...."

"Don't you mean Skanktum?" says one son.

"Spanktum," says the other.

"I mean what I say," the Captain says gruffly, "Unless I'm married to you. Now, Sanctum should be lit up like a festival, even in the off-season, but see, it's dark. And look at those ribbons of smoke, those aren't from cooking. Not even Samira could burn a meal that badly..."

"That's my mother!" says Sahib.

"You have my sympathies," says the Captain. "And look there, those lights on the hill, that's the Shrine of St. Tarte's Bodice. It used to be a fort a few centuries ago. Back before the League of Cities, during the Pirate Times. From what I've heard, it's got a big dungeon where they used to torture pirates and political prisoners. The priestesses still use it, though not exactly in the same way. The shrine is easily defensible and full of loose women. If I were a lusty barbarian, that's where I'd hole up."

"What do you mean 'if''?" says Sahib in a hurt, quiet voice.

Kenji-sama interupts this awkward moment for the Spar family. "Let us first discuss our goals when we land. Do we intend to defeat the entire invading force? Do we intend to simply retrieve Joachim? Perhaps we want to rescue Joachim and put out the signal fire? Obviously, we may need to change our goals after we explore the situation, but what is our intention? One suspects that defeating the invading force would hold much reward, and grave danger."

"Joachim is, and should remain, our primary target...ah, goal. Goal. That said, if we could put out the signal fire we would be making their lives much more difficult...which is all to the good, damn their coconut-scented hides," Burne says.

He shrugs.  "I'm willing to make the effort to put the beacon-fire out, although _extinguishing_ flames goes against everything I hold dear.  I'm sure it won't be difficult; after all, they're just barbarians.  But we should secure Joachim first and foremost."

"What about the Windsprint's captain?" replies the elder Spar. "If he's still alive, he's worth something to my retirement fund. I mean to all of us...."

Meanwhile Mallus and Delphine stand at the port rail, looking towards the island. Without asking he takes her hand; a surprisingly sensual and inappropriate gesture. She doesn't resist.

He says, "What do you know...I can get a finer reading. Joachim is definitely not in the lighthouse, he's near the town, no, behind it, at the shrine. OK, so that was obvious to those of you using logic, but I was using metaphysics."

After a moment of silence Mallus says to Delphine, "You must really need a good, hard...embrace."

_*DM's Note:* MCSDF is an acronym of Monopolis Combined Self-Defense Force. "Monopolis" is the legal name for CITY._


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude:  Mallus Offers Some Exposition*

<Aboard the Wretched Excess, off St. Tarte's Island >

Mallus clears his throat, catching Burne’s eye.  "Seeing as we might not get a chance to speak after we embark on our collective suicide, let's chat...."  He turns to face away from the island. Instinctively Burne knows that the Lovesworn was facing some part of CITY.  After a few moments of silent reverie, he continues.

"You should know a few things about Erebus. Not what everyone knows about him; that he hates cats. Loves shrimp scampi and anything made with gin. That he's immortal...."

He pauses, then starts over.

"I'm not a priest, nor a scholar. That means I'm less full of s--t. Despite what the academics say, the Erebus legends can be neatly divided into two categories; the stories of Erebus the Angel and Erebus the Employer.

"Erebus the Angel fell out of sky in the earliest days of CITY. Before the founding of Eris, if you believe The Legends of the Fall, but clearly that angst-ridden epic poem was written by a lovesick teenage girl zonked out her mind on absinthe, no more than two centuries ago, tops.

"Anyway, that version of Erebus fell, slammed into Mt. Kempkes on the way down, bounced off, wings dragging the earth, eventually burying himself in the Pit of Erebus, along the Southern edge of Eris. Some say his actual final rest is beneath the city, though no-one save the Pit Centurions know if that's true, and they're all insane....

"That Erebus is regarded as the Devil by the barbarous, cannibal monotheists of the Hannikum Church. Considering the source, I'd take it as a compliment.

"That Erebus is known chiefly for his seemingly infinite capacity for self-pity, wanderlust, and infidelity. There are endless stories of his ocean voyages, the strange creatures he battled, as if to do penance, his inevitable loving and leaving the classic beauties of antiquity.

"One of these was a Lassantes woman known originally as "The Way to Heaven". Erebus broke her heart. In return, she tried to commit suicide by making the city of Ur-Imbra more intimately acquainted with the sun. At the last moment she got cold feet. But it was too late to stop the ritual, and there was a hot time in the old city tonight.

"The Lassantesmen marked what was left of Ur-Imbra with a ring of a hundred thousand gravestones. That was really just a guess.

"Not much was written about that Erebus after that. Though the woman does resurface later on under a new name, 'The Smoldering Whore of Ur-Imbra'. Goddess of Abandoning and the Abandoned.

"I'm digressing, aren't I? It's the sound of my own voice... lovely, isn't it? Even I'm not immune.

"Then there's Erebus the Employer. His legends are somewhat newer, though there's a lot of confusion over dates. You should have to take a class on chronology before you get to write a legend.

"Where was I?  Oh.... this Erebus is the head of a cabal of sorcerers called the Brotherhood, or sometimes, the Brotherhood of the Black Worm. The legends speak of Erebus 'owning' the Brotherhood, and paying them in secrets. All manner of secrets. Everything from court gossip to the more generic Things Mortals Weren't Meant to Know....

"These stories are a lot less uniform than the Angel stories. Here Erebus is less the melancholy romantic and more the trickster or manipulator. And the exploits of the Brotherhood vary wildly from the horrific to the heroic. Babies are murdered with alarming frequency. The only discernable common threads are a love of culture, and an interest in bringing the dead back to life, often en masse. Oh, and the baby-killing."

"Some pinheads want to add a third category; the so-called "Godfather" stories in which Erebus is the name of the force that elevated certain mortals to Godhood. These are popular amongst the mongrels of Narayan and the Hannikum Church, who view all CITY's gods as the false spawns of the Devil.

"But who heads the words of pinheads? Not exceptional men of Eternal Erisium. Clearly these tales are propaganda meant to valorize markedly inferior places, like that salt-ridden clap-trap town of Narayan. These stories are political fiction, meant to evoke the sense of fecundity and wonder of the Angel legends.

"Anyway, we're to meet our fates head-on soon, so I'll make this short. There's one other thing to now about Erebus: He can only hurt you if you accept his help. And he can offer you all the help in the world."


----------



## Rolzup

*In Which the Polyneechians Gaze Into the Fire, and the Fire Gazes Back*

By the time we had reached St. Tarte’s, I had managed to create a formula that would restore Rackhir’s lost vigor.  It required the use of the Rast’s circulatory fluids (I hesitate to call the stuff "blood"), and various drugs from Mallus’ personal supply.  The resulting brew, a sort of ultracoffee, restored him to full strength as soon as he drained it.

I believe that it was nearly a week before he was able to properly sleep again, but that was a small price to pay.

The Wretched Excess sailed well to the East of the island, hoping to stay out of sight.  And my men and I -- including both Mallus and, against my better judgement, Delphine -- used a ship's launch to approach the island under cover of darkness.

A long, surprisingly phallic, dock jutted out from the Southern end of the island, just beneath the hilltop fort.  We managed to navigate under the docks and disembark without being seen.  That, alas, did not last long.

As we moved stealthy up along the length of the dock, Kenji noticed a group of Ping descending along the winding path that led down from the fortress.

One might have observed, along the course of my narrative, that both Rackhir and Kenji have unusually keen vision.  This is a result, I believe, of the barbarous Ajikhani writing, which is both needlessly small and irritatingly complex.  Obviously, being forced to read such scrawlings has a way of sharpening the vision, much like lifting heavy weights develops strength in the muscles of the arms.

Besides, I generally have my mind occupied by higher matters.  Formulae, and calculations, and suchlike.

FIRE, ACTUALLY.  HE DREAMS OF IT, TOO.

Thus it was that Kenji, again, noticed the people hiding in one of the moored boats, about to be discovered by the Ping.  We had to act, before we lost a valuable source of intelligence.

It was the madman who first engaged the enemy, leaping into battle.  Much to Kenji's dismay, I might add -- his barbaric combat technique allows him to deliver a devastating strike, but not when the enemy is prepared for such a maneuver.  The madman's action had clearly robbed him of the element of surprise.

And when the madman fled, spears protruding from his flesh, Kenji found himself in an unenviable position indeed.  Fortunately, I, having allowed the raiders to pass by my place of concealment, then struck from behind in a classic pincer maneuver.

The engine sang out a song of death....

OH, HELL, THAT'S A LINE FROM ONE OF HIS POEMS.

...and the enemy fell, like...like things falling.  Burning, screaming things.

AND SO'S THAT.  VERBATIM.

Kenji did his part, I suppose.  And the madman must have clubbed one or two of them down.  But it was I, using an Inerring Forceful Projectile, who took down the last of the foe, before he could flee and alert his comrades.

Rackhir had vanished by this point, off on some errand or another.  He tends to do this sort of thing, for some reason.

ANY EXCUSE TO ESCAPE THE SOUND OF BURNE'S VOICE IS A GOOD ONE.

The madman used his arts to heal himself, while Kenji and I spoke to the woman and her companion.  As I had suspected, she was a nun: a servant of Saint Tarte.  They told us of how the Ping had struck without warning, overwhelming the island's few defenses, and had imprisoned most of the inhabitants.  The most important prisoners, including both the Sister Inferior and the Mother Superior, were being held in the dungeons of the fortress.

The nun, it seemed, had been attempting to engage in congress with a handy sailor, thereby ritualistically renewing her magical potency.  Religious magic is, as I have previously noted, hopelessly inefficient.

Once again, fate smiled upon us.  It transpired that there was a secret entrance to these dungeons, hidden in the rocks beneath these very docks.

Hah!  A rhyme!  Mark that passage, Abraxis!  I shall add it to my epic poem this very evening.

PLEASE KILL ME.

The women hid themselves upon our launch, as we descended below the docks.  The entrance was easily found, and after using Burne's Luminescent Aura upon a crossbow bolt, we had enough light to see by.  And so we sallied forth, into the very heart of the enemy stronghold....


----------



## Rolzup

*At Long Last, Joachim*

The dungeons were only lightly guarded; they obviously had not anticipated a master strategist like myself.  We struck them down quickly and quietly, and proceed on to the cells.

And there we found, at long last, Joachim Driftwood.  He was less than delighted to see his beloved, considering the dangerous nature of his predicament, but once I introduced myself he was sufficiently reassured.

HE NEVER EVER NOTICED BURNE, ALTHOUGH HE DID REMARK ONCE UPON THE SMELL.

Kenji freed the man, along with his fellow prisoners, by using his blade to literally slice through the bars of their cells.  Reasonably impressive, I had to admit, albeit needlessly flashy.  We discovered that not only had we found Joachim, and the Sister Inferior (one 'Eva Longinus'), but also the other surviving members of the Windsprint's crew.  The Captain, Eduard Revi, thanked me personally, and offered to assist us in our efforts to eliminate the remaining Polyneecheeans.

Pleased by his bravery, I offered him the use of my own sword, a weapon of fabled power.

HE BOUGHT IT THIRD-HAND.  I'M NOT SURE WHAT METAL IT'S MADE OF, BUT IT BENDS IF HE SWINGS IT TOO HARD.

Rackhir reappeared at some point in the proceedings, fresh from doing gods-know-what.  Napping, I suspect.

I, AT LEAST, NOTICED THAT RACKHIR HAD MORE SCARS, AND SIGNIFICANTLY LESS ARROWS, THAN HE HAD WHEN HE LEFT US.

We were surprised, at this juncture, by a handful of guards descending the stairs.  We struck quickly, but one of them managed to flee back up the stairs, slamming the double doors behind him.  We had only moments to prepare for the enemy assault.

As Kenji urged the non-combatants into the secret tunnel, I created a simple trap at the top of the stairs.  A broken board was placed upon the topmost step, the vial of Nebulotoxum concealed beneath it.  The first man through the door would step upon the board, breaking the vial and releasing the contents.  The deadly, deadly contents.

It went exactly as I had planned.  The Nebulotoxum proved to be a particularly vile gas, one which left the Polyneecheeans blinded and sickened.  It had little effect, sadly, upon the pair of truly enormous boars that charged down the stairs after them....

What followed was an altogether typical melee, aside from the giant pig.  Kenji waved his sword about, Rackhir fired arrows at various people, and the madman cracked skulls with gleeful abandon.

Myself, I employed Burne's Incendiary Blast upon the pig, filling the dungeon with the delightful scent of barbeque.  The Ping had more than spearmen and swine upon their side, however!  They also boasted the services of some sort of barbaric spell-caster, and he used his arts to call forth a wind that swept away the Nebulotoxum cloud.

My interest piqued by this rude challenge, I set myself the task of incinerating the fellow.  We dueled back and forth for a time, until I -- growing weary of the game -- allowed Rackhir to slay him.  Or perhaps it was Kenji?  Either way, one barbarian killed another.  It was all quite appropriate, really.

The close quarters, and the superior numbers of the foe, had made matters touch-and-go for a time, but we prevailed in the end.  Naturally.  With Burne at the helm, how could we fail?

HE COULD SET HIS ALLIES ON FIRE.  “ACCIDENTALLY”.  JUST WAIT; IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME.

With the foe driven back, we swept upward, and removed the remaining Ping from the building.  Messily.

In the process we found a collection of items that the Polyneecheeans had collected; ‘booty’, I believe is the technical term?  Therein we found various and sundry things of interest; Captain Revi’s sword, Joachim’s magical oven, and even the fabled relic known as the Holy Bodice of St. Tarte.  This last was wrapped around the order’s Mother Superior, Tawny Portal, who the Ping had been intending to sacrifice to their Tiki god.

The rest of the evening passed in a flame-lit blur.  It ended when the surviving Ping fled back to their ships, which were -- alas! -- beyond the Engine's range.  Neverthelss, I had given them much to remember me by, and no few Ping were left burning upon the shores of St. Tarte's!

And so, with the lovers reunited, the island freed, and the barbaric foe routed, we were free to return to CITY and to civilization.  And it was about damned time.


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: A Distressingly Straightforward Explanatory Account from the Pen of Rackhir*

Rackhir's Big Adventure

The original plan was to sneak into the fortress through the top. Rackhir was going first as an archer and a ranger (and a newly minted DWS) he was best suited to getting into range of the guards on the walls of the fortress. However as he was moving towards the fortress a second patrol group (in addition to the one attacking the nun on the docks) emerged between him and the rest of the group threatening Delphine and Mallus who were well behind him (so as not to spoil his hide and move silently rolls). He and Kenji cut down the patrol with their bows drawing their attention away from D&M. Fortunately this had not drawn the attention of the sentries on the fortress. Rackhir then cut down one and seriously wounded the other who had dropped below the crenellations, making it unclear if he had been killed or not.

So Rackhir pushed on to the fortress and scaled the wall with a grappling hook and rope. Making his way around the top of the fortress, he ran into two more berserkers and killed them just in time to have another berserker and a shaman pop out of the fortress on patrol. It was around this time that the rest of the party "forgot" about Rackhir and wandered off to go down through the secret passage. Rackhir killed the shaman and seriously wounded the berserker who then fled into the fortress faster than Rackhir could follow. At this point he decided that it would be unwise to continue the assault on the fortress on his own so he retreated from the fortress, managing to fall off the walls as he tried to get down the rope. Unfortunately at this point he ran into two more berserkers and a pair of Pig Handlers with their pig. Rackhir then made a fighting retreat up a path killing the two berserkers, one of the pig handlers and his pig before the remaining one retreated with his pig. Declining to push his luck, I let them go.

Of course at this point the party had disappeared into the secret tunnel. Fortunatey Rackhir managed to make his tracking rolls and followed the group into the tunnel, sneaking up on them with some quite impressive Hide and Move Silently checks.

Thus ended Rackhir's "nap".


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Ship of Fools, Part 1, "Vulgar Intrigues" *

<Aboard the MCSDF Windsprint, 2 days sail from St. Tarte's Island, en route to Narayan:CITY.>

It's hot. It's crowded, despite the loss of the enlisted crew. It's surprisingly dull, considering that the enlisted men have been replaced by saucy half-dressed female refugees from the Shrine of St. Tart's Bodice, for whom propriety is mortal sin.

The priestesses, to no one's surprise, have a real thing for seamen. However, their interest in a Free Company made up of foreigners, a pyromaniac, the mad and the soon-to-be married is flaccid at best.

Captain Spar and a skeleton crew of his relatives man the "Wretched Excess". Most of his boys are aboard the Windsprint, getting a crash-course in navy life. This education proves to be so popular that Spar has them drawing lots each morning for the opportunity to serve.

The nights pass unquietly, disturbed by religious fervor. Sacraments are dispensed, as often as the sailors stamina will allow.  By the 3rd day Captain Spar abandons his own ship, asking permission to come aboard Windsprint.

"Just trying to do my part to get her home safely." he says to an incredulous Burne, as he all but fondles the starboard gunwale. Burne tries to remind him that he has a ship of own when Spar cuts him off.

"You wouldn't have any of that herb, what do they call it in Narayan...Le Weekender...umm...Sialis root, that's it! A man my age needs a little help raising the mast."

"I had some," says Mallus, "But we used all we had trying to revive the ronin. He had a particularly draining experience on the voyage to St. Tarte's Island."

"On the way over? But that's before we picked up the ladies". Jaton Spar mumbles something snide and walks away. Mallus quickly glances around for Rackhir, and then for available cover, in that order.

Aside from the...tension between the refugees and crew, the situation is unpleasant between Captain Revi and his officers, made all the more so by the revelation that the Mother Superior can turn ordinary seawater into a variety of cocktails, not the least of which is her signature rosewater and gin. The lingering shock of defeat, the unorthodox passengers, arguments over the playing of favorites and the relative sizes of prows, not to mention the freely-given gin lead to a near-total breakdown of proper naval conduct.

On the fourth night out, Captain Revi and his purser Masala Tangier argue on the foredeck for all to hear.

Spar says "Why shouldn't I hand everything our 'passengers' had over to the samurai and his company? They deserve prizes.  And I'll be damned if I give them any more from our stores."

"Give them everything but the brass bottle," says Mr. Tangiers quietly.

"Damn it man, what's so special about the bottle?! And this time on the level. You haven't spoken true with me since our release." The soft slapping of the waves, and occasionally sanctified backsides, are the only reply.

"I should just break the seal on that bottle myself, Tangiers," says Captain Revi, "If I'm guessing right, that would end what's left of your career right quick, wouldn't it?"

"If you're guessing wrong, it might end a lot more." Mr. Tangiers looks down at the ship's passing wake and briefly considers exactly how bad it would be to have pearls for eyes.

"The bottle wasn't in the manifest. How did it get onto St. Tarte's?"

"It came onboard with the two knights, Raul Varice and Nui Ulgar. I omitted it from the manifest. The Ping must have snatched it up when they took us."

"Who are you working for, Mr. Tangiers?" Captain Revi's hand causally drops to the hilt of his blade. "The White Pearl Privateers? The Crooked Sages? Not the Ajakhani?"

Masala Tangiers is silent for a moment, then he mounts a feeble smile that suggests bowel trouble. "I'm loyal to CITY, Captain. If you'll permit me..."  Mr. Tangiers ever-so-slowly lowers his hand and draws his dagger from its sheath.

"Ritual suicide Mr. Tangiers? You don't strike me as the type," Captain Revi pauses in mid-taunt to gape at the dagger's blade, or lack of one, seemingly made of a slice of blue sky as seen from bole of  a green stalk-like tree. A creature comes briefly into view on a nearby branch and regards the Captain with expectant eyes.

"What the hells is that?"

"Looks like a lemur."

"One more remark like that and I'll have your guts for violin strings. That's a Gate-Blade, isn't it?"

"It is. As sharp as the line that divides here from everywhere else. I'm an operative for the Order of the Gondoliers, Captain."

"The Gondoliers! They have no business on a real boat. And their jurisdiction doesn't extend beyond the walls of CITY. They're nothing but glorified city guards with unnatural talking gondolas. And worse, dabblers in Gate Magic." Masala Tangiers says nothing.

"So you were ordered to steal it from knights? Who were they? They're the ones responsible for the loss of my ship. We could've taken those savages if it weren't for their lantern summoning up that damn flying spider!"

"I was ordered to keep tabs on them, and the bottle ever since we docked at Plame on Novo Saurum. They were members of a Free and Accepted Martial Order of Eris. Wordkeep knights."

"Wordkeepers? Aren't they just a parcel delivery services nowadays? They haven't been a true knighthood since an emperor sat on the throne of Eris. Are you telling me I lost my ship on account of the powerful sorcery of two... postmen?!"

"It wasn't sorcery, it was Gate Magic."

"Correct me again and you'll be riding the keel all the way to Fort Ormond. Why didn't you level with me, Masala? We go back a ways," says Captain Revi, pausing to consider the fact that he never really knew the man in front of him.

"I was ordered to lie."

"You can't call what you did back on St. Tarte's lying. It was more like talking, spiced with a variety of nervous tics. You'd figure lying was vital skill to have as a secret agent."

"Now you're just trying to hurt me, Captain."

"Perceptive of you".

"I panicked. I was afraid you'd give our rescuers the bottle."

"Damn right. I want this done with, forgotten. If I wait for the naval brass to reward them I'd be in their debt until the Gate to Heaven opens and the dead rise up to march through!"

Standing at the aft rail, Mallus Lovesworn says to Rackhir, "It's odd how their voices carry. Must be this ill wind...."

_*Note:* MCSDF is short for "Monopolis Combined Self-Defense Force". "Monopolis" is the legal name for CITY, but it's not commonly used in Narayan._


----------



## demiurge1138

Yay, it's back!

And I sense a foreshadow-pun in the fact that the drink causing all of this trouble over the bottle is 'gin'.

Demiurge out.


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## Bloodcookie

I'm glad to see this story continuing as well; it features my favorite brand of humor - bawdy, yet erudite


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Glad to see this story has survived the Big Crash.   

Keep it coming ...


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Ship of Fools, Part II, "Lovers and Other Strangers"*

<Aboard MCSDF Windsprint, 4th night out of St. Tarte's, just off the isle of Petit Soir>

The warm ocean air is punctuated by the sound of Joachim Driftwood and Delphine Laxshmi St. Sous fighting, their voices rising above the rhythmic roll of the waves against hull and the rhythmic rolling of an entirely different sort rising then abruptly stopping from the crew quarters below decks. The sea moves on, priestesses give succor to sailors, and everywhere a kind of love is in the air.

"We should elope!"

"We can't! Think of your father!"

"Tell me what you saw in my father's house!"

"It was nothing."

"Don't lie to me!"

"Then don't ask me that question again."

"Then it's awful..."

"I had to leave. I needed...."

"What do you mean 'Had to leave'? You were impressed into the navy! Were you planning to run off before you were kidnapped?!"

"No, no, Delphine, I needed some time away to think. To do good works and pray...."

"Praying! It's always praying with you!"

"For f--k's sake Delphine, what do you expect? I'm a priest."

"For f--k's sake? Have you been hanging around with those girls from the Shrine? They're shameless and consort with sailors!"

__________________________________________________________________________

Rackhir and Mallus find themselves listening to the lovers spat on deck, both leaning against the starboard rail. Mallus says, " Care for a gin and rosewater? I find a few in rapid successions dull the sound of the quarreling and catting about,"

"Thank you," replies Rackhir. "Can I ask you something?"

"Funny how clearly we can here them, it's like they're using megaphones. And yes, they really are in love."

"That's not what I was going to ask. What did Joachim see?"

"Oh. When I Know a person's love, it's as if I'm looking out through their eyes. I get a rush of images, oddly enough, often accompanied by lush string arrangements; anyway, it's all a blur. There's no context."

"You're evading the question," presses Rackhir.

"And you're rather observant. I suppose that helps with the archery...."

The ronin's silent, steely gaze speaks volumes comprised solely of threats.

"Not to mince, and perhaps then sugar, words, what I saw scared the f--k out of me," says  Mallus quietly. "I may socialize with Gate Mages and powerful Alchemists, but the truth is, I don't like magic. It frightens me. " 

"You did see something."

"I...Joachim was standing in a basement kitchen looking out a window at carriage wheels, flowers; it was Delphine's family estate. Two well-dressed men were wrestling a third, a servant, into the back of a black carriage. There was the sound of clinking glasses. The men pushed the servant in and then a face appears in the carriage window...no, right through the carriage wall. It had slyly beckoning eyes and curves like sharp angles, impossible-looking. All feminine malevolence and then blackness....umm...because Joachim closed his eyes."

"Despite how... _wrong_ she looked, I fear a man could lose an eternity tracing those sharp curves. Or a woman. I suspect she wouldn't discriminate."

Mallus takes another mouthful of gin. "That's what I saw. That and Joachim's hand writing reams of f-----g awful love poems."


----------



## Rolzup

And thank you all -- I'm glad I kept everything backed-up.  Not that I was expecting anything like this to occur, mind you.

And yes, gin is a recurring motif.  For reasons that only Mallus can address...although I strongly susepct personal preferences may play a part there.


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## Mallus

demiurge1138 said:
			
		

> And I sense a foreshadow-pun in the fact that the drink causing all of this trouble over the bottle is 'gin'.



That's entirely fitting and absolutely unintentional. I wish I was that clever, I really do...

As Rolzup mentioned, there's a lot of gin drinking because I have a certain fondness for the stuff. And it really is the perfect drink for a Mallus; a bitter, cynical, worse, proffessional, romantic.


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## Rackhir

Well since my description of Rackhir Mk.IV didn't make it back in, here it is.

Rackhir is the fourth version of the eponymous character of my user name. Of course he's modeled loosely on the character of the same name from the Elric Saga. 

The first two were waaaayyyy back in high school in D&D 1E, used the Archer NPC class from one of the Dragon issues and were among the luckiest characters I've ever had. Especially Mk.II who always seemed to get a crit or make his save in these knock down drag out fights that usually ended with him and maybe one other character (of a party of like 8) left standing. Both essentially came to a bad end at the hand of the other party members, a fate Mk.IV seems likely to be the first to avoid.

Mk.III was in Wizadru's Campaign and was a Fighter/Barb/Modified OoBI. He was a dark and bitter character, having had his wife betray him and sacrifice their children to Iuz. I was starting to suffer badly from depression at that time and he reflected that.

Mk.IV the current incarnation despite often being described in grim terms (Did we mention that Burne is not a reliable narator) is far more laid back and easy going. He also differs in that he has generally horrible luck and I've been banging my head on the table more than one night due to hiddeously bad rolls. He's often described as a Ronin, though technically he doesn't qualify since in a fit of perversity one night I decided that he would come out of a peasant background and Ronin are masterless Samurai.


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## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Mk.IV the current incarnation despite often being described in grim terms (Did we mention that Burne is not a reliable narator) is far more laid back and easy going.



He's also the only remotely heroic character in the campaign. Actually, he's fairly close to heroic, the 'remotely' comes from the company he keeps.

Rackhir's only real competition comes from Kenji-sama, who would be named "Honor Like Apathy" if he were a Culture starship.


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## shilsen

Mallus said:
			
		

> He's also the only remotely heroic character in the campaign. Actually, he's fairly close to heroic, the 'remotely' comes from the company he keeps.
> 
> Rackhir's only real competition comes from Kenji-sama, who would be named "Honor Like Apathy" if he were a Culture starship.



 Hey - what about Meiji? The master of the elements, putter-back-together of other (horribly ungrateful) PCs and hero of the Battle of the Lassantees Wastes?

Bah! Everyone's a critic!


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## Mallus

shilsen said:
			
		

> Hey - what about Meiji? The master of the elements, putter-back-together of other (horribly ungrateful) PCs and hero of the Battle of the Lassantees Wastes



Whose battle cry is 'Not in the face'...

And you call that little scuffle 'The Battle of the Lassantees Wastes'? Just you wait.


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## Rolzup

Mallus said:
			
		

> He's also the only remotely heroic character in the campaign. Actually, he's fairly close to heroic, the 'remotely' comes from the company he keeps.
> 
> Rackhir's only real competition comes from Kenji-sama, who would be named "Honor Like Apathy" if he were a Culture starship.




His reaction to hearing of a horrible, horrible crime being commited?

To finish quietly eating his brunch....

He's a role model, Kenji is.


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## MavrickWeirdo

Mallus said:
			
		

> Whose battle cry is 'Not in the face'...




   

I am so glad this thread is back


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## Rolzup

*Interlude: Ship of Fools, Part III.  What the Monkey-Man Saw*

<Overheard, as if by magic, aboard the MCSDF Windsprint, 7th night out of St. Tarte's Island.>

The Most Honorable Yet Least Experienced of the Sacred Guardians of Wu-dan Mountain, sifu Wujuyama sits with his tiny legs wrapped around the bowsprit, reclining into the immobile, windswept waves of the figureheads' wooden hair. He considers a chip of yellow paint he's pried from her peeling mane, nibbles at it, makes a face.

"Mallus-san, please to tell me about the oni Joachim saw"

"Yoni?" says Mallus, caught off-guard. "You're a naughty little monkey, Wu."

"Oni... it means demon in my language."

"Oh, I thought you said yoni. That means a lady's naughty bits in Shirac."

"You speak the witch-tongue of the Shirac?" asks Wu, momentarily distracted.

"Enough to get me...by."

Dr. Wu asks Mallus a barrage of questions: Did the demon hop? Did it's head come off? Did it have a yellow parasol?

Mallus has no answers for the monkey. He reiterates what he told Rackhir. He saw a face come through the side of the carriage, which suggested a woman's, but was not.

"Ah... this is plainly a foreign oni. Not one of the 10,001 known in the Empire."

"Empire? Is that what you're calling it these days?"

"We've called it that since the Emperor of Heaven descended the Three Mountains and ordained it. When your kind were new in the world."

"Whatever. Look, why don't you ask Joachim? He saw it with his own eyes."

"Mallus-san, you say the oni had both the yin of woman and the yang of not-woman together? The poon of female energy and the tan..."

Mallus cuts the inquisitive monkey-man off. "Something like that."

Wu says excitedly, "Ah, Wu, you old fool, you have seen such Wu before, on the streets of Narayan. The day Master Kenji taught those disrespectful red swordsmen, ah... yes... the Room Rouge Players...  a lesson that involved their bowels spilling onto the ground. And the polite old Barrister came to pass judgment. There was a fat round-eye priest with too many gold chains who gave favorable testimony. He had a wand with a carved face much like the oni you described. Could there be a connection? Yes... yes... Am I saying this out loud, Mallus-san?"

"Not a word of it. Say, you wouldn't happen to have a fresh lime on you?" asks Mallus as he reaches for his flask of gin.

"I must speak to Master Kenji."

"What about my lime?" shouts Mallus as Dr. Wu scampers away.


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## pogre

MavrickWeirdo said:
			
		

> I am so glad this thread is back




ditto!


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## Rackhir

Here's a fleshed out version of Rackhir's Big Adventure by way of Raymond Chandler and with a heavy dose of David Drake.

Rackhir's "Big Sleep"

It started with a woman. It always starts with a woman. Whether its Empires rising and falling or just going to the market for food, it always starts with a woman. In my case the woman had brought me to the pitching deck of a ship full of bastards, with the red glow of cannibals cook fire painting the horizon. We'd finally found the Lady Delphine's paramour and now the only thing between them, was a rampaging horde of polyneechean berzerkers. But this wasn't where things began, just where she'd brought me.

A stint in CITY's military had provided me with citizenship, a sharp eye, a strong bow and few skills other than those of war. But it gave more than my family ever did. I grew up on a hard-scrabble farm in the Ajakhani Empire and a peasant's life doesn't offer much of anything other than backbreaking work that ground my parents into the red dust of the land, but that's another story. The Lady Delphine had provided me with a Purpose and that was reason enough to serve her. Right now that service was going to involve killing quite a large number of people.

Of course to the Polyneecheans I wasn't a person, nor by the standards of my homeland were they, but I'm sure their blood will prove just as red and flow just as freely as mine once the arrows start flying. I do my best to keep mine on the inside, but that isn't always possible in my line of work and the squeemish or cowardly don't last long at it. The Lady Delphine was the squeemish type, but keeping her out of the messier aspects of things was one of my jobs. Since she definitely was no coward. I do some times marvel at her purity of soul. For someone who has grown up as the daughter of a powerful and ruthless tycoon, she is almost an innocent.

As the small boat taking us to the docks rocked up and down, the Lovesworn Mallus was holding her hand ostensibly to keep track of the Lady Delphine's paramour, but his mind wasn't as low as he likes to pretend. He's a better man than he'd admit even under torture and like many such men, he puts up a lot of bluster to hide it. This world is not kind to those who show their vulnerabilities.

Burne also blusters a lot and has an opinion of himself that's higher than Mallus is, most of the time, but he does not lack for courage. I've never seen him back down from a fight or show signs of fear. He also possess not an ounce of incincerity, though that comes from an arrogance that would do a dragon proud. He is exactly as he presents himself and that is a rare thing, if not always an admirable one.

We managed to reach the docks without drawing the notice of any of the Ping and we quickly moved into action. I padded steathly down the docks towards the guards on the peak of the fortress. Then things started going "Pear Shaped" as the Madman who accompanied us charged off on his own to attack some of the Ping further down on the dock. I wasn't as close to the fortress as I'd like, but they were beautifuly silhouetted against the night by the Ping's cook fire and for once my luck held as I released the arrows. Death is always close at hand and it came rapidly enough for at least one of the guards as my arrows tracked down range through the night.

However I had to make certain they were both dead and had to trust my comrades to handle those behind me. Even if Trust has a tendency to coldcock you in the back of the head with a sap and leave you for dead in an alley. A quick run brought me to the fortress wall and moments later I was a top the battlements, thanks to a grappling hook and silk rope. Blood trails indicated that one had in fact survived long enough to try and drag himself away from death's embrace. Lucky for him. Death can be as clingy as a prostitute who's lached on to a meal ticket. I still don't know if he survived, but it mattered little as two of his bretheren burst through the door he'd apparently dragged himself through. Ping Islanders are brutal thugs of warriors, but my luck, of sorts, still held and to my mild surprise they were also lying dead moments later. However Fate decided to spit in my eyes, as two more followed through the door and one was a shaman.

For some reason the ever fickle gods continued to favor me and I resisted his spells, while my arrows left him dying on the fortress floor, off to shame the halls of his ancestors. But I was still paying in blood for each one I killed and my account was starting to run dry. His friend the thug with the obsidian razor club had made me its aquaintence once or twice, but a few more arrows had him fleeing with his friend's ghost. For a "Master Race" of warriors, they seem awfully fond of their own lives. But cowards are often the loudest braggarts. Falling further behind, I followed him through a few doors before I came to my senses. 

It was one of those times when you want to slap your self silly, for being so stupid. Charging blindly into a fortress over run with Ping is the kind of behavior you get from heroes in those Arabia Wainwright novels. Behavior that usually gets people dead in the next chapter.

So I quickly retreated from the fortress barring the doors as best I could without wasting too much time and managed to excape a heart beat ahead of pursuit. The pinhead gods weren't through with me though. As I wound up tripping over the rope and fell off the crenalations, though their twisted sense of humor meant that I was largely unhurt.

Any sense of triumph though, turned to ash as I promply ran into a patrol of four more Ping with two of their war boars. I tried in vain to remember if CITY had a god of slapstick humor and what I might have done to offend it, given the recent run of events. Yet as the Fates took away with one hand, they gave with the other, in the form of a narrow goat path for me to back up and prevent them from attacking me more than one at a time. I was down to a handful of arrows by the time the two warriors were dead along with one of the handlers and his pig. The last handler showing the courage of your typical pimp confronted with a greater threat than a helpless woman, decided to flee with his pig, leaving me among the dead to mend my battered body as best I might.

The docks were silent and devoid of any obvious trace of my comrades, aside from the handful of Ping corpses. But there was blood enough to follow where they'd gone. There usually was where we'd been.


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Ship of Fools, Part IV.  Talking Marriage With Mallus*

<Around midnight, aft rail, MCSDF Windsprint, 7 days from port at Narayan:CITY.>

"Can you marry?" asks Rackhir.

"No," says Mallus, with a surprisingly forlorn quality in his voice. He takes a sip of gin. "In order to join the Lovesworn you must have a broken heart. And once you join, you may never know true love again."

"I meant, can you perform marriages for other people?".

"Oh. Yeah, sure. By the power invested to us by the Eternal Physick of Love, the fulcrum upon which all souls balance, we can marry...thought their legality is questionable in certain parts of CITY, particularly Eris. What are you getting at, Rackhir?"

Clearly preferring the sound of his own voice, Mallus continues before Rackhir can reply.

"So you want to marry off the two lovebirds before we hit port. Before Delphine's father can stop her? Or before Baker Boy decides to devote his life to an entirely different sort of crumpet?

"Well, you have no shortage of people capable of marrying them on this trip. I count eight. Captains Revi and Spar, the five priestesses of the Goddess of Love, not to mention myself. To be on the safe side, we call all perform the ceremony. That should cover all bets, from the ridiculous to the sublime.

"Why, someone should get married before we dock, this is practically the love boat.... Hmmmm, that Felicity from the Shrine is quite the little minx.

"But I'm curious as to why you're interested in facilitating their matrimony, Rackhir. There's a good chance once they get married she ceases being rich. So what's your angle?"

Rackhir does not pause for a moment before replying.

"I am... well..., let us say that without a master to serve my life has no purpose or meaning. My people would say Ronin, but I can not claim such a rank. She is the Lord whom I serve, so her interests are mine. She wishes to marry Joachim and you tell us they truly love each other.  She has risked her life several times already to find and help save him. So the more secure their marriage is and the less interference possible, the safer she should be."

"As to her wealth, I do not serve her for reward, so her wealth is irrelevant to me. It is my duty to serve her interests as much as possible, so I will warn her of the possible consequences, but I think we both know what her answer is likely to be."

After a moment Rackhir continues with the ghost of a smile on his face. "Besides as the tales tell us, what nobler cause is there than True Love?" The capital letters are clear in his voice.

Rackhir then offers Mallus a lime.

"You sound just like Lazlo Lovesworn. Ever hear of him, Lazlo and Chain of Love? He fights with this absurd-looking barbed chain thing, I swear he looks like a circus performer.  Anyway, he's all about the noble service and 'True Love'. I wonder why he gets all the tales written about him?  He must have a publicist...and where the hell did you get that lime?!" Mallus snaps it up greedily, showing surprising quickness of hand.

"You know, Rackhir, if someone breaks your heart, you should consider joining the Lovesworn. You wouldn't happen to be a good tracker, would you? Fond of the wild? My Order needs those types, but lately all we've been getting are applicants better suited to navigating art openings and cocktail parties."

"If you should require my aid Mallus, I believe that the Lady Delphine would be happy to have me join you in reuniting separated  lovers. I am a fair tracker, though much better as a killer. Combat is where my talents truly lie."

Mallus considers Rachkir a moment, then says "I might just take you up on that offer someday. My usual traveling companions for dangerous journeys are a tad...unreliable. Dononan Ben Donovan is a fine swordsman, but he may well be insane. And Mattameo the monk is unduly burdened by principles. Though he's a remarkably stylish dresser. For a Hannu.

And you say you like fighting? That's fabulous. I try to avoid it if at all possible... I have an acute sensitivity to pain... Anyway Rackhir, maybe you should talk to Delphine and Joachim. I am forbidden from trying to influence them.  As the old saying goes, I can lead a horse to water, but not make it drown."

Rackhir bows to Mallus and replies "I will go now to broach the subject with Lady Delphine and her paramour. Turning to walk away, Rackhir pauses for a moment and adds. "With regards to the lime, the ladies of St. Tarte's are called that for more than one reason Mallus."

Ignoring Rackhir, Mallus says absently, "I was in love once. In fact I was engaged. A week before the wedding my fiancé tried to stop a man who was committing suicide by jumping into the Pit of Erebus. But he was a lot stronger than she was, so he pulled her with him."

Mallus stops talking for a minute or so. He drinks gin.

"One of these days, Rackhir, I'm going in after her. Any chance you're game for that?" asks Mallus, his fine features twisting into a mask of self-disgust.

Rackhir shrugs.

"Perhaps someday. I see no point in dying just yet. Life is not yet so great a burden, nor death such a release. I suspect though, that my path may well lead me in that direction one day.  Meifumado, is a path often tread by those such as I.

"Meifumado?" says Mallus, "I don't think that word means what I think it means, since I think in means a noodle dish you can get in Little Ajakhan. Care to explain?"

Rackhir nods, "Meifumado is the path to Hell. The way of demons and damnation. It is both a path of one's own choosing, and the inevitable result of the choices one has already made. It is the life we chose, the life we lead. Those who live by violence, what ever the reason, however pure, however noble, often find themselves walking its dark path."

Taking a heavy slug from his drink Mallus replies "No, I'm not ready for the Pit yet, either. The horrors that crawl out of it are bad enough. Only a madman would crawl in. In fact, I know a madman who did, an alchemist I deal with in Saltbend. Riven Sugarglass.

Nowadays he looks like a wax statue of a man that was melted, split in two, and stuck back together by a committee of blind men."


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Ship of Fools, Part V. The Things They Carried (On About)*

<Aboard MCSDF Windsprint, 6 days from port at Narayan:CITY>

For Burne, the plan was uncharacteristically simple and free of combustion. Get Joachim’s advice concerning the problem of Han Oi Xian’s mother, whose living soul was bound up inside a necklace of jade. As a priest, he should have insight into this kind of mystery

Unfortunately, Joachim has spent the better part of the day exploring mysteries of an entirely different sort. The ones of gin, giving out like a blessing by Tawny Portal, High Priestess of the Order of the Saint of Shamelessness, in the Faith of Aja Opal Blossom,
Satisfaction Be Upon Her. 

It is evident that young Joachim is but an initiate into these particular mysteries.

“F—k if I know how to put her soul back into another live body,” he says with inappropriate enthusiasm, which so happens to be a virtue in the Order of St. Tarte.

“Great Kruetzel the Ever-Risen teaches us to feed the poor, protect the home, defend the hearth, and eat sweets and oils sparingly. Not much in our creed about the transmigration of souls. To Kruetzel there’s no emptiness that can’t be filled by a good meal. Unless it’s that gnawing feeling you get when you keep a secret from the woman you love.”

“Hell and damnation, man!” exclaims Burne. “She’s risked death and worse to see you again, and you don’t think she’s strong enough for whatever is eating away at you? She’s an adult, last time I checked.” An awkward pause follows.

“Not that I really spent much time checking, you understand!” Burne adds hurriedly. “She being betrothed and all that. But! As I was saying! She’s an adult and I think you’d better start treating her as one. Else you risk waking up with a slit throat one fine morning. Or *not* waking up, to be more accurate. She strikes me as woman with little tolerance for condescension.”

“Fulminous Mercury! We’re getting sidetracked, man. I was asking about souls. I’ll have time enough later to fix your communication problems with Delphine.”

Joachim takes a swing from a canteen that, from the grimace on his face, clearly isn’t filled with water.

“Kruetzel doesn’t teach much about the afterlife. Some denominations teach that the most faithful are gathered up by Kruetzel and serve as prep-cooks in the Kitchen of Heaven. The ones who weren’t too bad, a little too salty or burnt 'round the edges, get split into their ingredients and made fresh, to live their lives again. And those that were really rotten, curdled, bad to the marrow, they get thrown into the fires of Kruetzel’s own pandoor --his oven. To blacken for all eternity.”

“Of course, other denominations say that’s a crock-pot of s—t. When you die, you're dead, and you become a meal for something else. You say his mother’s soul is stuck in a piece of jade. Well somebody should get her out. That’s just… unnatural. I could take you to see the High Gourmand at the Grand Pandoor Temple on Cavalry Hill in Narayan. He might know more. There are legends that speak of Kruetzel breathing life into dough.”

“I’ve heard of more unlikely things, at that. Probably a bit less objectionable than jade, if a little more prone to being nibbled to death by hungry mice,” muses Burne.

“You don’t suppose this fellow would mind having a big tart for a mother, would you?” says Joachim with a pronounced slur.

“Bear a grudge, do you? Not that I blame you, under the circumstances.”

“I should. That damnable foreign yamika got me thrown into the navy.”

“I believe that it's ‘yakuza’”, says Burne, backing into the correct pronunciation by accident.

“Why does Delphine want to help him?”

“It’s all rather complicated. Seems that Xian’s mother is the spitting image of Delphine, only older. So she could be your future aunt-in-law. Or perhaps his mother is Delphine herself and time travel is involved…”

Nearby the madman, sometimes, for reasons no-one can quite recall, Any Seven, looks on with a far-away look in his eyes. He starts to speak.

“The fires of love burn hot but the baker man drinks his way to a heartburn of another kind. A little milk might soothe the inside… that’s what mommy always used to say”.

He offers up an old tin cup of fresh goat’s milk to Joachim, yet his gaze seems fixed on some point infinitely far away on the horizon. From the condensation around the base of the cup, it’s evident the milk is quite cold. It hovers there for a brief moment, before Any Seven dumps the contents onto the deck.

“The fire consumes us all eventually, burns us up, bakes us like cookies left in the oven until the raisins dry up. Keep your hand out of the cookie jar –especially between meals.”

Suddenly, the former homeless man bursts into a rage, grabs Joachim by the shirt, and screams into his face.

“She roasts in the fire, her flesh charring, crackling… like a pig roasting on a spit! Flames around her -- char-broiling the life from her – so the her body and soul are CONSUMED. The fat man grows fatter, then warms his hands by the fire!

“No guilt. No desire.”

He releases Joachim gently, and resumes staring off towards some infinitely far place.

At first, Joachim is too startled to move. Then a look of anger crosses his face. Followed by one of horror.

“Oh Gods, her family is going to be consumed by fire!” he says, wildly casting about as if looking for a place to run. Realizing that no good would come from attempting a mad dash across the wave-tops, he takes a desperate pull from his canteen and then slinks below decks unsteadily, looking like a crestfallen soufflé.

“Well,” Burne murmurs after a long moment of silence, “That certainly went well. You’ve a gift for words,” he continues in a louder tone, turning to Any Seven. “Have you ever considered a career in marriage counseling?”


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Superb!!


----------



## Mallus

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Superb!!



Glad you liked it.

It was nice to get a few more voices into the story hour. The madman words were all courtesy of his player, seeing as this was culled directly from our in-character email exchanges.


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Ship of Fools Part VI. Some Like it Not.*

<Late in the evening aboard MCSDF Windsprint, 5 days from Narayan:CITY> 

Mother Superior Tawny Portal speaks with Rackhir the Red, privately, if such a thing is possible, concerning the fate of Han Oi Xian's mother.

"I just had a revelation, actually several, just now in my cabin," says a flushed and smiling High Priestess of the Saint of Shamelessness. "I have a solution to your soul problem. The Magnaeta Delphine is a blood relative of Xian's mother --the resemblance is unmistakable, yes? So she is of her body. And Xian is her true son by birth? So he is of her body _and_ of her soul? Good....

"Now as everyone knows, life begins at birth. The soul enters an infant when it draws its first breath. Before that its just a bunch of wet, fiddly bits that look like they belong in a stewpot. Where was I?

"So!  The obvious answer is that Delphine and Joachim must conceive a child, which will be the perfect vessel for Xian's mothers soul. At the time of birth a ritual will deflect the newborns soul away, and the soul in the jade necklace will be inserted in its place. The newborn soul, blank as the eyes of man at his crisis -- don't you just love that euphemism? I got it from a book about saucy woodsmen -- that soul will return from whence it came, i.e., the mother and the father. No harm done. Except the mother will feel the briefest sensation of loss, and the father, searing relief...."

"What kind of ritual is involved?" asks a suspicious Rackhir. 

"To be frank, and my order is encouraged to be that no matter what the cost to others, I'm a little hazy about the specifics. I asked my goddess a question. And got a brief answer back.

"I'll inquire further at the Pleasuredome when we get to Narayan. It's the greatest Temple of Aja Opal Blossom in CITY, near the Bridge of Sighs. Ever been there? All are welcome. It says so on the plaque over the main door.  'Give me your tired, your poor, yearning to be....' Ah, it's a lovely place. Classy. Though I wouldn't go so far as to call it stately. Anyway, I've heard they have some Shirac witches there who took the Vows of Unchastity. Perhaps they could use their mind-magic."

"And this isn't evil?" Rackhir grows more suspicious. 

"There are some in Aja's priesthood that are capricious and vindictive, but none are evil. We're charitable, though in ways that can wreck homes. We give until it hurts, more often than not. We heal the sick and protect the innocent, though usually from continued innocence."

"Is any child guaranteed to be perfect?" 

"I said a 'perfect vessel'. There's a difference." 

"What if it's a boy?"

"Nobody's perfect". 

Hours later, in the dead of dead of yet another unquiet night, the Mother Superior rises with a start from the middle of a sacrament known as the Wet Meditation. "Did I say Delphine and Joachim must have a child? Silly me, I meant to say Delphine and Xian. That makes a lot more sense.

"Perhaps I should lay off the gin."


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Every update in this story has at least one line that's an absolute classic. This time:



			
				Rolzup said:
			
		

> We heal the sick and protect the innocent, though usually from continued innocence.


----------



## Mallus

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Every update in this story has at least one line that's an absolute classic.



I was proud of that one...

On another note, is anyone reading interested in hearing more about the world in which our heroes, and I use that term inappropriately, are adventuring? Before the database died, someone asked if there was a CITY website or wiki, and the answer is sadly, no, not yet. 

In fact, there wasn't much in the way of player handouts for CITY. One reason for the long, talky, detail-laden in-character emails was to familiarize players with the setting. All exposition is better as dialogue, or so a friend kept telling me in college. Oddly, the same friend who co-created CITY...


----------



## Shieldhaven

At the very least, I'm certain I'd be _amused_ to learn more about the behind-the-scenes life of CITY.

Haven


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Shieldhaven said:
			
		

> At the very least, I'm certain I'd be _amused_ to learn more about the behind-the-scenes life of CITY.
> 
> Haven




Me too.


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Ship of Fools Part VII.  The Confession of Joachim Driftwood*

<Late afternoon, due east of Grand Base Island, 3 days from port at Narayan:CITY.>

Throughout the day Joachim's slurred, frantic, muttering is heard throughout the ship; from aft to stern, hold to crows nest. "I must tell her! Consorting with demons! Could it be an infernal affair? Damn the family honor! And their souls... ah the flames! The madman saw! And what of our love? And why the f--k does she want to help the man who got me pressed? Could she really be related?"

It's accompanied by hushed yet plainly audible whispers of the crew and refugees. "Will they marry? What of the soul-transference ritual? Will she do it? Will it work? Just what did the baker see?"

Even Captain Revi's voice is heard: "Will I be court-martialed? It's hard to say."

Delphine asks the crew to leave Joachim be. "He'll talk when he's ready. And that better be soon."

Late in the day, Joachim Driftwood, acolyte of Kruetzel, and sous chef at the Narayan Arms Hotel, stands at the prow and begins to speak.

"I'm tired of all the talking behind my back." He turns to glare at those who begin to gather round, in particular Rackhir, Dr. Wu, and Mallus Lovesworn.

"Technically it was talking all around you; above, below, front and...." Mallus observes.

"Shut your dirty mouth, Erisian, or I'll shut it for you," Joachim raises his holy rolling-pin shaped mace. "And get me a drink!"

Mallus is silent for a moment. "I didn't think you had the scones," he says, slowly passing his own flask to the angry young priest.

The Lady Delphine St. Sous pushes through the small crowd of rough sailors and the nuns sworn to pleasure them, wrapping Joachim in a fierce embrace. "Just tell me...umm...us, the truth."

Next to Mallus, Sister Inferior Eva Longinus practically squeals with delight. Her hips begin to sway as she makes obscene guestures with her delicate hands. She incants.

"There's no need for your spell. I'll speak loud and clear." says Joachim.

Eva stops moving. The sailors behind her let out an audible sigh. "Spoilsport." she says.

Joachim ignores her and takes a long drink from the flask. By now, the entire crew has gathered round.

With a surprisingly loud and commanding, if not exactly sober voice, Joachim tells his story.

"I was preparing a feast for honored guests, in the basement kitchens of Delphine father's estate. Her father may not like me, but he loves my tarts".

"And you love his," remarks Sister Eva.  Joachim shoots his fellow cleric a murderous look.

"I was making traditional Narayan fare: curried snails, vindaloo cordon bleu, crepes-paneer...."

"If he doesn't get to the point soon, I'm going to start masturbating", says Sister Eva out of growing boredom.

"If there's anything I can do to help," begins Mallus.

"...when I heard a sound coming from above. It was Sabot. I could tell by his shoes. Fancy, bad fitting things the Lady St. Sous gave him as a joke. He was stumbling along toward a big black carriage with two noblemen at his sides. I'd seen them before around the estate. Friends of Delphine's father. I think they're art dealers. Always talking about art, especially from Ajakhan....

"So I figure they've gotten poor Sabot, who can't walk straight in those f-----g shoes to help carry some priceless vase or something. The carriage door flies open, and Sabot goes in. One man goes in after him, the one with the funny jeweled walking stick. The other stands outside, pacing. He must have a dozen bottles of wine under his cloak from the racket he made. Probably from old Pavur's own cellars.

"Then everything gets real quiet, and the whole inside of the carriage goes red for a minute, like I was looking through blood. When it cleared I saw her face through the carriage. A demon, from one of the Hells." 

"She's going to damn my beloved's family."

"And instead of telling them, I ran away to help the greengrocer and feed some halfwit foreigners."

Joachim gets down on one knee by virtue of falling. "So, Magnaeta Delphine Laxsmhi St. Sous," he fumbles for the  ring he doesn't have, and instead offers his holy symbol, "Will you marry me?"

There is a brief moment of stunned silence throughout the ship, broken only by the sound of NE7 singing a gentle chromatic melody to his dog.  It's surprising that the madman has such a sense of pitch.  The song sounds alien to the Ajakani ears, but after a moment Burne recognizes it as a children's song...what were the words again?  Something about a lazy mouse who refuses to get out of bed...although it isn't explicitly stated in the lyrics, he seems to remember that the mouse is too lazy to even run away from a cat, who promptly eats him.

Frowning slightly, Burne throws a puzzled look at the madman.  Even more puzzled than usual.  "Omen?  Or insight?" he wonders aloud.

<_Joachim Driftwood and Delphine Laxshmi St. Sous were married at sunset in a small ceremony attended by strangers, sailors, and ecclesiastical harlots_.>


----------



## Rolzup

Mallus said:
			
		

> I was proud of that one...
> 
> On another note, is anyone reading interested in hearing more about the world in which our heroes, and I use that term inappropriately, are adventuring? Before the database died, someone asked if there was a CITY website or wiki, and the answer is sadly, no, not yet.
> 
> In fact, there wasn't much in the way of player handouts for CITY. One reason for the long, talky, detail-laden in-character emails was to familiarize players with the setting. All exposition is better as dialogue, or so a friend kept telling me in college. Oddly, the same friend who co-created CITY...




Hell, man, *I'd* love to see that.  It's a great setting, and there are a lot of details that made it so great.  "St. Gorge" indeed....


----------



## Gold Roger

It's a great setting and I always love to see how other DMs go about things, so yeah, I'd be interested.

Great update as well, those, uh, priestesses are funny


----------



## shilsen

Gold Roger said:
			
		

> Great update as well, those, uh, priestesses are funny




And damn friendly too  

My PC (Mr "not in the face!") thinks they're wonderful and would probably have joined the faith. If he wasn't a godless, cynical bastard, that is. I think you'll like him a lot when he shows up. Rackhir especially does.


----------



## Mallus

*Interlude: Religion in CITY*

(In lieu of a story update, some setting information. Geography, anthropology and urban studies to follow...)

“All politics are metaphysical” –attributed to Count Tyrabidus Marphan, just prior to his initial death, Late Imperial Period, Gate Builder Era. 

As above, so below. As within, so without. There’s a sucker born every minute. These are spiritual truths for the ages. Unfortunately our present task is to catalogue the Gods known in CITY. A job not unlike counting the grains of sand on a particularly unpleasant beach, just after a Dread Tide, in the rain. Their origin is a mystery, if you’re lucky. A source of bloody, public contention if you’re not. So once more onto that beach, dear would-be-theologians, and let us count the grains. And pray they do not curse us with impotence, higher taxes, or an undue burden of faith.
  --preface to _The CITY Book of the Dead_, revised edition, University of Narayan Press, 250   Monopolis Standard Year. 

*The Common, Accepted CITY pantheon (excluding Hannikum:CITY): major deities*


Aja Opal Blossom, goddess of lovers. Formerly a geisha from the Empire of the Three Pillars of Heaven (the Empire is commonly referred to as ‘Ajakhan’ --the land of Aja-- which also means ‘land of the coyly submissive’ in the primary Imperial dialect) . Said to have won divinity from Erebus as a part of a divorce settlement from him. One of the patron gods of Narayan:CITY.

-St. Tarte, the Saint of Shamelessness in the Temple of Aja.


Belli Rex Legis, god of lawyers. One of the patron gods of Narayan:CITY. Also patron of the Honorable Order of the Barristers, an order of lawyer-knights.

Bigby Ghosthands (also Bigby Handsfree), god of valor, battle and hopeless causes. Said to have been maimed by Erebus after repeatedly challenging Him to one-on-one combat . Later granted divinity and a pair ghostly prosthetic hands by Erebus out of pity.

Dhalberg (also The Dreamer out of Time), the god of boredom, madness and outer space.  Said to rule an Outermost Plane called “Pasadena, California”.

Kruetzel (the Ever-Rising), god of cooking, home, and hearth. One of the patron gods of Narayan:CITY.

The Maestro de Grappe, god of swashbucklers, wit, and manliness. Said to have won divinity from Erebus in a duel. Patron god of Gallina:CITY.

Malec Pearlhammer, god of simple machines and craftsmen, particularly jewelers. Said to be ‘all sizes at once’. Inventor of the cigar lighter.

Mr. Spidergod, god of money, merchants, contracts, free trade.  He appears as a giant golden spider, with the so-called “Eight Perfect Jewels of Heaven” for eyes. His creed is referred to as the “Eightfold Profitable Path”.

Mr. Three-Legs, god of virility. Said to be both ‘the father of the Giants” and “formerly a Giant”. Legends say the Grand Chasm between the Lassantees Wastes and the Plains of Gallina was dug by his penis dragging along the ground as he walked up and down upon the earth looking for a wife.

Nadanya (also Nanya, Nonny Fancypants), god who dwells on Mt. Parvishta.  Nominally the god of civilization and culture. Legends say Nadanya gave the gift of pants to the Yeti, thus civilizing them. Nadanya is often depicted as a large, handsome Yeti smoking a cigarette, wearing a brocade vest and pantaloons.

Narsisco (the Saint of Self), the un-god. Teaches followers to worship ‘the god within us all’. His church charges exorbitant fees for their so-called ’12 Station Program’ to personal deification.

Oroborous, serpent god of  the Great Canal; also god of the underworld.

Pentamoor, goddess of  vengeance and storms; also piracy.

Shialla, the goddess of those her serve unseen; also goddess of darkness and caves.

The Smoldering Whore of Ur-Imbra, goddess of abandoning and the abandoned. Destroyer of Ur-Imbra, and by extension the Lassantees Empire. Depicted as either a tall woman in desert garb with black pits for eyes, or as a column of fire descending from the sun.

Tophaceous Pairolairo (the Saint of Sinners), god of gamblers, thieves and scoundrels. Said to have won divinity from Erebus in a game of cards.

*The Common, Accepted CITY pantheon (excluding Hannikum:CITY): minor deities*


Dicastor, god of metalworking and sadness.

Ezramundius (The King of Emperors), chief god in the cult of deified emperors in Eris:CITY.

The Leeres and Pinyates, small household gods that originated in Eris:CITY. Leeres are short, red, impish creatures who peer in open windows looking for disrobing ladies. Pinyates are roughly dog-sized and said to break open and scatter minor miracles when hung up and beaten repeatably with sticks.

Mercruxiphus, the winged death-sentence, old Imperial god of justice. Patron of Eris:CITY.

The Misery Cults (including Mewl, Mournfallow, and The Sower of Men), an almost extinct set of mystery religions of a uniformly pessimistic nature. Dicastor is sometimes considered one of them.

Mr. Pau Pau, the Saint of Alleyways. Depicted as a faintly luminous cat, often asleep in a flowerbed. Said to able to forgive all sins.

*The Infallible Revelation of the Hannikum Monotheon:*


God (also Al ha’Kum, “The Only One”), the Creator of All, the Most Mighty, the Most Merciful, etc. Only the Priest-King of the Hannikum Church worships Him directly. The rest of the faithful pray to Him indirectly through an array of venerated saints.


Mr. Cradle-Casket, saint of death and duty.

Mr. Featherbones, saint of martyrs and missionaries. Often depicted as a Shirac.

Mr. Skinflower, saint of fertility (female).

Mr. Jaguar, saint of war, strength, prowess. Said to live in the sun.

Mr. Onyx, saint of divinely sanctioned murder. Said to be ‘black as the last night of the world, and made of knives.

Mr. Redlips, saint of blood and healing. Patron of the Order of the Bloody Hospitaliers.

Mr. Skull Monkey, saint of chance and fate, said to embody the unknowable nature of God. Often depicted as a skeletal Hannu.

*The Gods of the Barbarians:*


Tiki-Ishii, fire god of the scattered Polyneecheean (Ping Island) tribes. Formerly a volcano.

The Voice of Thunder,The Wolf With Many Jaws, The Smoke Bear, etc., Aspects of the One God worshipped by the far-flung barbarian tribes outside of CITY.


----------



## pogre

Thanks for sharing the pantheon - highly amusing stuff.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Interesting and entertaining stuff, Mallus. Thanks for sharing.


----------



## Rolzup

*To Walk the City Streets*

The return to CITY was largely uneventful.  Joachim and Delphine bickered, and then got married, Mallus got drunk, and I was confronted by a serious dearth of things that I could safely set afire.

What a relief it was to finally stand upon solid ground once more!

The CITY welcomed us back with open arms, as the saviors of St.Tarte.  I accepted the accolades with dignity and grace; the people need a proper hero, after all, and who better than Burne?

WHATEVER THEY WERE CHEERING FOR, IT WASN'T BURNE.  KENJI, BEING WISER THAN BURNE, INSISTED UPON ANONYMITY.

BEING WISER THAN BURNE REALLY ISN'T MUCH OF A TRICK, THOUGH.

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity.  Delphine was hustled off by Naval personnel; it seems as though her father had reported that was missing, and presumed kidnapped.  Joachim was dissuaded from fighting to prevent this reunion of father and child, as it was deemed best that St. Sous remain ignorant of his daughter's marriage.  Joachim moped about, but returned to work at the Palm d'Whorl.  The madman returned to his filthy do-jo, and Kenji and Rackhir did whatever it is that ignorant foreigners do with the free time; folded paper, perhaps.

And I?  I had an opportunity, thanks to the good Captain Revi.  The Navy had a need for men with talents like mine....


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: A Few Words from the Inestimable Burne*

A few days after the group's return to CITY, Burne vanishes.  He'd seemed distracted for several days, more than usually irritable, and kept muttering to himself, so his disappearance doubtless came as something of a relief to the others. 

Sadly, he *re*appears a day later.  With news, important news!  Or so he claims…. 

"Gentlem…ah, I mean frien…no, that's not right…comrades!  Yes, comrades!  Comrades, I have come to the realization that my present situation is simple intolerable.   My alchemical laboratory no longer suffices for anything but the most basic of preparations, and I can no longer bear to have my genius stifled in such a fashion.

"So.  I spent the morning seeking a solution, and behold!  A solution I have found." 

Burne pauses dramatically.  Abraxis makes a noise that sounds remarkably like a groan of despair.

"I have been accepted into the Naval Academy, where I will be undergoing...ah...special training."

He laughs, a little nervously.

"Purely a formality in my case, I'm sure.  There certainly won't be any marching or exercising involved.   Even a casual glance will reveal that I am, after all, in perfect physical condition, and should not be induced to embark upon a forced march in the! Driving!  Rain!" 

One eyelid twitches convulsively.

"In any case, this should lead into my induction into the Fulminant and Acquisitive Research Division of the naval authority, where my unique talents will most certainly be recognized, celebrated, and  -- dare I say it? -- rewarded." 

Burne smiles, his gaze becoming suddenly distant.

"Unrestricted access to elemental phlogiston," he murmurs rapturously.  "The possibilities, the potential!" 

He pauses, shakes his head, and his eyes snap back into focus. 

"Alas," he continues in a more normal tone, "This opportunity is not without its tragedies.  For the month of so of my 'training', I shall be incommunicado.  Not by choice, you understand, but I'm sure that the Navy has their reasons. 

"So, I shall have my lab but you -- sadly -- will be without Burne.  Only for a time, though, only for a time!  I will have an opportunity to undertake certain...projects," he glances sidelong at Abraxis, "As well as conduct some research into Xian's difficulties.  In fact, I feel reasonably certain that I can find an answer that does not in any way involve adultery, incest, or blasphemous violations of the laws of gods and man." 

Burne considers for a moment.  "I make no promises as to the latter, actually."

"Once my obligations have been discharged, and my work somewhat resolved, I will be free to rejoin you in your quest to bring fiery justice to the waterfront.   Until then, I am sure that you can contact me in case of an emergency…although I would prefer it if no such emergency were to arise.

"Well!" he claps his together.  "I have preparations to make, explosives to pack.   I'm supposed to report precisely at noon, and being late simply isn't an option.  I shall make my presence known upon my return, by which time I am sure that you will have the present situation well in hand."


----------



## Rolzup

*An Editorial Note*

...and with this, Burne takes a brief hiatus from the game.  Just Burne himself, mind -- not the story hour.

At this point in the campaign, Burne had a lot of creations to...um, create, and completely lacked the time and the facilities to do so.  And I, for my own part, had an idea for another character....

So, for a period of about three months real-time, and a matter of only a few weeks game-time, Burne's place was taken by an entirely different sort of fellow....

(And, for the record, by the time his replacement's tenure had ended, I was greatly looking forward to running Burne again.  Just as I had hoped.)


----------



## Rackhir

The player who was running the madman (AKA Druid/Barb) also switched to running an wiz(?)/alienist at this time as well. Thus depriving us of any more quotes involving pudding. His "Pseudonatural" creatures were basically muppets in appearence.


----------



## Mallus

Right... Any Seven left the group to pursue his life's true passion, schizophrenia. Only to be replaced by the far more lucid and erudite Prof. Hugo Chakraraja-Glaffston, of the CITY University of Conjuration Sciences.

Who summoned muppets. 

And also managed to strike up a meaningful conversation with a caveman while at the Queen's Dancehall; a plot-thread I was very sorry to see let go.


----------



## Gold Roger

Mallus said:
			
		

> Who summoned muppets.



Awesome. But past tense? So he's at this point already gone? How sad, I was hoping for Muppet'y goodness.


----------



## Mallus

Gold Roger said:
			
		

> So he's at this point already gone?



That player dropped out of the campaign soon after. I'd like to think I drove him away with my particular take on D&D, but thats probably giving myself too much credit. Scheduling issues are the more likely reason. 

But don't worry. He was replaced by Meiji, played by a shadowy figure known as shilsen around here, another foreign devil from Ajakhan, whose battle-cry is 'not in the face', and who just might have had a threesome with a semi-goddess and a bound demoness. On their first date, no less. Damn, did I say that out loud...


----------



## Rackhir

Gold Roger said:
			
		

> Awesome. But past tense? So he's at this point already gone? How sad, I was hoping for Muppet'y goodness.




I think he only summoned them once and that was for some pest control. Unfortunately, his tactical sense was more appropriate for the madman as his other major contribution to combat was casting "Stinking Cloud".

Between US and Lord Kenji. When he was cut off and surrounded by about 8 acolytes casting "Sound Burst" at him..

Then refusing to dismiss it...


----------



## Rolzup

Gold Roger said:
			
		

> Awesome. But past tense? So he's at this point already gone? How sad, I was hoping for Muppet'y goodness.




He's present for the next few installments, at least.

And my own new character, Edouard, was a Druid/Rogue/Assassin...but not what you might think.  He was a professional, so he was.  And entirely respectable, at that.


----------



## shilsen

Mallus said:
			
		

> But don't worry. He was replaced by Meiji, played by a shadowy figure known as shilsen around here, another foreign devil from Ajakhan, whose battle-cry is 'not in the face', and who just might have had a threesome with a semi-goddess and a bound demoness. On their first date, no less. Damn, did I say that out loud...




Bastard - you just like taunting me because even I can't remember if it was good for me too!

Note to self: Borrow flaming hat and vegetative boots for next date.


----------



## Gold Roger

Mallus said:
			
		

> That player dropped out of the campaign soon after. I'd like to think I drove him away with my particular take on D&D, but thats probably giving myself too much credit. Scheduling issues are the more likely reason.
> 
> But don't worry. He was replaced by Meiji, played by a shadowy figure known as shilsen around here, another foreign devil from Ajakhan, whose battle-cry is 'not in the face', and who just might have had a threesome with a semi-goddess and a bound demoness. On their first date, no less. Damn, did I say that out loud...




But... Muppets! _*goes to cry himself to sleep over the lack of muppets-from-behind-the-fringe-of-sanity in D&D*_


----------



## Rackhir

shilsen said:
			
		

> Bastard - you just like taunting me because even I can't remember if it was good for me too!
> 
> Note to self: Borrow flaming hat and vegetative boots for next date.




Only if you agree to serve as the punching bag while I'm in japan.



			
				Gold Roger said:
			
		

> But... Muppets! *goes to cry himself to sleep over the lack of muppets-from-behind-the-fringe-of-sanity in D&D*




The madman was really far more interesting. The Alienist was just a boring academic.


----------



## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> The madman was really far more interesting.



He successfully intimidated a naval thug with a ball of yarn. I've never seen that done before... or since. Or, I suspect, ever again...


----------



## shilsen

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Only if you agree to serve as the punching bag while I'm in japan.




I would never presume to try to do that. You can't replace perfection - in this case, Rackhir.



> The madman was really far more interesting. The Alienist was just a boring academic.




I don't get it. You should never be able to have "Alienist" and "boring" in the same sentence.



			
				Mallus said:
			
		

> He successfully intimidated a naval thug with a ball of yarn. I've never seen that done before... or since. Or, I suspect, ever again...




With that, however, the alienist probably had a tough act to top. Though Nameless (Rackhir's alienist in my Eberron game) has managed to intimidate - and nauseate - people with a bowl of tentacle soup, or even a reference thereof.


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Enter the Ratcatcher*

It was a slow morning in the Pig and Pteradon.

The regulars were there, of course, slumped in various dark corners of the tavern.  It's remarkable, really, how many dark corners the place has.

Gerard DeFountaine was making a token effort of polishing the bartop, succeeding only at burnishing the topmost layer of grime to a high sheen.  He looked up as the door opened, letting in a weak beam of sunlight that almost seemed to recoil from the squalor thus revealed. A man followed it in, resplendent in a grimy scarlet greatcoat, his clothing streaked and spotted with filth.

"Edouard," the barkeep called, "Good to see you, man!"

"And Duchess," he added, his face falling, as a mastiff-sized rat trotted in behind the ratcatcher.  "Can't forget Duchess," he said mournfully.

Edouard Finké doffed his hat, revealing a head largely bereft of hair, and nodded in greeting.  "Give us the usual, Gerard.  Both of us, if you'd be so kind."

"Whisky it is, then.  And...ah...has Duchess refined her tastes at all?"

" 'fraid not," Edoaurd replied as he seated himself at the bar, "You're a creature of habit, ain'tcha girl?"

The rat leapt atop the bar, tail lashing, and snarled at the barkeep.

"Gin and milk it is, then," Gerard muttered, filling a bowl.  "Bloody disgusting, that.  Sin against man and nature."

"But it's been a while, mate," he continued, "Not since that monumental piss-up, the night after you killed Black Peter!"

"Black Peter," the other man sighed.  "Now there was a rat's rat, and no mistake.  Almost miss him some days, I do.  Takes all the challenge out of ratcatching, him being gone."

Gerard chuckled.  "Well, I don't miss him, mate.  None of us do.  No more baby-eating for that bastard, eh?"  He leaned forward, lowering his voice a bit.  "Did you do it, then?  Like you promised?"

"That I did, me friend.  Take a look."  Edouard opened his coat, revealing a cuirass of black leather.  "Black Peter's own hide, and may it do me more good than it did him."

"It's a shame, in a way, though," Gerard mused.  "Oh, to be sure, he was a murderous beast.  But I've never heard a better poet."

"Aye," Edouard nodded.  "That rat could write one hell of a sonnet, he could.  And his limericks?  None finer."

"Limericks?  Never knew Black Peter recited limericks, Edouard. Seems...beneath him, somehow.  Too low-brow for him, I should think."

"Not many did know.  Only his victims, and it was the last thing _they_ ever heard."

"But how do you...."

"He was a fine poet, sure.  But too damned arrogant for his own good. Thought he had me finished, and didn't think Duchess was any kind of a threat, her bein' his own kin and all."

He reached out, scratching the enormous beast behind her ears.  "Last mistake _he_ ever made, eh darlin'?"

Duchess arched her back, and rumbled with pleasure.  Gerard, with difficulty, restrained another shudder.

"Again," Edouard sighed, finishing his drink.  "Been a long damned night, it has."

Gerard poured, silently staring at the ratcatcher.  "No offense," he offered after a moment, "But you look like hell, Edouard."

Finké nodded, wearily.  "I feel like I been shot at and missed, then s--t at and hit, you know?"

Gerard nodded, a look of relief on his face.  "I wasn't going to mention the smell," he began, "But...."

"I spent the evening," Edouard interrupted, "In the company of the Four Crazy Bastards."

The tavern went still.  "Go on," exclaimed Gerard.  "You're pullin' me leg, right?  The Four Crazy Bastards?  You?"

"Jokin'?  Ha.  Only wish I was, me friend.  Wish I was...."

"What, all of them?"

Staring into his glass, Edoaurd shook his head.  "No, just two of them, and that was enough.  The Pretty Man, and the Bloody Archer."

"Is it true," asked a voice from the corner of the room, "That he dyes his clothes in the blood of his victims?"

The ratcatcher considered that for a moment.  "Could be," Edouard concluded, sagely.  "Could be, indeed."

Gerard filled another glass, almost eagerly.  "What about the others? The Alchemist, with his demon cat?  And..." he shuddered, helplessly, "The Pudding Man?"

Edouard winced.  "No, sir, never saw him.  And thank the saints for that!  He killed a man with nothin' but a ball of yarn, he did, and I've no desire to look into the eyes of a man who could do _that_."

He leaned back and sighed, his keen eyes taking in the dozen figures that had moved close to the bar.  "It's a hell of a story, it is," he observes.  "But talkin's thirsty work, innit?"

A Rukh-Khazaa, his horn broken off short, pushed a coin across the bar.  "Give him another," he rasped.  "And the rat, too."

"Obliged," the ratchatcher said cheerily.  He considered for a moment, and then nodded to himself.

"It all began at the Temple of Kruetzel...."


----------



## pogre

Excellent! I have a special place in my heart for rat catchers. It's a dark, stinky corner - but a place there nonetheless!

I appreciate the pace at which you have made updates - keep up the great work!


----------



## Rackhir

Rolzup said:
			
		

> Staring into his glass, Edoaurd shook his head.  "No, just two of them, and that was enough.  The Pretty Man, and the Bloody Archer."
> 
> "Is it true," asked a voice from the corner of the room, "That he dyes his clothes in the blood of his victims?"




This is base slander. Rackhir is frequently covered in blood yes. But it's his own. I think he's been beaten within an inch of his life in each of the last 3 combats. I'm thinking of changing his name to "Pinyates" since most of the foes in the campaign seem convinced he's full of candy if they can only break him open.

This adventure coming up is our longest night.

It lasted something like 6 sessions or so, saw 3 new characters introduced, two of them leave and due to scheduling problems (Mallus the DM had a big project at work) something on the order of 3-4 months real time.


----------



## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> It lasted something like 6 sessions or so, saw 3 new characters introduced...



Five sessions, starting 06/07/2005 and ending 9/27/2005. Representing a single day in the lives of the Four Crazy Bastards (you should get business cards made, you really should).

FYI, their titles were --yes, I name every adventure, its helps get me in the mood--

The Incredibly Sad Story of Innocent Calliope and Her Heartless Legal Guardian, the Pirate.
Is There Life on Mars?, or Assassin Fancy.
Please Don’t Feed the Chuul, or Footloose and Fancy-Free.
Hello Kitty, or Flight of Fancy.  
Attack the Cat-Station, or Le Maison Chatons: part deux.


----------



## shilsen

Rackhir said:
			
		

> This is base slander. Rackhir is frequently covered in blood yes. But it's his own. I think he's been beaten within an inch of his life in each of the last 3 combats. I'm thinking of changing his name to "Pinyates" since most of the foes in the campaign seem convinced he's full of candy if they can only break him open.




Heck, he was beaten a few inches past his life in the last session. Much as I enjoy making Rackhir's life miserable IC (and a fair bit OOC), I have to say that I've never seen a PC who gets so beaten up so consistently. And, more precisely, in comparison to the other PCs. There are PCs in my Eberron game who possibly take more punishment on a regular basis, but they spread the wealth, so to speak. Rackhir is by far the principal stockholder in beatings and other related pain in the CITY game.



			
				Mallus said:
			
		

> FYI, their titles were --yes, I name every adventure, its helps get me in the mood--
> 
> The Incredibly Sad Story of Innocent Calliope and Her Heartless Legal Guardian, the Pirate.
> Is There Life on Mars?, or Assassin Fancy.
> Please Don’t Feed the Chuul, or Footloose and Fancy-Free.
> Hello Kitty, or Flight of Fancy.
> Attack the Cat-Station, or Le Maison Chatons: part deux.




Is the last one where Meiji comes in? Or was that another Maison?


----------



## Mallus

shilsen said:
			
		

> Rackhir is by far the principal stockholder in beatings and other related pain in the CITY game.



I'm working on diversifying the group's pain portfolio. But consider that Rackhir also *does* the most damage at this point, and usually dispenses with the outmoded concept of "cover". So I don't feel too bad...


> Is the last one where Meiji comes in? Or was that another Maison?



Meiji comes in between "Please Don't Feed the Chuul" and "Hello Kitty".


----------



## shilsen

Mallus said:
			
		

> I'm working on diversifying the group's pain portfolio.




No, no - please don't put yourself out on our behalf. Really.



> But consider that Rackhir also *does* the most damage at this point, and usually dispenses with the outmoded concept of "cover". So I don't feel too bad...




Bad? When did I mention feeling bad? Seeing Rackhir being beat up is something one notes, like the sun coming up. There's no emotion involved. Or none that I can confess to without suffering both in-game and out of it 

And he does admittedly have this habit of being a front-line archer. For a round or two.



> Meiji comes in between "Please Don't Feed the Chuul" and "Hello Kitty".




Woohoo!


----------



## Stormrunner

OK, I have to agree - this IS the funniest story hour I've read around here.  More, please!

What is a "Shirac"?

Pseudonatural muppets ... "Hi ho, Kermit the Slaad here..."  But what would you do for Gonzo?  He's already pseudonatural...

The Hannikum saints seem a (literally) blood-thirsty lot,  if I have their origins right - do the priests of St. Skinflower dress only in the fresh skins of young maidens?  Do Hannikum worshippers ask a boon of the saints by piercing their tongues, then pulling a length of bramblethorn vine back and forth through the hole?


----------



## Mallus

Stormrunner said:
			
		

> OK, I have to agree - this IS the funniest story hour I've read around here.



Thanks.



> What is a "Shirac"?



Simple answer: one of the four primary nonhuman races found in CITY. A race of desert-dwelling mystics somewhere between "Fremen", "Sufi" and "Elf". The believed to be race of witches and excel at mind-magics. Most live in the component city of Marimbra at the edge of the Lassantees Wastes.

I'll post a summary of the races soon. 



> The Hannikum saints seem a (literally) blood-thirsty lot,  if I have their origins right - do the priests of St. Skinflower dress only in the fresh skins of young maidens?  Do Hannikum worshippers ask a boon of the saints by piercing their tongues, then pulling a length of bramblethorn vine back and forth through the hole?



They are indeed bloodthirsty. I don't get your references, though. The Hannikum faith began as a simple thought experiment; what if the God of the Old Testament revealed himself to the Aztecs instead of the Jews, after the Aztecs had just sacked and occupied Rome. 

And Rome was situated in the middle of a dinosaur-infested rainforest...


----------



## Rolzup

*The Ratcatcher's Story*

...I was there on business, y'see.  The Temple of Kruetzel had a bit of a pest problem, they did, and they knew damned well who the best man for the job was.  By now all of Narayan knows, I should think, that there's nobody better than Edouard Finké when it comes to dealin' with rats.

Barely worth my time, this job.  Nasty litle fellows, considerin' what they'd been eatin', but not a patch on some of the things I've dealt with.  Not fit to kiss Black Peter's toes, these bastards.

I sorted things out easy enough, and took my leave of the temple. But on the walk back home, I fell into the company of a lad named Joachim.  Decent sort of fellow, he was another of them holy bakers. He'd been at the Temple seeking guidence or some-such, and had come away with no help at all.

's a long story, and it ain't mine to tell.  The long and the short of it was that he was married, but couldn't tell anyone.  His girl was someone of importance, connected like.  Rich father, if you catch my meaning.

Poor lad got himself shanghaied, and the girl hired the Four Crazy Bastards to bring him back.  That they did, murderin' all sorts of people along the way, and on the voyage home he and the girl got themselves married.

But now her father had her locked up, and he hadn't seen the girl in days!  His own wife!  Imagine that, if you would!

What was that?  Here, now, Macawber!  I seen your wife, and you ask me, we'd all be better off if _she_ was locked away somewhere!

Where was I?  Right, right....  And these friends of his, the Four Crazy Bastards?  They wanted the girl to do somethin' unspeakably vile, somethin' so bad that the boy couldn't bring himself to speak of it!

Anyways, I found meself feeling a bit sorry for the lad.  Hell of a thing for a young man to have to go through, am I right?  Bein' separated from his true love, and all, not to mention those cazy perverts.

But truth be told, there was more to it than that.  CITY talks to me sometimes, me lads.  Not loud, and not clear, but you gotta know how to listen _just_ right.  And she was speakin' to me then, sure enough.

So I offered the boy my help, and he accepted it on the spot.  Shook hands on it, and off we went...to meet the Four Crazy Bastards themselves.

Now, as I already said, there was just the two of them.  The Pretty Man, in his dress, with that sword always at his hip.  Tell you, boys, he touched that blade like a normal man touches his lover, you know? Real tender, like.  Delicate almost.  But could he use it?  Sure as sure, and no mistake.

The other?  The Bloody Archer hisself, and wouldn't you know?  Another Azakhani, just like the Pretty Man.  Dressed all in red, from head to tow, just like they say.  Carries a bow as tall as I am, and by damn! Can he use it?  Put a dozen arrows in the air, fast as a man could blink!

But both of them, crazy.  You could see it in their eyes.

Don't know what happened to the other two, and I wasn't about to ask. The ones before me were bad enough.  There was another fellow, though.  A professor, of all things!  What was his name again?  Gave me his card, he did....

Ah, here it is.  Bit smeared, but...Professor Hugo Chakraraja Glafston, Conjouror!  Bit of an odd duck, him, but compared to the Crazy Bastards he was almost normal.

Should have seen the bird he called up, though.  Wanted to demonstrate his "arts", I suppose.  Bright yellow, stood taller than a man.  Had a nasty glint in its eye, too.  I've killed worse than that, mind but I took hold of Knocker, just in case.

Sent the thing on its way with a wave of his hand, and told us all some story about looking for a man named "Mephosophocles".  Another professor, like, who'd one all missin'.  Wouldn't say what he wanted 'im for, or why he'd come to the Four Crazy Bastards, but he seemed inclined to stay.  Who was I to argue?  Meant one more body between me and the Pretty Man, which is all to the good.

I thought we might be dealin' with Joachim's littler problem, but no.  The Pretty Man wanted to go buy a hat, of all things.  Didn't seem the sort, but I thought that it might have flowers on it.  Or fruit, maybe.  Wouldn't make him look any better, but who's to tell him?  Not me, no sir.  Like my guts on the inside, so I do.

So he sent the Archer to go buy it.  Too good to go himself, I suppose, the toffee-nosed bastard.  The rest of us sat down for some coffee, while the bowman went about his errand.

And when he got back, the tale he told?  Put a chill down my spine, it did....


----------



## Mallus

*Interlude: A Lecture About Race*

Here's an introduction to the common races found in CITY. Written by a typically arrogant, bigoted Erisian scholar. There's not much about the common races, actually, but quite a lot about Erisians. And CITY in general...


“So many species, subspecies, kin and kind in CITY! Putting a name to all would seem an insurmountable task. Better to put them to the sword. At least that would simplify the next census. But I am not here to discuss social policy.  I come to enumerate the races of non-men, not to bury them.

The great novelist Marzel Joost put it thusly; “Counting the races that dwell in CITY is like counting needles in a stack of pins. Prickly, tedious work that’s hard on the eyes and likely to draw blood.” Consider that poor Joost was trying only to recall those nonhumans he met over the course of his brief, alcohol foreshortened life. I hope your seats are comfortable. We may be here a while.

That's not counting the Oddities and the Entities imported through the Slave Gates during the height of the Gate Builder Empire. Beings made more from Ideas and Appetites then flesh and blood. Fortunately many of them were unique, and more importantly benign, such as the Golden Rahl, employed by the Temple of Mr. Spidergod as an icon, who has delighted children for centuries with rides up and along the walls of the temple in Saltbend on his gleaming arachnoid back, his eight perfect eyes full of the kindness that only functional immortality and enormous wealth can bring. A few were more sinister, like the Semi-Lich who guards the Crypt of the Syndics in Ulum Dreii. A creature born in the Land of the Dead, tasked with ensuring the dearly departed, do not, in fact, take it with them. Then there were those who brought perverse, alien ideas to the streets of our great Monopolis, such as the men of living fire who introduced trade unionism to Narayan, the so-called Hotfellows Local 151. They all but control the Pandoor ovens used in the great temples of Kruetzel located there. How shameful! They call themselves “Azer”. I call them malcontents. And it’s quite true that their race is comprised solely of men. I’ll leave you to consider their unspeakable practices on your own.

So what do we do about this conundrum? Why, we need only look to the wisdom our Founding Fathers in the Gate Builder Empire. They decreed “Power is Knowledge!” Not the other way around, as purported by the scholars of weaker cultures. Those with the power control the discourse. So what if the bestial species imported by the Empire for slave-labor number upwards of 27? What matter if their names were “Uruk”, “Oger”, “Hubgubblyn”, and “Trull”? We’ll call them all Ghul, the old Imperial word for ‘meat’. Or perhaps, the Kaza-Ghul, the ‘Eaters of Meat’, who, in point of vulgar fact, often feasted on each other.

We will gather up races like a child gathers jacks, into categories of our fashioning, and place them neatly out-of sight.  We do this because it is convenient. We do this in the interest of having a manageable system of knowledge. But let me be unmistakably clear; we do this because we can.

That’s enough theory for now. Let us turn our attention to the important CITY races. First, of course, is Man, but I’ll leave him to the artists and trial lawyers to describe in detail. Next are the four Lesser Races; the Hannumin, Ruhk-Kaza, Shirac, and Garahjah…”

-- Introductory remarks to the Hrazbo-Y lecture series, given by Masshtek Vellolorum, director of the Misanthropic Studies program at the Museum of Defeated Cultures, Eris:CITY, winter 288, Monopolis Standard Year.


----------



## Mallus

*Interlude: the Most Excellent of Monkeys*

“The Hannumin, or Hannu, are a race of small, talking monkey-men ranging from 2.5-4ft. in height, with prehensile tails and large, curious eyes. Hannu lack the strength of men, but possess tremendous natural agility and athleticism, particularly with regard to climbing, leaping and balance. 

Widely regarded as adorable, the Hannu are found in a variety of climes ranging from the cold lower slopes of Mt. Parvishta to the dinosaur-plagued jungle of the Hannikum suburbs. An interesting note: no Hannu neighborhoods remain inside Hannikum:CITY, though ancient Hannu burial sites abound, leading misanthropists to speculate that the cannibalistic human residents ate the indigenous Hannu population at some point prior to Hannikum joining CITY.

The Hannu are a simple race; childlike in both size and intellectual capacity. They have no written language of their own and make few tools. The beautiful temples of their home city of Bessho were constructed for them by the architects of the ancient Gate Builder Empire, whose love for their “pets” is clearly shown by the profusion of ornately decorated Hannu-sized buildings. It is from these we get the Hannu nickname ‘temple monkey”.  

In their simplicity, the Hannu have personified the great Gates into a pantheon of ineffectual gods. They believe each Gate is a part of a god, which protrudes into the mortal realm. Since we built the great Gates, it is accurate to say the Hannu worship us. 

Hannu also suffer from a peculiar mental defect; they utterly lack foresight. Considering the consequences is as foreign to a Hannu as the notion to scratch ones own ass with his tail is to a man. It is a rare Hannu that can transcend this racial flaw, only a few appear in each generation. The current junior Senator from Bessho, Piwinici, is one such Hannu. 

This is not to say that Hannu culture is entirely lacking. Their monastic tradition, meditation techniques, and unarmed fighting styles are highly developed, which is not uncommon among the uncivilized people --note the Ajakhani. A Hannu Grandmaster, armed only with his empty paws and hannu-jitsu, is a sight to behold, and better than even money in the gladitorial pits against an armed giant.

A species of unusually tall Hannu can be found as far away as the Islands of Ajakhan. Called Varana by the locals, they dwell on the slopes of Mt. Wu and occupy themselves with quaint customs such as reading tea-leaves and weaving colorful scarves.”

--taken from Danincet Fossai’s lecture “They Made Great Pets”, Hrazbo-Y lecture series, 288 MSY.


----------



## Rolzup

*The Evil that Men Do*

Thank you, Durrin, thank you.  Very dry in here today, innit?

Well, as it turns out, the Archer had gone to buy a hat from ol' Don Magic Wand, owner of "The Chapel".  Never knew he was a haberdasher, but the Right Reverend is obviously a man of many talents.

And that, my friends?  That was the problem.  While the Archer was there, waiting for the Reverend, a woman came in.  She had a child in tow, a girl of no more than twelve summers.  And how was that child dressed?  No better than common streetwalker, and with tears running down her face besides.

That girl went in to see the Reverend, and would he tell the Archer why?  No sir, he would not.  But it was clear as the nose on your face what was going on, and Joachim and I?  We were mad, friends, madder than hell.

But did the Archer care?  Not so far as we could see.  Or the Fancy Man?  Oh, he was glad to see his new hat, but he didn't give a damn about how this poor girl was sufferin'.  Just kept eatin' his brunch, and sippin' his tea, and never turned a hair.

Joachim and meself, though, we weren't going to stand for that kind of thing.  Not a bit of it.  Off we went to the Chapel, ready to raise hell, with the Crazy Bastards and the Professor taggin' along behind.

I was ready to crack ol' Magic Wand's skull, but the Bloody Archer held me back.  Wanted to talk, if you can credit it.  Wanted to hear _his_ side of the story.  Now, that sort of thing don't sit right with me...but I didn't want to cross one of the Crazy Bastards.

And then what do you think?  The Pretty Man sat himself down, back to the room, and didn't say a word.  Too good to associate with the likes of us, right?  

The Right Reverend told us a tale, he did, about poor little Calliope and the life she was forced to lead.  She was an orphan, and the legal property of a fancy house called  the Maison Chatons.  Place caters to folk who like that sort of thing, may they all burn in hell.

He healed her wounds, he told us, and took away the memories of what kept happening to her.  He wanted to do more, but he didn't dare cross the owner of the Maison: a mister Jack Fancy.

Now, we all know that the Crazy Bastards have a history with the Room Rouge Players, don't we?  I thought that they must have killed Jack Fancy along with the rest of 'em, but no sir.  And were they happy about that?

Not at all, me friends.  Not at all.  The Pretty Man stood up, and turned around.  Frowned a little, and that was the closest thing to emotion that I ever did see him show.  It wasn't natural, that frown.  Sent a chill down my spine to see it.

"We will deal with the situation," he says.  And you could see how bad he wanted to draw that sword of his, right then and there, and feed it another soul.

Well, of course it eats souls!  Stands to reason, dunnit?

They started to makin' plans, right off.  Crazy plans, like bustin' the door in and takin' the girl.  Law wouldn't like that, though, 'cause Fancy'd paid _all_ the proper bribes.

I nodded and smiled; "Don't argue with a crazy man," my dear old mother used to say, and that's some damned good advice.  When we took a look at the Maison, though, even Pretty Man knew that it wouldn't work.  Like a fortress, it was.

Didn't stop 'im from bangin' on the door, demandin' entrance.  Someone opened a little slot in the door, told 'im that the Maison was a private club, and besides they weren't open for business so early in the day.

And he nods, all proper and polite, and walks away.  As I'm standin' there, me blood boilin'.

Don't try to understand, lad.  Ye can't.  Gods know, I've tried.

But I've got contacts, if ye know what I mean.  Took a bit of doin', but I found out a few things about Jack Fancy.  Most of it, you don't want to hear.  Put you off your lunch, and no mistake.  Some of it, though...some of it was pretty damned useful.

There's this place near the docks, see....


----------



## demiurge1138

I love the current set of updates. Shows how the common man views the PCs. And rightly views them as dangerous maniacs.

Which is what most PCs are, really.

Demiurge out.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

I'm also loving the change of narrative voice (although I will certainly welcome the return of Burne as narrator, too). It's definitely interesting to see another perspective on the party.

And who can argue with naming them the Crazy Bastards ...


----------



## Mallus

*Interlude: Nasty, Brutish, and Tall*

“Repeat after me: The Ruhk-kaza were made to mine the Pit of Erebus. Literally made. In vats. Large, bubbling, I’ll go so far as to guess rune-inscribed, vats. A long time ago by the alchemists of the Gate Builder Empire, who employed a rarefied form of rarely-employed ethics. Unlike the alchemists of today….

…who are still merciless, venal bastards, but need no longer dabble in such sloppy, screaming work as bio-alchemy and its like, thanks in no small part to my seminal work on the Philosopher’s Algorithm, which gives clockwork and phlogistonic mechanisms not merely life, but the semblance of a soul.

You’ve heard of the Algorithm, haven’t you? And its creator, Riven Sugarglass? You must know my shop,! Its just round the way in Saltbend, across from the Temple of Mr. Spidergod, the one with the lickable windows? 

Umm, carrying on, it is partially true that the Ruhk are related to the group of races we lazily call the Kaza-Ghul. You’ll encounter a lot of partial truths when dealing with magic. Most of which conceal either obscene vanity or simply raw obscenity. But I digress. 

The original Ruhk stock was derived from the flesh and marrow of the gods only know many different Ghul races, the ancient Erisian alchemists cherry-picking the traits they believed would increase their chances of surviving the Pit; darkvision, a high pain threshold, resistance to death-magics, a powerful build but a roughly man-sized frame for easier navigation of the narrow tunnels. And, of course, stupidity. Most likely contributed by the underclass humans that got thrown into the mix. The Rukh horns, from what I understand, are purely decorative. 

The lack of intelligence turned out to be more of a bug than a feature. A fatal mistake, really. Down in the Pit the most valuable commodity is intellect, barring, of course an honestly celibate priest and a parcel full of phlogistonic explosives. And I should know, having spent the better part of my youth mining its numinous ore. Does that surprise you? Did you think I was born with these good looks? With both eyes on one side of my face?

So the Ruhk Kaza, whose name means “The Eaters of Bone”, where moved out of that holy, industrial bone yard and used in other capacities. They made fine soldiers, being naturally fatalistic and bred for senseless deaths. Just prior to the fall, the Ruhk began to spread throughout the Empire. Today they are found in every corner of CITY.

Sometime during the Ruhk Diaspora, they found religion. Or it was given to them, probably be the Shirac, who share their peculiar worldview in the way aristocratic gentleman share the clap. The Ruhk made it their own, believing not in the Way to Heaven, rather, the Great Bird of Death, who carries everything in the universe towards the ultimate oblivion at the center of creation. The Ruhk are the reason no-one discusses religion in polite conversation.”

-- taken from Riven Sugarglass’s “Genesis of the Rukh”, Hrazbo-Y lectures 288 MSY.


----------



## Mallus

*Interlude: Into the Mystics*

"I am here today to tell you that there is no Shirac race. ‘What?!’ you will say. Of course there is a Shirac race. They are tall and thin and their hair is like the fine feathers of a delicate bird. They are all witches; they live in Marimbra and sell priceless goods, even magic, in the Great Bazaar. 

I will proceed to demonstrate why these are falsehoods. First, there is no Shirac race because being Shirac is not a matter of parentage. Surely most Shirac are born of Shirac. They are tall, and thin, and have hair like delicate feathers. They have beautiful eyes that can see in the faintest starlight. They posses what appears to be witchcraft to those who have never drawn away the Veil, except perhaps in their dreams. Surely these are the Shirac.

But this is not always the case. It is also true that there are Shirac who have been born to humans. This is sure? Absolutely, it is a I say. And Shirac born to Ruhk, and to creatures for whom you have no name. There are Shirac with hair like fine feathers, and those with the shells of turtles, and the eyes of cats, as well as those with the shapes of men. 

So I have shown you there is no Shirac race, only the Great Ummab of the Shirac. Say it, as it is our proper name. The Ummab is not family, nor tribe, nor nation, it is simply the sum of all those who follow the Way. For the Great Ummab of the Shirac is itself a journey. A migration towards Heaven. Just as birds seek the warmer places as the winter approaches, so the Shirac seek the warmth of Paradise. And it has been so for half an eternity.

Are we all witches? No, that is not the case. We are simply travelers. And in our travels we have seen many worlds, and thus passed through the Veil many times over. This is not witchcraft. It is only experience. You may call the fruits of our experience witchcraft, but you are motivated only by your love of falsehoods. Perhaps you should learn to embrace truth. Or find better words.

Surely, you say, at least the Shirac live in Marimbra, where you sell your beautiful wares? Again, a misrepresentation. The Shirac move through Marimbra, so some are always there, and yet it is never the same ones, year after year, for the Way is a journey. You say we sell you wares, I say we give you priceless gifts. We only charge for them because if we did not you would assume they have no value. And the gifts of the Way have value beyond measure.

So many untruths spoken about the Shirac. Some say the Way is like a heavy yoke made of many strange laws, that we are not a people but a cult. This is not so! There is but one Shirac law: Honor the Seeker. For they will open the Way to Heaven.

Not bad, eh? 

Would you join with us? For the Great Ummab of the Shirac is open to all seekers. Join us, for we welcome you, and we fly towards Heaven. As our great poet Wudi Al-Harazed once said “I do not want to achieve Paradise through death, I want to walk there on my own two feet”.  

-- taken from Mommud Harb-Houri’s “The Preface to the Way”, Hrazbo-Y lectures, 288 MSY.


----------



## Rolzup

Last night, round about evenin', we set out for the Dancehall, on the Cocks Swallow docks.

Nah, nah, get yer mind from out the gutter, lad.  Ye might know it as Gibbet's Dock, but most folks call it the Dock o'Cocks Swallow, after ol' Dead Pirate Guilford Gibbet.  Seems he was freed from his own public hanging by an angry mob, what up and killed the poor bastard by choking him with his own severed manhood.  Ye might have seen the statue of Gibbet by the wharf-side, eh?  Surrounded by a bunch of little statues of flyin' swallows?  And one statue of a rooster?

Aye, that's the one.  It's a bit of a pun, like.

Well, 'twas a pleasant enough walk, all things considered.  The crowds cleared out of the way right quick when the saw who was coming; nobody wanted to risk offending the Pretty Man, seein' as how he's so quick with his sword.

We were passin' the Bluefins Tavern when the damnedest thing happened.  The doors flew open, and a whole crowd people came runnin' into the street, all screamin' and carryin' on.  There were dogs howlin', and ladies weepin', and grown men terrified outta their wits.

And why?  Rats, o'course.  Little ones, mind, but lots of 'em.  A wave of the little beggars came spillin' out the door, chewin' on anyone they could get their teeth into.

Now, I'm no swordsman. And I'm none too good with a bow, I'll not deny that.  But show me rats, and I know where me duty lies.  Took Knocker in me hand and waded right in, hittin' those rats to the left and to the right.  Felt damned good, to be doin' some honest work again.  Took a few bites outta me, they did, but wasn't but a trifle.  Duchess and me, we cleared things up right and proper, quick as sin.

Never did find out what that was all about, come to think on it.  Might be they were layin' in wait for me.  Not the first time I've been ambushed by rats, likely won't be the last.

The Pretty Man gave me a little nod as I finished the last of 'em off.  Recognized a fellow killer, so he did, and no mistake.  Gave me a bit of a chill, to be honest.  I kill for a livin', true enough, but I'm no murderer.  Not like him.

Never like him.

Thank ye, lad, thank ye.  Needed another drink, after that.  Where was I?

Right, right.  Well, I never did find out what _that_ was all about.  Nobody knew where the beasties had come from, and the only clue was the howlin' of a dog just before they all up and manifested.

Spontaneous rats...that's a problem I can sink me teeth into.  I ain't done with that situation, friends, and ye've got me oath on that.

But on we went to the Dancehall.  Ever been there, Gerard?  Not a nice place, not like the Pig here.  Not so clean, this bar of yours, but it's _honest_.  And that counts for a lot, so it does.

The Dancehall, it was nothin' but pretty lies.  All glittery, and fancy-like.  And nothin' but scum inside.  Pirates, and thugs, and gutter trash.  A bunch of them primitives, the hairy folk with heavy brows, were hangin' about and draggin' their clubs.  Swayin' to the music, they were, and that should tell you what the place sounded like.

Just horrible, it was.

The Pretty Man, he walked right up to the bar, and demanded to see the owner.  You could see the crowd wasn't too happy to see any of us, and they _really_ didn't like the Pretty Man...but they didn't do more than grumble a bit.  They knew better than to trifle with the likes of us.

There was some talkin' back and forth, and finally they agreed to take the Pretty Man back to talk with the owner of the place.  The Queen Bitch, they called her.  Just the Pretty Man, mind, and his pet monkey besides.  Wanted him to leave his sword behind, but he just laughed a cold laugh and shook his head.

It's his soul, you know.  I've heard 'im say it with me very own ears.  Blasphemous, that. Must have eaten his soul first, right off.  It's hungry, that blade.

They didn't argue, and took him into a back room.  We stood ready, weapons at hand, prepared for trouble.  The Bloody Archer, he was like a damned statue.  Never moved, never twitched, but for his eyes.  He's always lookin', that man.  Huntin', like.

The Prof, he started in to talking to one of those cave-men I mentioned.  'Bout what, I can't imagine.  I heard 'em mention time, and space, and how impressed the Prof was by the cave-man's club...but nothin' that made any sense, really.

And then came the sound, from behind the door the Pretty Man had gone through.  Sounded like a dozen thunderclaps, all at once, and was enough to set my ears to ringin'.  Magic, I knew, and no mistake.

Duchess and I, we had that door down in a trifle.  In we went, the Archer and Prof on our heels.  And let me tell ye, things went _right_ to hell.


----------



## shilsen

Rolzup said:
			
		

> Nah, nah, get yer mind from out the gutter, lad.  Ye might know it as Gibbet's Dock, but most folks call it the Dock o'Cocks Swallow, after ol' Dead Pirate Guilford Gibbet.  Seems he was freed from his own public hanging by an angry mob, what up and killed the poor bastard by choking him with his own severed manhood.




Now that's gotta hurt! 



> Ye might have seen the statue of Gibbet by the wharf-side, eh?  Surrounded by a bunch of little statues of flyin' swallows?  And one statue of a rooster?
> 
> Aye, that's the one.  It's a bit of a pun, like.




*wipes away a tear*



> Spontaneous rats...




There are heroes who stride across the ages, destroying hordes of demons, and then there are our PCs...



> And let me tell ye, things went _right_ to hell.




Well, of course they did! It's not like you had the magnificence that is Meiji to pull your fat out of the fire. Remind me again, did Rackhir get pasted here too?


----------



## Mallus

shilsen said:
			
		

> *wipes away a tear*



Enjoying this little bit of CITY's local off-color, are you?


> Remind me again, did Rackhir get pasted here too?



Let me spoil at little: no. 

That happens next adventure.


----------



## shilsen

Mallus said:
			
		

> Enjoying this little bit of CITY's local off-color, are you?




Absolutely. That little reference actually sounded a lot like a Pratchettism, which is the top of the scale for me where humor is concerned.



> Let me spoil at little: no.




Drat. 



> That happens next adventure.




Aaaah! You know, every time I see Rackhir get beat up I get a sense of vuja de (another Pratchettism). I know that I'm going to see it again in the future.


----------



## Mallus

shilsen said:
			
		

> That little reference actually sounded a lot like a Pratchettism, which is the top of the scale for me where humor is concerned.



Why thanks. I have to say, of all the places I've stolen inspiration from, and the list includes everything from "Some Like it Hot" to Preston Sturges films, Pratchett isn't one of them. I hadn't even read 'The Colour of Magic' yet by that point in the campaign...

I'm on Discworld book 2 now. Only about 30 to go, right?


----------



## Rolzup

*Following the Sound of Thunder *

Ye can't trust wizards.  Oh, you might think that ye can, but trust me: ye can't.

Take the Prof, who seemed a descent enough sort.  Duchess and I, we're ready to deal with the Bitch's guards.  Took out one as we came through the door, into a little room.  There was another door standing open, obviously where the Pretty Man was, but before we could get there?

Magic, thanks to the Prof.  He conjured some kind of web, hangin' all through the room.  Got the guards tangled up, sure, but how were we to get to the Pretty Man?  The web was so thick that the Archer couldn't shoot through it, and he was none too pleased about that.

Sure enough, before I could start hackin' my way through, there was that crash of thunder again, closer still and even louder than before, and a yell from the Pretty Man along with it.  Didn't sound at all happy, neither.

It only got worse.

Friends, you know me.  You know my line of work.  I spend more than my fair share of time in the sewers.  That's where the rats are, after all.  So me, I know stinks.  I've smelled 'em all, in my time.  But this?  This was somethin's else entirely.  So strong that it hung in the very air, thick and green.  Made even _my_ eyes water, standin' as I was on the very edge of it.

Hell, the damned cloud made Duchess herself ill!  And that's no small feat, makin' a rat like her sick up.

Maybe the Prof thought he was helping.  Maybe he was, for all I know.  I imagine that the Bitch's men weren't up to much with that smell in the air.  But it wasn't doin' us any much good either.  The Archer was cursin' up a blue streak, when he wasn't retchin'.

Lucky for me, I had a secret weapon.

See this ring, here on my finger?  Not just a particularly handsome piece of jewelry, this.  No, this is an heirloom, handed down from my great-great-great grandma, Anne Finké herself.  And it's magic, this ring is.

Ever hear of a ring of invisibility?  Well, this is better.  This, me friends, is a ring of _insmellability_.  Turn it on your finger, like so, and see?  Your scent disappears, like you ain't even there.  Makes it a lot easier, this, sneakin' up on a canny rat.

But that's not all, y'know.  The ring protects me from smells, too.  Shields me, like.  And it was enough to let me push my way through the Prof's little cloud without revisitin' me lunch.

Took me a bit, pushin' through the web.  But I made it through, until I could see the Pretty Man though the haze.  He was bleedin' from the ears, and he looked a little shaky, but he was still standin', with his monkey by his side.

There were bodies all about, some of them dead and some just pukin' their guts out.  Religious types, or so they seemed to me.  I gave the closest one a good kick as I went by, just on general principles like.

The Pretty Man, he was facin' down two figures, and one of 'em....  Well. One of 'em was Jack Fancy, sure as sure.  Had one a' them skinny swords in his hand, and he kept tossin' knives at the Pretty Man.  But that other....

Hell, I need another drink, I'm gonna remember that.

Thank ye, Gerard.  Thank ye kindly.  I've seen things, friends.  Terrible, horrible things.  But nothin' like this.

It was a woman, ye thought at first.  And if he'd been wearin' pants, or anything below the waist, maybe I woulda kept bein' fooled.   But no, we weren't so lucky as that.  Worse still, he had the head of a dog, all snarlin' and snappin', and the skin we could see -- too damned much of it, ye ask me -- was covered with fur.

I don't mind tellin' ye, friends, I was taken aback.  Shocked, even.

Just for a moment, mind, but that was time enough for the Bitch to hop down into an open trap door.  And Fancy followed a second later, as one a' my knives hit the wall behind where he'd been standin'.

Took us a minute to get organized, like, what with the smell and the web and all.  The Pretty Man told us what had happened, that he'd been hit with half a dozen spells at the same time.  Not once, even, but twice.  He wasn't at all pleased about it, and what's more?  It was the first time I'd seen his hair anythin' less than perfect.

Down through the trap door we went, all but the Prof.  He'd had enough, he said.  Maybe it was seein' the Bitch that did it, and if so I can't blame 'im a bit.  Wished 'im well, although the Archer seemed happy to see the back of 'im, and off he went.

And down _we_ went.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Rolzup said:
			
		

> Spontaneous rats...




It's not just rats you know ...

It is a well known fact that wandering monsters do not in fact "wander". They are in fact spontaneous manifestations of the universe's (understandable) antipathy towards adventurers.


----------



## Mallus

*Interlude: Races of Dirt*

"'Scutters', 'Scuttlers', 'Domed-fuddlers', 'Grubs', 'Sadpackers', 'Molies', 'Holie-Molies', and perhaps the most insulting, simply 'the Gardeners', I'm sure you've heard all of these before, the derogatory names for the Garahjah. I am here today to tell you that they are a proud race with a complex culture, language, and strong preference for the subterranean. And yes, they love a good strong cup of tea...

An average Garahjah stands between four-and-a-half and... well... four-and-a-half-feet tall, there being little deviation in their general physiology. They are typically as wide as they are tall, and covered with a short coat of fine downy fur. To make up for their physicalsimiliarity, Garahjah wear the hair on their broad, domed heads in thick elaborate, braids strung with ornaments and rich, clay-bearing mud from their burrows, commonly refered to as 'dredgelocks'. A Garahjah always seeks to stand out from his brethren, either through grooming and dress, or by complicated elaborations of speech. Or a funny accent. Or by frequent singing. Or hats. They really are an odd lot of birds, when you come right down to it.

Garahjah are exceptionally hardy, all but immune to toxins and disease, as befits a race that spends much of its time in dank holes or classifying strange flora using their sense of taste. They can see in near darkness, and some in pitch blackness, utilizing the very vibrations of the earth to guide them. Garahjah have an extraordinary relationship with dirt; it speaks to them, in fact sometime it even listens, moving out of the way to let one pass. Some think the Garahjah can burrow in the manner of burrowing animals. This is not the case. The earth parts for them, albeit quite slowly, like a crowd of the morbidly obese parting for passing royalty.

The Garahjah effectively rule themselves and their home city of Ling-Garah, whose name usually means 'The Constant Garden' in their perplexing native tongue. Natural philosophers suggest that the Garahjah language 'is rooted in the very language of nature, with meanings shifting like the play of streams over stones, with only a few concepts as solid as the stones themselves'. Linguists, however, suggest the Garahjah are lying to us, foiling any attempt to accurately translate their language as some kind of species-wide joke. 

Take, for example, the Garahjah governing body, the so-called 'Bishopric of Trees', which isn't particularly remarkable until you realise the Garahjah have no word for 'bishop', or priest of any kind, really. Which is odd, seeing as the Garahjah taught early man the art of 'speaking to the dirt', which gave rise to modern-day urban and ex-urban Druidism. Yes, there's nothing quite so funny as a Garahjah, except, perhaps, when one is trying to behead you for despoiling its garden.

-- taken from Sir Paltry Bearkiller-Jones's "Some Things Gleaned from a Conversation with Mr. Mole", Hrazbo-Y lecture series, 288 MSY.


----------



## Rolzup

*Bowie Isn't Just a Knife.*

The Bitch was considerate enough to have provided pillows for us to land on, so it wasn't much of a fall.  No sign of her, or of Jack, in the little room that we'd landed in.  Just a mannequin, wearin' parts of a fancy dress, in one corner.  And only one way out, a dark little tunnel.

_Too_ dark, if you catch me meaning.  Pitch black, and it swallowed any light that hit it.  Magic, again.

But not a problem for Duchess, me darlin'.  Looped a rope 'round her neck, and she sniffed her way through, with me trailin' behind.  The dark didn't last long, and there we were in a hallway...and we had company.  The Bitch, she had friends.  And where she met 'em, gentlemen, I don't care to speculate.

It was knife and club work for me then, while the Pretty Man and the Archer did their bloody work.  And what did we fight?  You'd hardly believe it, friends.

Dogs, made of pure diamond.  Spat knives at us, they did, and do I _look_ like I'm lyin' about that?  And they weren't the worst of it.  There was this...thing, that the Bitch called up.  Part snake, part bird, part lady.  No face, but it wore a diamond brooch that kept shimmerin', and changin' shape.  Had the voice of an angel, but friends?  She was the meanest little hussy I ever did meet.  

Gave the Pretty Man a good squeeze, she did.  And he didn't find it all to his likin', either.  Can't blame him for that, not at all.  He managed to free himself, and we came through it all right, although I'm damned if I know how.  I remember standin' there, pieces of broken dogs at me feet, starin' down the Bitch herself.  And that's when the Pretty Man cleared his throat.

He talked to her, all soft and reasonable, and I found myself noddin' along.  It made sense, what he was sayin'...that Fancy, the miserable bastard, was no friend of hers...even if they did share a bed from time to time.  

Yes, ye heard that right.  No, I shan't elaborate.  Rather not think about it, truth be told.

But there was no point in us fightin' like this, since we had no quarrel with _her_.  And that it was in everyone's best interests if we brought Fancy to ground.

She agreed to show us, in the end, where Fancy'd made his escape.  Through a tunnel, into the sewers.  So we took our leave of the Dancehall, and glad I was of it.  Because now we were on _my_ home ground.  I know the sewers of Narayan like the back of me hand, and with both Duchess and the Archer trackin' him, Fancy didn't have a chance.  We made damned good time, winding our way through tunnels and such, until we came to a Gate.

You probably don't know how many Gates there are in the sewers, do you?  Well, let me tell you, friends, that there's plenty of 'em, and a royal pain in the arse they are.  This one was at the top of a ramp, see, and was lettin' through a stream of clean water from gods-only-know where.

And Fancy's tracks, they went right up to the Gate.  And _through_ it.

Too right, Durrin, m'lad!  Fancy's no citizen, and don't wear a gate-mark.  Everyone knows that, he boasts of it often enough.  He shouldn't have been able to pass through, not him.  But there was no denyin' it; that's just what the bastard had done.  He'd left some signs behind, traces of some sort of ash.

Only one answer.  Fancy was a Gatecrasher, plain as plain.  And what could we do, but follow his trail?


----------



## Mallus

Disclaimer: I take full responsibility for all the David Bowie references. This adventure was inspired by Bowie's "Hunky Dory", an album I had just rediscovered as I was writing it. Okay, so there's a good bit of the song "Diamond Dogs" in it too, but how could I pass up naming an Abyssal Lillend "The Meanest Little Hussy with the Ghost-Town Approach"?

It was a suprisingly good fit. I took Bowie's transvestite prostitute and turned him into a _weredog_ transvestite part-time prostitute/part-time cult leader. For those interested, the Queen and her minions worshipped The Dreamer Out of Time, aka Dhalberg, god of Boredom, Madness, and Outer Space, in the guise of his avatar Ziggy Stardust.

Rolzup left out a lot of the more obscure references; the summoned rats being described as 'the mice in their million hordes', the fact that 'sailors' and 'caveman' were 'fighting in the Dancehall', the fact the Dancehall had a little metal plaque over the door that read 'Is there life on Mars?', or the full description of the Queen, 'in her satin and tat, with a frock coat and bibberty-bopperty hat'. 

Ok, I'll never do that again, but it was an interesting experiment in looking for alternate sources of inspiration.


----------



## Rolzup

*Devotion to Duty*

Well, my friends, I was none too happy with the situation.  It was clear that we had to follow Fancy through that Gate, but that meant that I had to leave me darlin' Duchess behind.  Never got around to getting her gate-marked, y'see...although I'm going to fix _that_ before the week's out, mind you.

I wasn’t worried about her, you understand.  Duchess can take damned good care of herself -- can't ya, me girl?  Aye, that's the lass! -- but it felt wrong, not havin' her by me side.  But what choice did we have?  I wasn't about to let that bastard escape, and neither were the Crazy Bastards.

So one we went, up the ramp and through the Gate.  Duchess just kept givin' me this look, and I...I had to turn away, I did.

Here, now, girl!  Did I want to leave you?  No, I didn't, and I've just said as much!  But it all worked out in the end, dinnit?  That's right...give 'er another, Gerard, if ye would.

Anyways.  I've been in many a sewer, my friends, and I've seen things what would turn your hair white.  But then and there, I saw something I never thought I'd see.

A clean sewer.  More than clean, it was all...sanitary, even.  Even smelled clean, and that threw me a bit.  Truth be told, I even think we were all a bit cleaner for havin' gone through that Gate.  Handy trick, that.

But Fancy, he'd still left a trail.  Not much of one, but enough for the Bloody Archer to follow.  The water ran through the center of the tunnel, see, and there was a walkway on either side.  White marble, even, and was there so much as a smudge to be seen?  No, friends, not a bit of it.

Wet feet, though.  Those leave a sign, even if not for long.  And the Archer, why, his eyes are sharp as sharp!  On we went, hot on Fancy's trail.  What we found, though?  That was something of a surprise, I confess.

I've had conversations with many a strange creature, friends.  Never expected to find myself addressed by a pool of water, though.  Never in a million years.  But that's what happened, and Oroborous can strike me dead if I'm tellin' you false.  Rose up in a column, and you could _just_ see that it was wearin'a  helmet, and carryin' a shield, also of water.

And on the shield, as we stared at it, I could see four letter.  IWSD, they were.

None of ye recognize that?  _None_ of ye?  Sad, what passes for an education, these days.  That's the Imperial Water and Sewer Department's sigil, damn it!  None too common these days, I admit, but even so!

Ah, well.

No, Gerard, if it had a name, I can't recall it.  Had a job, though.  Keepin' the sewer clean, and keepin' the riff-raff out.  And friends, it seems we were riff-raff.  Now, I tried talkin' to the thing, and the Pretty Man likewise, but it was none too eager to listen.  We ran, and I ain't ashamed to admit it.  Even the Mad Bastards knew better than to take on something like _that_.

And truth be told?  I don't think that the Pretty Man would have seen the point in tryin'.  No blood, y'see?  No guts to spill.  And that's what he lives for, him.

It called out to us as we ran, though.  Kinda sad, like.  "Tell the Emperor I've done a good job," it begged us.  "And could he please let me go now?"  Wonder how long the poor damned thing's been stuck there, eh?  Been a full thousand years since we had an emperor, innit?

We managed to keep on Fancy's trail; now, how _[he_ got past the water-beast, I ain't gonna guess.  But he took another Gate to do it, and left the same sort of stuff behind him.  Ashes, mainly.  Burnt monkey-bones, from what the Pretty Man's hannu servant said.  And he'd know, I suppose.

We were gettin' ready to go through, when we heard a noise from behind us.  Never even saw the Bastards move, but they had weapons in hand 'fore I could even blink.  They stayed their hands, though, and damned good thing too!  'cause there was Duchess, covered in ash, trottin' along as happy as you please.

Didn't I tell ye all that she's a smart girl?


----------



## pogre

Excellent! Bonus for the Bowie references! In highschool I had a friend base some adventures off _stairway to heaven _ - um yeah, it was pretty bad.

Anyway, I'm enjoying your writing and the story - keep up the good work!


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## Rolzup

(Ooops!  Accidentally re-posted the previous installment!  Here's the correct one.)

*Chuul Be Sorry*

Next place we found ourselves, it wasn't nearly so clean and tidy.  More like the sewers I know and love, it was.

The sluice slanted down into the darkness, and between the Bloody Archer's eyes and Duchess' nose, Fancy'd left a clear trail.  We made our way down, the others slippin' and slidin' and tryin' not to fall on their arses.  Me, I was rock steady.  Always am, in the sewers.

Ended up in a little chamber, maybe 15' square.  Old masonry, solid Eirisian stuff.  Say what you like about 'em, but the Erisians knew how to build a sewer, and bless 'em for that!  But there was a little stone platform risin' up from outta the filth, and a big metal door, still standin' open.

And even I could see Fancy's footprints on the stone.

We were expectin' a trap by now.  Seemed obvious, really.  So when we went through the door, we went all cautious and slow.  And we found ourselves in a big damned room, steppin' onto a walkway that crossed from one end to the other.  Stretch of maybe fifty feet, I think, and as narrow and slippery as a lawyer's sense a' ethics.

Like that one, do you, Gerard?  Aye, well, I been savin' that for the proper occasion.

But anyway, there's a pool of water right below the walkway, maybe a man's height below.  Nasty lookin' water, too -- all grey, and scummy.  Odd thing was, there was a wall across the roo, runnin' parallel to the walkway.  Made a' glass, or crystal, or some-like.  It was cracked, and broken, and older'n hell.  And there was a metal gate, too, the bars all bent outta shape, near the base of the wall.

No, nothin' at all ominous about that, was there?

The Pretty Man went across first.  Almost glidin', like.  He's smooth, that one.  Odd thing was, he had a knife held up to his face the whole time, almost like he was lookin' through it.  Must be some sorta Azikhanni thing...one of them rituals, like drinkin' tea, or killin's themselves.

The Bloody Archer followed on behind him, lookin' from place to place, bow drawn and ready.  Nothin' happened, and maybe he got impatient, or somethin'.  But he picked up a rock, and set it to glowin' -- it's a minor magic, that, once I can do me own self -- and tossed it into the water.  And things proceeded on to get really damned nasty.

This...thing came up out of the water.  Not the worst thing I ever seen in the sewers, but damn near.  Some lizard, some crab, all ugly.  And twice the size of a man, too.  Went right for the Archer, with Duchess and me standin' right by his side.

And that's when Fancy stepped outta the shadows.  Threw a knife at the Pretty Man, and took him in the shoulder, but did that stop him?  Not a bit of it.  Damn near flew across the walkway, leapin' right over a puddle of oil Fancy'd left for him, and drew down on the bastard.

And the Pretty Man _missed him_.  Tells you somethin' about Fancy, that.  Two a' them dueled for a while, slicin' back and forth, 'til Fancy stepped back into the shadows and through another Gate.

Meanwhile, we had problems all our own.  That damned crawdad was a touch customer, and it surely didn't care for the Archer.  It had 'im in its mouth, and was gettin' ready to bite 'im in half, when the Pretty Man came runnin' back.  Jumped right onto the things back, he did, and looked damned impressive doin' it, too...until he slipped and fell in the water.

Duchess brought the beast down, in the end.  Ripped its throat out, in point of fact.  She's not to be trifled with, my Duchess!  It wasn't until then that we noticed the words written on the glass wall, facin' the other direction.  Not easy, readin' 'em backwords, but I puzzled it out.

"Please don't feed the Chuul", is said.  It is to f----n' laugh, innit?

The Pretty Man's monkey patched him and the Archer up, and we went through the next damned Gate...


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Still reading ... still laughing ... still wanting more.


----------



## shilsen

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Still reading ... still laughing ... still wanting more.



 And there's even weirder crap coming up very shortly. 

Accompanied (completely coincidentally, I assure you) by the appearance of my PC, Meiji "not in the face!" Kitsume.


----------



## Rolzup

*Fishers of Men*

First thing we noticed, it was cold.  Damned cold.  Could see my breath hangin' in the air.  Even the Pretty Man shivered a bit, although the Bloody Archer didn't turn a hair.  We were standin' in a cavern, natural lookin'.  It was dark, and there was a nasty sort of smell in the air.

We were ready for anythin', and expectin' Fancy to come jumpin' out of the shadows at any time.  But what did we find, when we made our way to the mouth of the cave?  Snow, first thing, with Fancy's tracks showin' plain as plain.  And sunlight, nice and bright.  We'd obviously come a good long way from the sewers of Narayan.

The monkey, he recognized it as Mt. Parvishta.  If you looked real hard, you could just see the Yeti, mining ice from its slopes.  Tallest mountain in the world, my friends, and I seen it with my own two eyes.  

Ah, it wasn't so great as all that.

It was the fishin' lines, danglin' from a ledge up above our heads, that were the oddest thing.  Who goes fishin' in the mountains, and who uses a big ol' haunch of meat for bait?

You want my advice, you don't go askin' question like that.  I can guarantee that you won't like the answer.

I'm not sure what those things were.  They were small, but they looked pretty damned unpleasant.  Ugly little men with red little eyes, and nasty little grins with lots of sharp little teeth.  All blurry, like...my eyes just couldn't quite focus on 'em.  And they were holdin' fishin' poles.

Even knowin' what I do now, that still don't make much sense.

Didn't take a genius to guess that the little bastards meant us no good, but we were willin' to walk away from 'em without spillin' any blood.  We were hot on Fancy's trail, and didn't have any time for this sort of thing.  And then the little f-----s went and did
somethin' to Duchess.

Hypnotized 'er, they did.  Put 'er in a trance, like.  She just started walkin' towards those hooks, a blank sort of look in 'er eyes, and I wasn't about to let _that_ happen.

The Bloody Archer fired first, I think.  He usually does, and last too -- if you catch my meanin'.  Turned into a nice little scrap real quick after that, with the little bastards droppin' down from their ledge.  Things got a bit chancey for a moment there, as the Pretty Man nearly got himself shoved off a cliff, but....

Well.  I never seen anything like it, friends, and I wouldn't have believed it if I'd been told it.  One of the little guys charged the Pretty Man, see, and he didn't even twitch.  Just before he makes contact, the Pretty Man draws his sword and --swear to XXX -- cuts the ugly bastard in half.  From top to bottom, I mean.  Bisected him, like.

One half fell to the left, the other to the right, and both halves went right off the damned cliff.  Hell of a thing, hell of a thing.

We dealt with the other two readily enough.  The Archer filled one with arrows, and I beat the other's skull nice and flat.  With all of 'em dead, Duchess snapped out of the spell, and glad I was to see it!

There was a fourth one of 'em, though.  Not as short as the others, and we couldn't see 'im clean 'cause he was standing so far off, but he didn't seem all the upset with what we'd done.  He tossed a leather bag down to us, all festooned with teeth and fringes and stuff.  The Pretty Man took it, like it was his due or somethin'.

And hell, maybe it was.

We moved on, followin' Fancy's tracks in the snow, but I don't mind admitting that I kept lookin' over my shoulder.  Just in case.  They led to another Gate, of course, sittin' in the middle of a damned cold pond.  There was a little statue there, carved outta white stone, and I doffed my hat to it as we went on through....


----------



## Rolzup

*Here Comes Trouble*

It was a sweet relief, so it was, to emerge from that last Gate.  The sewers of Narayan, at last!  They'd never smelled sweeter!

So to speak.

Turned out we were just across the street from the Maison Chatons, in a dry canal-bed; Fancy was obviously using the foul place as his final bolt-hole.  By now, after all we'd been through, the only thing keepin' me goin' was the thought of the beatin' we'd be givin' the bastard when we got our hands on 'im.

We came up onto the street, and gave the back of the Maison a thorough goings-over.  Still a fortress, if a gaudy one, and damnably tough nut to crack.  I was all for kickin' the door down, but the Pretty Man still wanted to talk, damn his eyes.

And it was just then that another foreigner came struttin' down the street.  Another damned Azikhanni, he was.  Long moustache, a dress even fancier than the Pretty Man's, and from the look on his face you could tell that he fancied himself the king of the world.

The two Bastards looked at each other, kinda uncomfortable, like they recognized the fellow.  And he walked right up and began gabblin' away at them in foreign talk, about Oroborous only knows what.  Maybe they were related, or somethin'...I dunno.  All I _do_ know is that the crazy bastard threw in his lot with us right then and there.

Justice, Gerard?  Maybe so, maybe so...that's what he claimed, at least.  Said he'd been in the place, not knowin' what kinda place it was, and had walked out all outraged.  Might even have been true...but I doubt it.  He didn't seem the sort to be concerned about an outrage like the Maison.  No, he was a trouble-maker, pure and simple.  That's what I called him, in fact. Trouble.

He gave me his name, sure.  But it was more Azikhanni gibble-gabble, and I couldn't be arsed to remember it.

But there they were, chattin' away like it was some kinda tea party, when someone called to us from the top floor of the Maison.  Wanted to know what we were about, and I gott admit that was a reasonable enough question.  It was Elspeth, the madame of the place, and she didn't sound in the least bit worried.

And the Prettty Man, he starts in with the threats right off.  "Give us Fancy," he tells her, polite as can be, "And we will let you live."  And the hell of it is, he _believed_ it, too.  You could tell. Like he could cut his way through the stone wall around the place, and right through the side of the building.

Maybe he could, even.  I wouldn't have been surprised.

They called back and forth for a while, and he managed to convince her that harborin' Fancy was a bad idea.  She didn't seem to take all that much convincin', to be honest...she musta known how many bridges he'd already burnt that night.

She wouldn't let the girl go, though.  Poor little Calliope.  Wouldn't budge on that, damn her.  But Fancy?  He was on his own.  She had him thrown out into the street, 'round the front.  Couldn't see it, but we could hear him complainin' about it.

And then...you won't believe it, friends.  Gods know, I didn't.  Still don't.

_The Bastards let Fancy go._

After all that, they let him walk.  Well, scamper...he took off like his arse was on fire.  But the principal's the same!  Man who wants them dead, the man they've chased across the damned world, a man who's set a dozen traps for them....

And they f----n' let him go.  Didn't even bother walkin' around front to see him off proper.

It's the dresses they wear, I think.  Let's too much air reach the privates, and that can't be good for a man.  Muddles their way of thinkin'.  There's no other answer.

Why did they let him go? Strange ways men in dresses got, and make no  mistake, though he wore tight pants while he led us on that merry chance through the Hell of Crabs and Meat-fishers, I just know Fancy's got a closet full of 'em. Low cut'n sequined.  Mark my words.

I'll give 'em this much, though: They still wanted to rescue the girl, and bring the Maison down.  So they ain't entirely morally bankrupt. Just crazy.

Trouble did some kinda magic, maybe the Bloody Archer vanish so that he could inflitrate the place from the rear.  The rest of us, we went around front to make some noise.  As a distraction, like.

The Pretty Man, he actually knocks on the door, still all polite. Truth be told, I wasn't even surprised this time around.  I was just kinda numb by this point.

They told us to bugger off, of course.  Guards might even have been laughin' at us.

Last damn mistake _they_ ever made.


----------



## shilsen

*More on Trouble*

The guy that Edouard so aptly named trouble is my PC, Meiji Kitsume. He's, shall we say, not exactly a typically heroic adventurer. For a little bit more of an introduction to the character, here's the background Mallus and I came up with for the character. Plus a little section on his personality:

*Background:*
Some people say that Meiji is a lying, suave scoundrel who will do anything for a woman and whose unreliability is the only  reliable thing about him. And then there are his enemies, who don't say much about him other than, "It's Meiji - kill the bastard!" 

That may sound a little mean, but unfortunately for Meiji, it's true. He is a bastard (in more ways than one). Meiji was born as the result of a short liaison between Master Voorae, second son of the noble house of [insert name], and a low-class young geisha called Reitha - or at least so his mother claimed. Young Meiji spent the first dozen years of his life growing up in the odd corners of the bordello Reitha called home. Though his life was more materially comfortable than that of many others (geishas make decent money), being the son of a geisha and the weediest child in his school made his life quite painful in other ways. Often picked upon by both socially superior and physically stronger children, Meiji took refuge in the combination of thick skin, a sardonic sense of humor and a keen wit. He also developed his one constant desire, a fascination with magic, which tales heard and the rare demonstration seen led him to believe could triumph over the physical strength which he did not possess.

With his background, Meiji's interest in magic could have remained a pipe dream if it were not for an unforeseen eventuality - Voorae ascending to the position of master of his House, aided less by natural ability and more by an abysmally undercooked plate of pork momos shared by his father and elder brother (Voorae was a little too squeamish to indulge in the time-honored art of poisoning his seniors). As soon as she heard of the event, Reitha dispatched her son to his 'father', hoping that Voorae would bestow at least some of his new-found wealth on his son. Instead, Meiji returned with a black eye and aching ribs. To his mother's surprise, Meiji was off the next day to his father's estate again. Reitha presumed her son was a little greedier than she had thought, but she was wrong. Meiji was simply certain that Voorae was the only path to the destiny he so craved.

After his guards administered the third consecutive beating to Meiji, the exasperated Voorae (whose aforementioned squeamishness kept Meiji alive) gave in and offered the young boy a substantial payment in return for never bothering him again. Instead of money, Meiji asked for simply the wherewithal to be trained in magic by an accomplished spellcaster. Voorae quickly agreed and had Meiji sent to the family Wu-Jen and Shugenja so that they could discover which path the boy was most suited for. The two spellcasters discovered that Meiji had almost equal potential for both arcane and divine magic. With the two masters unsure who should train the boy, Voorae (not really wishing to waste family resources on him) had Meiji sent to a traveling mystic who was reputed to have magical skills in both areas. To the partial surprise of all concerned, the mystic accepted Meiji on sight.

Meiji's new master was someone referred to as the Venerable Initiate into the Twin Mysteries of the Wu and Shu, but never to her face. She preferred to be called Little Wushu, and her outward appearance was that of a short, round, red-headed girl of about 16. She claimed to be 4000 years old. Which, if it were true, would make her roughly twice as old as the Empire (and human civilization). At other times she claimed to be from 'the future'. She also claimed to be cursed and that the outward signs of the curse include her flame-red hair, her unaging teenage body, and her pathological lying. Unsurprisingly, no respectable religious or scholarly body would have anything to do with her. Especially since she also claimed to be working on what she called her 'Grand Unified Theology', that would streamline the Empire's rather messy and baroque traditional belief system with, she said, a minimum of rhetoric and deicide. 

Meiji spent a half dozen years traveling with her, being trained as a shugenja but also learning some wu-jen magic and ways to manipulate all magical energies. Finally, at the age of twenty, Little Wushu claimed that Meiji had completed his apprenticeship and that she was bored with him. Armed with a headful of spells and the money he had earned and saved during their travels, Meiji departed from his master. After visiting his mother, he bestowed most of the money on her and then left. For the next four years, he gallivanted from place to place, developing his magical abilities and using them to gain some degree of wealth and a smidgin of fame (or rather, notoriety). 

*Personality:*
Meiji is not a bad guy. But then he's not really a good guy either. He just happens to care a lot about number one. Though he is not mean enough to harm people simply to benefit himself, neither is he altruistic enough to risk his neck except when it is likely to help him somehow. On the positive side, he has a ready wit and a keen intelligence, is a great drinking companion, very charismatic (especially with the ladies) when he wishes to exert himself, and a very versatile and creative spellcaster. On the negative side, he is an inveterate liar and a braggart, significantly lacking in self-control, and prone to get into trouble. Unknown to just about everyone, Meiji has a considerable lack of self-confidence. His upbringing and background have convinced him that he will always be picked upon, and he deals with this awareness by expressing an exaggerated confidence. Similarly, being a physical coward makes him stick his neck into danger with a feigned bravado. The relationship - or lack thereof - between his parents has ironically made him even more of a rake than his father, untrusting of romantic relations in particular and human relations in general. The fact that his temperament is extremely mercurial does not help matters. Hidden beneath his surface (even from himself), however, Meiji seeks desperately to find people who are willing to accept him for who he is and for his personal skills, rather than viewing him due to his background and past. In many ways, he is his own worst enemy.


----------



## Rolzup

Updates are going to be a little less frequent for a while; currently I am, in the immortal words of Shakespeare, busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest.  Updates shall continue, however!

*A Tragic Death*

Trouble was mutterin' somethin'; likely some kinda heathen magic. An'  the Pretty Man was standin' there fancin' the door, he was.  Calm as calm, not an expression on his face.   And then...the Pretty Man just _blurred_.  One minute there was a door, the next there were two halves of one.  Didn't even see the bastard move.

Had maybe a half-second to see the look on the guard's face -- and, oh, it was priceless! -- 'fore the Pretty Man sliced him up, just like the door.

Messier, though.  What with the guts an' all.

Pretty Man strode throught he door like he owned the place, and we followed along behind him, ready for blood.  And did we get it?  I should say so!  The guards came down on us hard, for all the good it did 'em.  There was all kinda runnin', and screamin', with people tryin' to escape out the back before  we slaughtered 'em all.

And I don't mind sayin', friends, that right then and there, I wouldn't have desitated.  Not for one minute.  Scum like that deserve death, and worse than death.

Now, the guards, they weren't much of a problem.  Me with my club, the Pretty Man with his sword, and the Archer, who'd come poundin' down the stairs as we came in, shootin' 'em from behind, we made short work of 'em.  And when Trouble called some kinda light out of the air, and blinded 'em all?  Fish in a barrel, they were.  But when we got to the lounge, that's when the spells started flyin', and things got a lot tougher.

Went pitch-black, first of all.  Like a wall of ink, it was.  Couldn't see your own hand in front of your face.  Made our job harder, but it didn't help the guards one damn bit either.  Trouble did us a good turn by breakin' the darkness somehow, revealin' that the Pretty Man had slipped on somethin' and fallen on his arse, but things just got worse from there.

The Diabolist doin' all the magic said a Word, and the Archer's bow just...exploded.  Splinters everywhere.  And the Archer?  From the look on his face, you'd think that he'd just witnessed the murder of his first-born son.  He drew a sword from somwhere, and you could tell that he was very ready to use it....

Then these tentacles came growin' up out of the floor, all black and rubbery and foul.  They were grabbin' at anything they could, but Duchess an' me were too nimble to be snared like that.  And the Pretty Man, he jumped up and pulled himself on to the balcony above, so's he could show some more guards his sword-work.  The Archer had gotten himself hit with a bag of goo, the same sort of stuff I use on the really _big_ rats, and had ducked into a side room to clean himself up.

And Trouble?  He just yelled a lot.

Duchess and me went up a spiral stair, and dealt with the bastards who tried to bar our way.  On our way, the Pretty Man went back down past us, shoved over the rail by one of them guards, and them tentacles grabbed hold of him.

It was close work there, for a while.  Duchess and me fought our ways along, and the Archer and the Pretty man  joined us soon enough. Trouble stayed caught, and truth be told?  I think that he liked it.

Oh, yes.  _You_ know the sort....

It was an ugly fight, I don't mind sayin'.  Elspeth had some kinda magic wand, and it was roarin' and throwin' balls of lead at us.  And the diabolist who'd conjured the tentacles, and the darkness?  No pushover, him.

He took off soon enough after Trouble got done layin' about, and set the bastard afire, though.

Elspeth, she's a hellcat.  And her skill with a rapier was remarkable to see, my friends.  She dropped the Archer, bleeding at her feet, but she knew damned well she didn't have a chance against me and the Pretty Man.  And especially me darlin' Duchess....

Trouble, he wanted to kill 'er right there.  Broil 'er, I think he said!  F----n' savage, he is.  Probably would have 'et her, too.

But the Pretty Man held up a hand, and started in to talkin' to her, real soft....


----------



## Rackhir

As of our next session (real time) Rackhir may finally be about to get revenge on Meiji for an incident that should be occuring in the next post or two. Looks like the bribe I brought back from Japan for the DM (Mallus) will be paying off. As Meiji will definitely be taking it "In the Face" for once....


----------



## shilsen

Rackhir said:
			
		

> As of our next session (real time) Rackhir may finally be about to get revenge on Meiji for an incident that should be occuring in the next post or two. Looks like the bribe I brought back from Japan for the DM (Mallus) will be paying off. As Meiji will definitely be taking it "In the Face" for once....



 Yeah, yeah - didn't anybody ever tell you not to count your shugenja before they're energy drained?


----------



## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> As of our next session (real time) Rackhir may finally be about to get revenge on Meiji for an incident that should be occuring in the next post or two.



Are you foregloating, Rackhir?



> As Meiji will definitely be taking it "In the Face" for once....



As a matter of fact, right in the kisser.

Status update: Rolzup's been very busy, but he swears he'll start on the next installment sometime next week. In the meantime, I'll get some setting information, and perhaps a few annecdotes ready for posting.


----------



## Rackhir

Mallus said:
			
		

> Are you foregloating, Rackhir?




No, in fact I plan to make every effort to TALK her out of it.

"No."

<Gets a manicure>

"Don't"

<Has Hair cut>

"Stop"

<Watches extended Editions of all 3 LOTR Movies>

etc...


----------



## Rackhir

Rolzup promises to get back to updating this soon. 

Last nights session had some memorable lines.

Unfortunately, Rackhir's sense of responsibility kicked in and Meiji didn't meet the fate he so richly deserves. But on the upside for the first time in a couple of sessions, Rackhir wasn't almost beaten to death. Though he did sustain his usual substantial amount of damage.


----------



## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Unfortunately, Rackhir's sense of responsibility kicked in and Meiji didn't meet the fate he so richly deserves.



I admit to being a little surprised...



> But on the upside for the first time in a couple of sessions, Rackhir wasn't almost beaten to death.



I needed another round...


----------



## shilsen

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Unfortunately, Rackhir's sense of responsibility kicked in and Meiji didn't meet the fate he so richly deserves.




You might as well just admit it - Rackhir is really fond of Meiji. And he gives Rackhir's life meaning. Every time Rackhir's about to go down, he can tell himself, "No - I have to see Meiji die first."



> But on the upside for the first time in a couple of sessions, Rackhir wasn't almost beaten to death. Though he did sustain his usual substantial amount of damage.




Plus he got to leave a 2 foot tall spellcaster fighting hand-to-hand with the bad guy while he ran off. That's got to count for something.


----------



## Rackhir

Mallus said:
			
		

> I admit to being a little surprised...





			
				Shilsen said:
			
		

> You might as well just admit it - Rackhir is really fond of Meiji. And he gives Rackhir's life meaning. Every time Rackhir's about to go down, he can tell himself, "No - I have to see Meiji die first."




Is it too late to let her drain him after all?



			
				Shilsen said:
			
		

> Plus he got to leave a 2 foot tall spellcaster fighting hand-to-hand with the bad guy while he ran off. That's got to count for something.




You mean the guy with 9 less HP than I've got and a 6 point higher AC? He charged into melee, after I'd retreated from the Vrock, after it'd knocked me down to about 18 hp. But I can see where you'd get confused. Meiji didn't have a very good view trying to hide behind your would be paramour.


----------



## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Is it too late to let her drain him after all?



You'll have to wait until Malgrazia II: This Time its Deadly Personal...

She'll be back.


----------



## shilsen

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Is it too late to let her drain him after all?
> 
> 
> 
> You mean the guy with 9 less HP than I've got and a 6 point higher AC? He charged into melee, after I'd retreated from the Vrock, after it'd knocked me down to about 18 hp. But I can see where you'd get confused. Meiji didn't have a very good view trying to hide behind your would be paramour.



 Sticks and stones may break Meiji's bones but first you have to hit his AC. Have I ever denied that Meiji is a spineless coward? First PC I've ever got to run whose preferred tactical option while healing an unconscious person is to actually use said unconscious person as cover. If you want to mock Meiji, get in line. I've been doing that since I created the PC.



			
				Mallus said:
			
		

> You'll have to wait until Malgrazia II: This Time its Deadly Personal...
> 
> She'll be back.




I'm looking forward to it. Especially since her last conscious memories are of Meiji tenderly healing her and Rackhir shooting her full of holes.


----------



## Mallus

shilsen said:
			
		

> Especially since her last conscious memories are of Meiji tenderly healing her and Rackhir shooting her full of holes.



There is that, yes...

I didn't specify _who_ she'll get deadly personal with.


----------



## ledded

Just ran across this SH today, and I'm loving it so far, I dig your style and sense of humor.  Very good stuff, I'll keep this one high on my radar for those semi-rare occasions when I get to pop on here and read a story hour.


----------



## Nephtys

What ledded said.


----------



## Rackhir

An old Email from Rolzup to tease you with.



			
				Rolzup said:
			
		

> *I take the day off and go to the Zoo, and what happens?  An explosion of e-mails.
> 
> Oh, Burne's going to be delighted with you people, he surely is.*
> 
> "Let me see if I understand.  You lost the Madman, picked up some kind of conjurer and a...ratcatcher, was it?  Lovely, I'm sorry to have missed *that*.  But you lost them, too, correct?  And then found another of your savage countrymen -- no offense, you -- and gathered him to your collective bosoms?
> 
> "Very well, very well.  You caught Fancy, and then let him get away for some inexplicable reason?  Made a deal with a brothel owner and adopted a child?
> 
> "I can't claim to understand any of this, but I can at least accept it.  But to know that you burned a building down and didn't tell me about it first?
> 
> "That hurts, gentlemen.  It really does."


----------



## Rolzup

Well, obviously The Very Best of Intentions wasn't enough to make me capable of updating regularly.  Real life interfered, yatta yatta, whine whine, complain complain.

In short, I'll be aiming for AT LEAST one update a week from here on out, assuming that things stay pretty stable.  Which they should. 

And so, let us return to where we left out intrepid heroes...about to burn down a brothel.

*****

*Edouard's Exit*

You wouldn't think, if you'd seen him with his sword in hand, that the Pretty Man had such a way with words.  It struck me again, listenin' to him talk Elsepth into surrenderin' to us...and then into givin' up her immoral lifestyle and leavin' town forever.

She needed to cover her tracks, mind.  So mum's the word, you lot! Any of you spread this about, you'll have Duchess to answer to!  Any of you want that?

No?

Thought not.

Now, Elspeth bein' a practical sort of lady, she had some kind of nasty elixir that would do a nice job of burnin' the Maison flat. Conflammatory somethin' or other.  Real effective, whatever it was -- place was a bloody inferno in no time flat, so it was.  Ever seen stone burn?  Looks pretty, actually...sorta bluish-purple flames.

We had a few minutes to do some...ah...shoppin' first, you understand. Found me a real nice paintin' of a boat, and it'll look a treat over me mantle.  Not much else worth takin' home, really.  Not for a man of taste, like meself.  Half of the pictures were of boats and such, and the other half were half-naked men...dressed kinda like the Pretty Man, actually...with half naked boys.  Elspeth, she had some peculiar tastes

Now, of course we took the girl with us.  Most of the others had already fled, and I hope that they found somewhere better to flee _to_.  Kinda doubt it, really, but nothin' wrong with hope.

Joachim took charge of Calliope, and it was a damned good thing.  He needed somethin' to focus on, take his mind off the night that had just passed and the madmen that he'd spent it with.  With Joachim leadin' her by the hand, I led 'em all back into the sewers, so we could make some distance from the Maison without bein' seen.

The girl was chatterin' away all the while, and I won't deny that it was a good thing to hear.  Didn't seem as badly off as I would've thought; guess ol' "Magic Wand" really did do her some good.

I kept my distance, I did.  Kept far enough in front of 'em that they could see me, but not so close that I could hear what they were talkin' about.  I'd had my fill of them.  _More_ than my fill, truth be told.  I wanted to see them well on their way, so I could back to honest, simple rat-catching.

Said my farewells once I'd found a safe enough place to return to the surface, and maybe they even said some in return.  Don't much matter; I know better than to expect manners from the likes of the Four Crazy Bastards....


----------



## Rolzup

Edouard sighed as he finished his drink.  He added his glass to the tower that had formed upon the bar, and shook his head a little sadly.

"And that's that, friends.  That's how I met the Four Crazy Bastards, and actually lived to tell about it.  And if I'm very, very lucky? I'll never see any of them again."

The Pig and Pterodon was silent, save for the faintly horrifying sound of Duchess slurping her drink.

"Damn," Gerard ventured at last.  "Gods *damn*, Edouard! That's...you...they...well, how the bloody hells are people like that allowed to walk the streets, eh?  We've got ourselves a civilized society, don't we?"

The ratcatcher snorted.  "Civilized?  Depends on your definition, dunnit?  And why do 'they', whoever they hells 'they' are, let the bastards do as they do?  I'll answer that with a question of me own, friend.

"Who's gonna stop 'em?"

He looked from face to face, each subject of his gaze glancing away in turn.  Gerard, mumbling something, lost himself in polishing a glass.

"Who's gonna stop 'em?" Edouard repeated softly.  "Not I.  I like me head attached, and me heart still beatin'.  "And do you think the Gondoliers will do it?  Not bloody likely, not so long as they keep killin' scum like Fancy. If not them, who else? You think the Knights Exemplar will come riding out of Eris to stop them? Not bloody likely. Even if they did, the Bloody Archer'd just stand there shooting, probably take a lance right in the mouth and start picking his teeth with it. And the Pretty Man'd just leap a full fifteen hands over the horse and knock the knight's head into the gutter. One by one they'd go down. 

"Who else? The Society of Friends? Only if the Four Crazy Bastards start running slaves. And they aren't the type. Quite the opposite, really. Maybe the CITY Watch? Ah, watch yerself Gerard. You snort in one person's tankard and pretty soon everyone be wantin' sometin' extra. How about the Priest-Kings of Hannikum, maybe they'll come and pray 'em to death. Or stab 'em with their glass knives. Either way, I'd still bet on the Bastards, though.

"Maybe the Lovesworn will find them all wives. Soothe the savage beasts, eh? But maybe they already got wives. Scary thought, eh? And some whelps, too. There's sometin' to keep a workin' man up at night. You can almost picture the schoolyard full of bullies with their heads cut off and bodies all apierced with little arrows."

He paused, shaking his head blearily.  "And if a few innocents get caught in the crossfire, well?  Who's going to care if the likes of me, or Gerard, or Chattelsworth there, get ourselves killed, eh?

"Nobody, that's bloody who."

"But they didn't," offered the Rukh tentatively.  "Kill anybody they shouldn't, I mean.  Did they?  Sounded to me like everyone who died f-----g well deserved it, you ask me."

Edouard shrugged.  "Maybe so, maybe so.  Maybe all those fellows the Pretty Man sliced up in the back room of the Dancehall deserved to die.  They struck the first blow, sure as sure.  And maybe they didn't.  Maybe they were just tryin' to defend a...a lady, of sorts, from a crazy bastard with a sword.

"Ain't my question to answer, I'll admit.  But I'll tell you this much...do I think that the Pretty Man would have hesitated to cut _me_ down, if I'd tried to stop him?"

He snapped his fingers, causing Duchess to look up sharply.  "No, sir, he wouldn't have.  Not for one second.  I've looked into his eyes, friends.

"It wasn't anything human that looked back.  It was death, plain as plain."

Swaying slightly, Edouard pushed himself to his feet.  "Come along, Duchess," he said gently.  With a snort, the rat dropped to the floor and shook herself.  "I'm to bed," the ratcatcher murmured, not speaking to anyone in particular.  "Been a long damned night, so it has."

With a tip of his hat, he turned on his heel.  Light spilled into the bar for a moment, before the door swung shut behind them.

"Gods *damn*," Gerard said again, quietly.


----------



## shilsen

And he's back!

Yeah, baby!


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Good to see you back in the saddle, Rolzup. Keep 'em coming ...


----------



## Richard Rawen

That was such a cool way to tell the tale of the adventure, loved it!


----------



## pogre

Yay! Welcome back.


----------



## Mallus

*From a children's book about CITY...*

“Let me make this as clear as possible. I’m writing this for the money, specifically, to pay for my last great expedition, in which I’m going to sail beyond the edge of the world. Into the past; thus proving the world is, in fact,  a tesseract. Can you say ‘tesseract’, boys and girls? I thought not. 

  -- Captain Vasco de Texaco, from the unused introduction to “So Many Cities: A Children’s Urban Studies Primer”, Junior War College Press, Eris:CITY , MSY 261.


*“B”* is for Bessho. Bessho is a city full of temples. And monkeys! Do you like temples? I bet you like monkeys. The monkeys in Bessho walk and talk. Some even wear hats! They are called Hannu. Would you like one for pet, I mean ‘friend’? Hannu make great ‘friends’. But don’t get too close, or you’ll get fleas. “B” is also for bamboo. Bessho is in the middle of a bamboo forest. It’s a pretty forest. Except for all the monkey .


*“E”* is for Eris. Eris is the mightiest city in CITY. It was the capital of the Gate Builder Empire. The Avenue of Gates is in Eris. From there you can walk to all of CITY. What other words begin with ‘e’? “Excellent” and “eternal”! These words describe Eris best. Some people say “evil” and “empire” describe Eris best. Those people should be put in chains.


*“G” *is for Gallina. Gallina is a city in a volcanic crater! Who would build a city there? What if it erupts? What if it rains? Where would all the water go? Gallina is also called ‘Gallina i’Arco” which means “Gallina is all wet”. The men in Gallina are something called “gallant”. That means they like to talk too much, wear flouncy blouses, and fight with thin little swords. What do we call men who do that? That’s right children, women. Gallina is the home of the Guild of the Gondoliers. They ride around in little boats and stick their noses into everybody’s business. What do we do to nosy people in Eris, children? That’s right, we order our guards to cut the nosy folks noses right off. Can you order that ten times fast?  


*“H” *is for Hannikum. Hannikum is a big city. In a big jungle. Full of big dinosaurs. So many dinosaurs that the people of Hannikum built huge towers topped with fires around their city to scare the dinosaurs away. 
Hannikum is ruled by a priest-king. They only have one god, because they are poor. But they have a lot of faith. And they have too many people. So guess what they throw on the fires?  


*“L”* is for Ling-Garah. Ling-Garah is a city made of gardens. Big gardens, little gardens. So many gardens. Gardens full of delicious things to eat. And delicious things to smoke. And delicious things to put in your enemies food when they aren’t looking. The Garahjah live there. They are a race made of gardeners.  When they talk to their plants, the plants listen to them. This is fortunate, because no-one else does. 


*“M”* is for Marimbra. Marimbra is a desert city. It’s in an oasis at the edge the Lassantees Wastes. Marimbra is the home of the Shirac people. Oh silly me, I mean ‘that degenerate witch-race called the Shirac”. Can you say all of that, children? Don’t worry, you will one day. The Shirac are traders. In tapestries. And cheap glass that glows. And talking pots. And singing swords. All kinds of magic junk. The Shirac say they are all going to leave this world one day because they’re moving to Heaven. Good riddance!


*“N”* is for Narayan. Narayan is a port city. Merchants from all over the world sail there. That means Narayan is full of sailors and moneychangers and whores! Not too mention lawyers. Do you know what “scruples” are, children? Neither do the people in Narayan. Narayan is home to many of CITY’s gods. Because the rent is cheap, and the people are gullible. There are a lot of temple in Narayan. In them you can buy justice, and love, and pocket-watches, and sweet honey cakes. In some you can even pray.


*“O”* is for Osamu-Ishii. Osamu-Ishii is very beautiful. And very far away. It might be beautiful because it’s very far away and we can’t get a good look at it. Osamu is one city on many little islands, all connected by Gates. It is very warm and the water in very blue. The locals are small and brownish. They wear grass skirts and make cute things out of coconuts. Because they don’t know any better. Osamu is also home to many people from the Three Islands of Ajakhan. Ajakhani are also small and brownish-yellow. They like to wear robes and submit to powerful people and kill themselves. Sometimes the Ajakhani lay claim to the Osamu Islands. This proves they have a sense of humor. 


*“P”* is for Parvishta. Parvishta is the tallest mountain in the world. It’s also a city on that mountain. The city is full of Yeti. Yeti are big furry monsters who like to wear pants and smoke cigarettes. They were taught to do this by their god, Nadanya. Yeti also like to mine ice from the glacier above the city. They were taught to do this by humans armed with long pikes. People also mine gold, and silver and iron from the mountain. People in Parvishta are very rich. Unless they’re very poor. Or dead from exposure.


“U” is for Ulum Dreii. “U” is also for “unlawful”. And “undesirable”. And “ugly”. Can you see where I’m going with this, children? That’s right, the city of Ulum Dreii was once a big prison! When a whole city is used as a prison it’s called a ‘penal colony”, because it’s full of hard-up men. Ulum Dreii sits on the Bay of Prigs on the Island of Howling Ghost Monkeys. What are Howling Ghost Monkeys? Pray you never find out. Today Ulum Dreii is a thriving port and home to the finest children of criminals in all of CITY


----------



## Richard Rawen

Heh, I really enjoy your imagination. You have come up with more ways to provide information about the story-world than I've ever seen in any format. The variety of author-voice makes the individual excerpts that much more interesting, but in the end we have one more piece for the puzzle that is CITY.
Thanks for your time, looking forward to further adventures of the Crazy Bastages =)


----------



## pogre

Hear! Hear!


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: The Incredibly Sad Story of Not-So-Innocent Calliope and her Hapless, Priest- Abused Addict Mother*

They steal through the alleyways away from the burning ruin of Maison Chatons. The House of Kittens is no more. They walk quickly in a near-silence punctuated only by cries for the fire brigade and the soft voices of a numb little girl and a wise monkey speaking.

"That's what you mean by 'play'.... little Calliope?!", exclaims Dr. Wu, his tails darting between his legs, which Kenji and Meiji immediately recognize as the Varana gesture indicating extreme embarrassment or fear of the Thunder Spirits. "No, no, no, a thousand times no. I do *not* wish to play with you. Wait... do not look so sad. You are a most beautiful blossom. And you are a most pleasing.... height."

At this point Dr. Wu realizes that everyone else is staring at him. With the poise of a scholar on trial for heresy, he continues.

"I wish only to help you. And perhaps.... ask some questions".

"Like the Shirac man did?" says Calliope.

"Can't you let her be!" interjects Joachim, Acolyte Priest of Kreutzel of the Immovable Feast.

Wu ignores him. "Like the Shirac. Wait... there was no touching... yes?"

"He brushed his fingers across my forehead."

"Most intriguing, a use of their Wu, no doubt".

"Then he asked me about my mother. Her name was Harmony. She's dead now."

"Most sad... rest assured that her spirit has..."

"Been eaten".

"Pardon me?"

Joachim states daggers, or perhaps unusually sharp shrimp forks, into an oblivious Dr. Wu.

"My mother always said that when she died the bad bishop would catch her soul and gobble in up like a sweet tart. He ate up all his favorites. Only left the bones, and he cracked them open and sucked out the marrow."

Wu shakes visibly, in the manner of his kind, lacking the ability to turn pale.

Calliope continues. "People think the Bishop only ed children. But he did more to his favorites. He'd start with little play-bites. He hungered in so many ways. He was always hungry, in his secret place beneath the orphanage."

"Orphanage?" asks Wu in a breathless and empty voice.

Joachim answers in an equally spent tone, "She means the old monastery that Han Oi Xian bought in Little Ajakhan, the one that King Daikon is using as a farmer's market. It was an orphanage then. And Sebastien Babulaba was never a bishop. The news of his crimes broke right before he was elevated".

Joachim has trouble looking Calliope in the eyes, but does so. She has no trouble meeting his gaze. "Child, I know that evil man hurt children, but there was no evidence that he..."

Before he can complete his sentence, Calliope says, "Because he 'et them. They never found his secret place. He killed all his favorites before the CITY watch got him. Everyone except my mother."

Joahcim says dumbly, "The authorities would have found out. The CITY Watch used Shirac mind-witches.  It was a well-publicized scandal. Eveyone *knew*. 

"Not like my mother. She got away and she hid. In wine. And opium. And singlemind. And Phorphyre threads. And men..."

Wu looks up, eyes bright with curiosity, "Ahh.... that might hide her from Shirac witches." Wu hurriedly says, "Ah, young misused flower, I think that's enough for now."

"Do you want to know what the Shirac man asked me?"

"Yes, very much so." says Wu, obviously forgetting what he had just said.

"Nadir asked me if I'd ever met a spirit. I didn't what he was talking about, but then he touched my head, and all I could think about was the nice genie in Reverend Donatello's wand. Don is nice to me. He gives me beer and honey cakes, and then his genie makes the hurt go away. She's nice too. Her name is Salomalle."

"She's always hungry, too. But in a good way. She's hungry for the things that hurt me. Like remembering a bad night or a bad men. Or when I start to like what I do."

"Enough child. Quiet now", says Wu. He says in Imperial, "No wonder Han Oi Xian felt restless spirits in that accursed place. It is no wonder he bound the Shu of the Air into paper lanterns. That was the correct action. But I doubt it was enough."

Meiji has been listening intently to the exchange, with his expression turning progressively grim. When Dr. Wu finishes, Meiji asks in Imperial, "As Little Wushu say - what the ?! Who is this Babulaba bastard, and can we blow him up?"

"Sadly, no, Meiji", says Joachim. "Sebastian Babulaba was found guilty in the Courts Absolute and executed twenty years ago. All that remains is the home for children he built. And, if this child's speaks truly, what lies beneath it."


----------



## Rackhir

Mallus said:
			
		

> ... the nice genie in Reverend Donatello's wand. Don is nice to me. He gives me beer and honey cakes, and then his genie makes the hurt go away. She's nice too. Her name is Salomalle."




So Mallus, when you created the Don "Magic Wand" character were you familiar with Don Magic Juan or was it just "art" imitating life.


----------



## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> So Mallus, when you created the Don "Magic Wand" character were you familiar with Don Magic Juan



Of course.

I was wondering if anyone was going to get that.


----------



## Rolzup

Mallus said:
			
		

> Of course.
> 
> I was wondering if anyone was going to get that.




God knows, _I_ didn't....


----------



## Rolzup

*The Glorious Return of Burne*

Some men are born to greatness.  Others have it thrust upon them.  And some? Some stride forth boldly, seize greatness by its collar, shove it up against a wall, pull down its trousers, and show it who is in charge around here.

It should surprise no-one that Burne is just such a man.

ACTUALLY, MOST PEOPLE WOULD BE SURPRISED TO LEARN THAT BURNE IS A _MAN_ AT ALL, ANY LONGER.  GIVEN THE WAY HE EXPERIMENTS WITH PHLOGISTONIC INCINDIARIES WEARING NOTHING BUT A SHORT RED ROBE.

My special training went surpassingly well, as I had anticipated, and while I am unable to divulge the details of what this training entailed...well, suffice to say that, once again, I proved my mettle beyond all shadow of a doubt, and earned a long-overdue commission as an detached agent for the Naval Office of Special Intelligence and Applied Conflagrational Activities.

"DETACHED" MEANING THAT THE NAVY CAN AND WILL DISAVOW ANY RESPONSIBILITY IF HE BLOWS UP SOMETHING IMPORTANT.  OR SOME_ONE_.

And so, with head held high, I returned to civilian life, determined to discover how many of my followers had managed to get themselves killed in my absence.  Both of the foreigners, much to my despair, were still breathing. Far worse, they'd collected another of their ilk, a self-styled mystic named Meiji.

Barbarous name, that.  And an only slightly less barbarous individual.  Oh, he carried himself well enough, I suppose...if your tastes run to men in dresses, which mine most assuredly do not.  Far too arrogant for my tastes, however, and he consistently fails to show his superior, which is to say myself, the proper deference.  And his magic?  Mere frippery and pictograms, unworthy of serious consideration.

Be that as it may, their adoption of yet another stray was only the first of their crimes.  More importantly, they managed to lose the Madman.

How they managed this, I cannot even begin to imagine.  He's a large fellow, and emits enough sound and odor that even a blind man could easily track him.  Nevertheless, he was gone...vanished, apparently, into thick air.

And the hours I had spent practicing dissection techniques? Wasted.

And the final insult?  They committed arson.

_Without Burne._

Oh, they attempted to deny it.  But to no avail...the signs and scents of a burning building were all too clear to me, and the very idea that they would indulge is such an activity without a connoisseur such as myself? Unthinkable.  Insulting, even.

I should mention they also rescued a child prostitute from the Maison before igniting it, though "rescued" might be too generous a word. What they did falls somewhere between a "random act of kindness", "involuntary adoption", and "kidnapping with the option to buy". I shudder to think what kind of parenting skills the Ajakhani posses, though Lord Kenji knows a great deal about dresses and Rackhir could teach her all he's learned of the fine art of listening to what men tell him to do.

It may fall to me to raise her properly. Equip her for the rigors of CITY life. Perhaps by adding an exoskeleton...

IF HE SO MUCH AS LAYS A CALIPER ON HER I WILL SPRAY HIS COFFEE WITH MERCURY.

Where were we? Ah yes, over the course of the next few days I became reacquainted with the situation. Delphine's father was keeping her locked in the family estate, safe from her rightful husband, not to mention the gentleman alchemist responsible for reuniting them and thus so richly deserving of reward.

BY ALL MEANS DON"T MENTION THAT.

What communications we _did_ manage with the Lady Delphine via her maidservants were obviously  --to a man such as myself-intercepted and no doubt censored.

A MAN SHARP ENOUGH TO NOTICE SHE DIDN'T ACTUALLY MEET US WHEN SHE SAID SHE WOULD.

Fearing what a controlling father might do to a spirited daughter who married below her station, on my suggestion...

ACTUALLY IT WAS RACKHIR'S

...we once again employed the services of the wastrel Lovesworn, Mallus, as a means of tracking Delphine's whereabouts, using her husbands love for her as a lodestone.

So it was on the 4th day since my glorious, much deserved, nay, _inevitable_ induction into the MCSDF Detached Officers Corps, we found ourselves all at the farmers market that King Daikon Had set up on the sadly storied grounds of Han Oi Xian's dye dye works, which was formerly the site of a Temple of Kruetzel where atrocities where witnessed on children, and before that a temple of The Most Violent Women of the Sea, the dreaded Stormdaughters of Pentamoor. Quite frankly. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if an inverted pyramid of Night Basalt once stood on the spot.

HE BURNED PATHWAYS INSIDE MY SKULL CASE, USING MOLTEN IRON, THAT PREVENT ME FROM EDITING HIS WORDS.

When Lord Kenji spotted the invisible bird circling above, using his macabre, ocular dagger. Thus began our first proper encounter with the Adversary.


----------



## shilsen

I liked Edouard's tone and Burne's, well, we all know what Burne's is, but this update reminded me how much of this story hour's appeal is due to Abraxis.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

shilsen said:
			
		

> I liked Edouard's tone and Burne's, well, we all know what Burne's is, but this update reminded me how much of this story hour's appeal is due to Abraxis.




Very true. Though you can't deny that Burne has a lovely turn of phrase as well ...



			
				Rolzup said:
			
		

> Some men are born to greatness. Others have it thrust upon them. And some? Some stride forth boldly, seize greatness by its collar, shove it up against a wall, pull down its trousers, and show it who is in charge around here.




Where else would you get such an exquisite taste in metaphor?


----------



## Mallus

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Where else would you get such an exquisite taste in metaphor?



Pornography?


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Yesterday at The Chapel of Love*

“Did you ever wonder why our confessionals have the little slot at waist level?”

“No.”

Donatello Pazzi de Gallina, better known on the Street of Costs as the Right Reverend Don Magic Wand, known for his flashy robes, plentiful gold-seeming chains, and the sweetly-soft murmuring of his magic wand that coos at passersby from the vicinity of his belt, sighs loudly and leans back against the white plaster wall of his place of worship. It’s been a slow afternoon.

“The Chapel wasn’t always a temple to the Saint of Aces. It was originally consecrated to Belli, the Lord of Law, and doubled as a kind of municipal courthouse. In those days the confessionals were actually used to hear confessions, though why anyone ever used them is beyond me, since Belli only forgives crimes through punishment.”

Metierre, the so-called Deacon of Debt-Collection, idly checks his concealed knives with an absent brush of his hand.

“Back then, when a man gave testimony, he didn’t swear on a holy book or an idol; he swore on his sack. It’s like he was saying “If I’m lying may god strike me in the junk. The slot was there so the priest could see if a man was holding his stones.”

“What if it’s a lady?”

"If it was a lady there'd be no touching stones until there was a ring on her finger.  Now…at some point the building fell into the well-manicured hands of the Church of Aja, Satisfaction Be Upon Her.” The Reverend makes a small, circular gesture with his forefinger. “They probably had no idea what a confessional _was_. To them, “confessing” means “gossiping”, usually while lying on silken pillows, eating laudanum-filled bonbons, and getting their feet rubbed by “eunuchs” who somehow managed to avoid The Big Snip.”

Metierre lets his boss talk, polishing the grease on his brass knuckles with additional grease from his thumb.

“Noting the placement of the slot, the Sisters of Desire finally hit on a novel usage that still
involved a sinner on one side of the booth and a person of the ecclesiastical persuasion on the other. In honor of the former owners they called ‘em “justice holes”. I don’t think the Church of Belli got the joke.”

A giant cupping a keg of ale in its mammoth hand ambles by. The walls of the Chapel of Love shake, which stops the Reverend’s reverie, but only for a moment.

“After the Sisters got run out of the neighborhood, the property changed hands a few more times before I bought it. Now you have to be careful when you buy in Narayan. It’s hard to find anything that didn’t once to belong to a church. So odds are you’re buying consecrated land. Sure, the seller’s supposed to deconsecrate it first, but all it takes is a little bribe to the Department of Licensing and Exorcism.”

“Hey boss….”

“Know that empty lot down on Mordant Circle? It used to be a barbarian cathedral dedicated to the Sky-Father. It got ransacked during the Troubles and then went condo. A year later it was blasted to flinders by lightening. Coincidence?”

“Boss….”

“Just to be on the safe side, the first week we were open I picked a wino’s pocket in the narthex and had the altar washed with the tears of a forty year old virgin.”

“Boss, I think I see someone.”

“Of course you do, man! That giant was 15 feet tall if he was an inch. Now…what was I was saying?  Ah, you see, Narayan is a city of business. And what’s the oldest business in the world? That’s right, religion. So this city is just lousy with faith…”

“Boss, I think he’s invisible....” Metierre grabs for a knife.

“The bread you buy from a street vendor was likely baked in one of Kruetzel’s ovens by a man made of fire. Visit a moneychanger and you’ll feel the Invisible Hand of Mr. Spidergod pushing down on the scales. It’s getting so you can’t spill your seed on a harlot without having it glow as it’s transformed into grace by Aja’s miracle of the Trampsubstantiation...”

Someone puts the Reverend’s soul in a vice grip. He stops talking.  Metierre tries to throw a knife. He’s stopped by an unseen glance.

The invisible man grabs the paralyzed Donatello Pazzi and hauls him, unceremoniously, into his church. Inside, Richard, the bravest of the so-called Altar Boys, tries to draw his blackjack and is frozen where he stands.

Nadir Akmad-Medhi, a Shirac mind-witch and Renuciate of the Miir Valley School, carries Donatello back to the confessional. Dropping the priest like a sack, he takes his magic wand. Donatello can only watch dumbly as the Shirac magician speaks a single word; “Salomalle.”

The succubus inside the wand manifests herself in a shower of longing and cold sparks. Nadir and Salomalle converse in a language that suggests rutting and other more violent mortifications of the flesh.

For the first time in his life the Reverend thinks, “I should have learned Infernal”.

Done with his business, Nadir sends the demon back into the wand. With a manner almost suggesting respect, he returns the wand to the supine priest and then departs.


----------



## Bloodcookie

Brilliant, as always


----------



## Richard Rawen

Mmmm... tasty background bits...


----------



## Rackhir

We are coming up on the first character death in the campaign. 

[start soothing music]As stress and nervous tension are now serious problems, I will reveal that the character does get better. However another character's upper arm will be brused as well and in order to preserve a sense of excitement and suspense, who's upper arm will not be revealed...[end soothing music]


----------



## Mallus

The music you should be queuing is "Start Me Up" by the Rolling Stones...

In addition to character death... coming soon...

...Demons!
...Romance!
...Ninja!
...Cake!


----------



## Rolzup

*Rackhir, The Dead Archer*

So.  There I stood, surrounded by foreigners of the most disreputable sort, watching a shamanistic greengrocer give orders to a musical giant.

I wish that I could claim that this was somehow unusual, but alas...this seems to be the sort of pattern into which my life has fallen.  It is a tremendous burden to bear, being the sole voice of rationality when all around you is silk-clad madness...but I endure, stoically.  Because that is the kind of man that Burne, is.  An Erisian, an Alchemist.  And, I daresay, a hero.

I REALLY DON'T NEED TO SAY ANYTHING HERE, DO I?

In any case, we had come to the monastary to look into this alleged "hidden chamber" that the child Calliope had spoken of.  Daikon knew nothing of this, and had found no such place in his investigations of the grounds.  He had, however, found that the spirits which he claimed haunted the building were oddly silent in some areas.  Specifically, it was a part of the courtyard of the monastery that was this "dead zone".

The solution was clear.  Destruction was the answer, as it so often is.  As my lackies had done inside to speak with Daikon, I took it upon myself to deal with the situation.  I  suggested to the Tenor that he try moving the statue of the Late-and-not-in-the-least-lamented Bishop first and foremost, and then perhaps using it as a club to demolish the second statue.  An act of chiefly symbolic value, and one that I found morally appropriate.

MORALS DON'T ENTER INTO IT.  HE WAS MUTTERING "SMASHY-SMASHY!", AND RUBBING HIS HANDS TOGETHER.

The Tenor did, in fact, move the statue.  Not without some effort, mind.  And that was, perhaps, the last thing that went as I had planned.  The movement of the statue cracked the masonry around its pedestal and revealed a small metal door, marked with some sort of
rune, flush with the paving-stones.

I called forth an order, and the foreign contingent rushed to my side.

HE SENT ME TO FETCH THEM.  I SAID "PLEASE".  BURNE NEVER DOES.

We considered the rune for a time.  None of them had anything constructive to offer, although Daikon, Meiji, and Wu took the opportunity to once more display their ignorance of the workings of higher magic.

Kenji, on the other hand, had been staring at the sky.  Possibly composing a poem, or considering a flower arrangement, or something similar.  Just this once, his effeminate concerns proved useful, as he discerned (largely because of the dagger Squint) an invisible hawk circling high above the courtyard.

On the instant, I knew exactly what this meant.  We'd seen this hawk before, and it could only mean that its master, this Nadir Medhi fellow, was somewhere nearby.

I was unsure why Nadir was spying on us in such a fashion.  An interest in architecture, perhaps?  A hunger for fresh radish?  Curiosity over what would become of the place now that Xian was gone?  But of course!  Nadir was espying none other than Burne the Magnificent, eager to learn what my next marvelous creation would be! Probably in the hopes of being able to create some cheap crystal knockoff to sell in Marimbra.

OR, MAYBE, THE HIDDEN SHRINE THAT LITTLE CALLIOPE HAD TOLD US ABOUT? THE SAME CALLIOPE THAT NADIR HAD SPOKEN TO ONLY DAYS EARLIER?  BURNE'S MIND WAS CONSUMED BY HIS GENIUS. ALL THAT'S LEFT IS A FINE GRAY ASH. THAT CAN BE FOUND ON THE BACK OF HIS COLLAR.

Whatever it was, he soon discovered more than he had bargained for....

Without hesitation, I promptly used the Engine to fire a cloud of Burne's Luminescent Motes into the air, revealing the previously invisible hawk.  

And Nadir, clearly a coward, refused to present himself.

ACTUALLY, NADIR ASKED HIM IF THE SPELL WAS MEANT AS A CHALLENGE.  BURNE SPENT THE NEXT SEVERAL MINUTES EVADING THE QUESTION, AND SEEKING THE EXACT DEFINITION OF "CHALLENGE" LEST HE TAKE THE HIMSELF TO ANYTHING DANGEROUS.

Nadir, curiously, took my simple working as an act of hostility, and demanded that I remove the effect.

Naturally, I refused.

IN OTHER WORDS, HE COULDN'T.

A moment later, I found an arrow lodged in my duodenum.  It smarted a little.

YOU SHOULD HAVE HEARD HIM SHRIEK.  IT WAS...GLORIOUS.

Oddly enough, it had been fired by Rackhir.  Who, despite being both foreign and terribly accident-prone, is generally a reasonable sort of fellow.  For, and I cannot stress this enough, a foreigner.

Before I could respond in kind, Meiji used his "arts" to paralyze the archer, who had apparently fallen under Nadir's control.  Nadir, for his part, once more demanded that I remove the spell upon his witch-hawk.

Meiji chose this moment to begin taunting Nadir, for reasons that continue to elude me.  Perhaps he was attempting to assert his masculinity; understandable enough, considering his mode of dress, but his timing was not well chosen.

He and Nadir continued to exchange threats for a space, and then I noticed a curious look upon the Tenor's face.  The giant's normally pleasant expression had vanished, replaced by a vacant stare.  He began raising his club over the helpless Rackhir's head, while Meiji continued to make crude comments about Nadir's mother.

I acted as quickly as I could, attempting to use Burne's Improved Vapors of Induced Somnolence to render the Tenor unconscious, but he proved able to shrug off the effects.  The club came down, hard. 

The resulting sound was most unpleasant. Have you ever seen a melon stuffed full of human cranial matter smashed to pieces by a 12 foot tall hack comedian? It was much like that, only moreso.

Rackhir dropped, unmoving.

The Tenor, horrified, burst into tears.

Meiji, for a wonder, fell silent.

Kenji leapt into much belated action, peering about with Squint in an attempt to find our assailant.  Too little, too late -- Nadir, fearing my wrath, had already fled.

REALLY, I THINK THAT HE JUST FELT THAT HE'D PROVED HIS POINT.

We were left staring at his Rackhir's corpse, and I think that all of us were thinking the same thing at that moment: "What wonders can the incredible Burne produce using the pieces of this simple dead archer? Some hoodoo charm versus arrows?  A steam-powered arbalest mounted on skeletal legs?  A golem? Or some other automated killing-machine, of the sort employed by the better sort of iron-fisted tyrant? "

The answer, sadly, shall have to wait.


----------



## shilsen

Tsk, tsk - you make it sound like it was all poor Meiji's fault. He just thought it was a waste of a good Dispel to remove the Glitterdust when it would expire in seconds anyway, and was explaining that politely to Nadir when the idiot overreacted.


----------



## Rackhir

shilsen said:
			
		

> Tsk, tsk - you make it sound like it was all poor Meiji's fault. He just thought it was a waste of a good Dispel to remove the Glitterdust when it would expire in seconds anyway, and was explaining that politely to Nadir when the idiot overreacted.




You really want to make me regret saving Meiji from that Succubus.

For those of you interested. This marks the point at which Rackhir became the punching bag for the creatures in the campaign. A lot of it comes down to the replacement of the Druid/Barbarian/Holy/Crazy Man and his penchant for recklessly charging into battle with "Not In the Face" Meiji.

That and Mallus's seeming inability to comprehend things like damage potential and lethality of things like a Giant making a coup-de-grace. This little incident marked the first time (though not the last) that I would be sitting at the table and hearing him say something to the effect of "Ohhh! Wow! That's going to hurt...."


----------



## shilsen

Rackhir said:
			
		

> You really want to make me regret saving Meiji from that Succubus.




You're telling me you don't already regret it? Obviously I've been slacking off!



> For those of you interested. This marks the point at which Rackhir became the punching bag for the creatures in the campaign. A lot of it comes down to the replacement of the Druid/Barbarian/Holy/Crazy Man and his penchant for recklessly charging into battle with "Not In the Face" Meiji.




Life sucks when you're a frontline archer, eh?



> That and Mallus's seeming inability to comprehend things like damage potential and lethality of things like a Giant making a coup-de-grace. This little incident marked the first time (though not the last) that I would be sitting at the table and hearing him say something to the effect of "Ohhh! Wow! That's going to hurt...."




I think the line more commonly is "Oh, so _that's_ what it does?" And that line is, for those of us standing in the background, one of the more entertaining ones to hear from the DM. Especially since it usually prefaces some even more entertaining lines from you


----------



## Rolzup

*She Can Make A Blind Man See, She Can Make A Dead Man... Better*

So there was Rackhir, his corpse slowly cooling in the late morning air.  The Tenor was still weeping fist-sized tears, broken in the alarming way only a sad man as large as a barn can be, and Kenji, stalking about the courtyard, showing as much emotion as I've ever seen from him. Which can be best described as _some_.

The Meiji fellow was...oh, I don't know. Painting his nails, perhaps.  He did seem vaguely apologetic about getting the archer's spine compressed, but was rather less sorrowful than one would expect from a man who was responsible for the death of one of his own countrymen.

Foreigners.  A sad, heartless bunch, who will no doubt be genuinely grateful when Eris conquers their lands at long last.  We can civilize the Ajakhani, I'm certain of it.  It will take fire, steel, phlogistonic munitions…

WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAVE TO BE PHLOGISTON?

…and stirringly patriotic music. And I intend to enjoy every last second of it.

I SHOULD MENTION BURNE WAS DEMONSTRATING HIS GRIEF BY SKETCHING A COMPLICATED-LOOKING HAT INTO THE DIRT WITH A STICK.

For my part, I was having an idea.  Consideration of Rackhir's remains had triggered a cascade of thought, and had culminated in a moment of unparalleled brilliance. It needed time, and my workshop, in order to bring this idea to fruition...but when it was completed, I would be entirely safe from this Nadir fellow and his foul Shirac mind-magics.

ONE WOULD THINK THAT BEING BRAIN-DEAD WOULD BE PROTECTION ENOUGH.

Searing heat, you see, has a way of focusing the mind and.... No. Now is not the time.  I shall explain matters anon, in the proper context.  Until that moment arrives, rest assured that my brilliance had once again shown clear, even at this dark moment.

In the meantime, Rackhir remained dead.  Fortunately, we were owed a rather substantial favor by the priestesses of Aja Opal Blossom for rescuing their sisters from the rapacious ministrations of the brown devil Polyneecheeans on the island of St. Tarte’s, and I -- for one -- was not shy about claiming it.

BURNE HAS NEVER BEEN DESCRIBED AS BASHFUL, THAT'S VERY TRUE.

At my direction, the corpse was wrapped into a handy tarpaulin and then bundled into a wagon.  We set off for the temple of the Queen of Tarts, SBUH, talking quietly amongst ourselves, while Daikon stayed at the monastery and tried to calm the Tenor.

Have you ever gazed upon the high temple of Aja in Naryan? It is perhaps best captured by the unknown graffiti artist who painted these words upon its smoothly curving walls.

_On Zanadu Street did Aja-san
A shapely pleasure-dome decree
Where concupiscent rivers ran
Through caverns pleasure-full to man
For a modest fee_

BURNE HAS THE SOUL OF A POET. HE KEEPS IT IN A JAR OF FORMALDEYDE UNDER HIS BED, NEXT TO HIS OWN CONSCIENCE.

We were admitted to the temple without inordinate delay, and once the situation was explained to her, Tawny Portal, the former guardian of St. Tarte’s Bodice, agreed to help us by raising the archer from the dead.

In...ah...more ways than one.  How can I explain this, I wonder, without exceeding the bounds of propriety and good taste?

NOW, AFTER THIS TIME, HE STARTS WORRYING ABOUT THAT?  NEXT HE’LL BE EXPRESSING AN INTEREST IN FIRE SAFETY.

Let me, I suppose, be blunt about the situation.  The Sisters of Aja Opal-Blossom do not only, as most religious sorts do, lay the dead the rest.  In rare cases, they lay them to life.  And Tawny proposed to just this for Rackhir, with the aid of the saint’s holy Bodice.

She asked if one of us could provide a bag or something so that she might avoid looking at Rackhir's crushed head...an unpleasant enough sight even when fully intact.

Meiji obliged, and used some of his mummery to turn the corpse invisible. The speed with which he made the offer makes one wonder if rendering a lover’s face unseen is a necessary courtship practice in his homeland, or one germane only to Meiji’s own love-life.  And while we waited in the parlor, Tawny did her work. The conversation was, as I recall, strained and uncomfortable....


----------



## shilsen

Rolzup said:
			
		

> _On Zanadu Street did Aja-san
> A shapely pleasure-dome decree
> Where concupiscent rivers ran
> Through caverns pleasure-full to man
> For a modest fee_




*wipes away a tear*

That's beautiful, man! Just beautiful!



> Meiji obliged, and used some of his mummery to turn the corpse invisible. The speed with which he made the offer makes one wonder if rendering a lover’s face unseen is a necessary courtship practice in his homeland, or one germane only to Meiji’s own love-life.




Burne can be surprisingly perceptive sometimes.



> And while we waited in the parlor, Tawny did her work. The conversation was, as I recall, strained and uncomfortable....




Maybe for you guys. Meiji was listening at the door, making notes and trying to waylay passing priestesses and ask how he might join the order.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Another first class update ... absolutely brilliant, in fact. Even if it does defile one of my favourite poems.


----------



## pogre

Good to see our narrator back! and commentator!


----------



## Richard Rawen

More plot twists and turns than the Corkscrew (An insane roller-coaster infamous for it's "splatter zone")
And yet . . . Good Stuff!


----------



## Rolzup

*Life After Death*

Rackhir emerged from making the "Priest with Two Backs" with Tawny Portal as red in face as he was in garb.  I, cloaked as always in my own dignity,  forbore to comment. While Meiji, as I recall, snickered in a decidedly _foreign_ fashion, and made a variety of off-color comments about the binding of feet. Fueled by disappointment, I venture to guess, that the clergy of Aja Opal-Blossom had chosen not to gather him to their collective bosoms.

Metaphorical or otherwise.

I questioned Rackhir about his experiences following his unfortunate murder, and he professed ignorance as to what lay beyond the Great Veil.  He  admitted to feeling somewhat enervated by the situation, and a brief examination showed that some of his animus had indeed been drained away. He also professed to feeling sleepy, and wanted, of all things, a petite cigar of the kind favored by Yeti. Most likely due to the lingering after-effects of the Bodice's magic.

Having offered our gratitude, both of the intangible and of the material sort, we pried Meiji away from the priestesses and set out for the monastery.  The little fellow was delighted with himself, virtually dancing with glee, because Tawny had professed her gratitude to him for rendering Rackhir's corpse invisible.  In his eyes, this meant that she was in his debt.  Priestess or no, I found myself fearing for her very soul.

At no point along the way did Rackhir speak to Meiji, or even acknowledge his presence, but his gaze...well.  I never before knew that a glare could be such an eloquent method of expression.  It spoke volumes, even though Meiji continued to burble on about trivialities all the while that Rackhir was looking daggers at him.

Or...ha!...looking _arrows_ at him.

THE HILARITY NEVER STOPS.

Alas, matters had continued to progress in our absence.  Upon arriving at the monastery, we found a drunken giant, a stupefied green-grocer, and a  pile of rubble where a statue had once stood.

Oh, and a large hole, leading down into darkness.  A threatening, unwholesome sort of thing, it gave off an almost palpable chill even in the  bright sunlight that was flooding the courtyard.  I was myself, entirely unafraid...

AS WOULD HAVE BEEN CLEAR TO ANYONE, DESPITE THE CHATTERING TEETH AND THE WHIMPERING.

...but I could clearly see the beads of sweat that sprung up upon Kenji's brow.  We managed to bestir King Daikon, after some violence and effort, and he told us that shortly after we had left the Tenor had apparently gone mad, and furiously smashed the statue of the Bishop into flinders.  No sooner had  this been done than Daikon found himself paralyzed by an invisible assailant.  No doubt that villainous violet-eyed Shirac, Nadir Akmad-Medhi...

BURNE'S COMMAND OF THE LANGUAGE...

...had returned to carry out his investigation of the hidden shrine!

...IS MATCHED ONLY BY HIS COMMAND OF THE OBVIOUS.

By use of certain of the Engine's lenses, I was able to ascertain that a trail of thaumic radiation did indeed cross the courtyard, and enter the opening.  Only to emerge, and lead out of of the monastary gounds entirely.

What had he found in the darkness below?  Well, I supposed we would have to find out.  I, as the leader of this motley crew, chose Rackhir to lead the expedition....reasoning, naturally enough, that it was unlikely that his day could get any worse.


----------



## Delemental

Rolzup said:
			
		

> What had he found in the darkness below?  Well, I supposed we would have to find out.  I, as the leader of this motley crew, chose Rackhir to lead the expedition....reasoning, naturally enough, that it was unlikely that his day could get any worse.




Famous last words...


----------



## Rolzup

*Please Sir, May I Have... Your Soul!*

With a word, I kindled luminescence upon a bolt, and fired it down into the darkness.  It provided enough light to allow us to see that there was a chamber some fifteen feet below the surface of the courtyard, and that it extended some distance beyond our sight.  We could see nothing moving, and heard no sounds at all.

"Probably a trap," I thought to myself.  At my order, Rackhir leaped to obey, and rapidly descended into the pit...

HE VOLUNTEERED, ACTUALLY.  DEEP, DARK PIT, PROBABLY FILLED WITH MONSTERS?  OR LISTENING TO BURNE?  THE CHOICE IS PAINFULLY CLEAR.

...followed, with a sniff of disdain, by Kenji.  Meiji and Myself took up positions at the opening, prepared to offer assistance with our various arts.  Or hobby, really, in Meiji's case.

The screaming began mere moments later.  And it was not coming, for a change, from either Rackhir or Kenji.  A...thing came floating up the shaft; an insubstantial creature the size and proportions of a child. It was wailing, and babbling, and seemed most distressed...and I, my heart taken by pity, could not help but shed a sympathetic tear.

IT HYPNOTIZED HIM.  NOT THAT STUPIFYING BURNE IS ANY GREAT FEAT.

So overcome with emotion, I lost track of matters for a few moments. Apparently other, more substantial child-corpses, set upon the Ajikhani below, and were met by stiff resistance.  Meiji, no doubt, clapped his hands and squealed with glee at the sight.

Abraxis, for some bizarre reason, chose this moment to make an attack upon my person. Cranial adjustments were clearly needed, and to the best of my recollection I made them shortly therafter, with the aid of a sledgehammer.

I WAS TRYING TO ROUSE HIM FROM HIS STUPOR.  IN HOPES OF HIS ACTUALLY BEING USEFUL FOR A CHANGE.  NEXT TIME, I'LL JUST LET HIS SOUL GET EATEN.  SEE IF I CARE.

When I came to myself again, I found that Kenji and Rackhir were beset by several foes, including one who appeared to be thrusting his hand directly into Rackhir's chest.  I used the Engine to generate a bolt of force, which drove the thing back long enough for the archer to catch his breath.

At this point, with an incantation and a wholly unneccessary flourish of his hands, Meiji conjured forth a wall of fire  Not a patch on the sort of thing I could produce, were I so inclined.  Pale, colorless flames, barely hot enough to toast a piece of bread...and not even a hint of sulphur!  Indeed, I though for a moment that I smelled the perfume of cherry blossoms upon the air.

Effeminate frippery, and typical of the sort of decadent nonsense that will someday bring the Ajikhani empire crashing down.

Meiji's shoddy wall divided the chamber more or less in half, with the foe packed in tightly around his two countrymen.  As this left them without room to maneuver, and with the corprophages surrounding them all sides, this seemed to me to be a rather odd tactic to adopt.

And then I realized, upon the instant, his plan.  Clearly, he wished to kill both Kenji and Rackhir, for reasons all his own.  I could not deny that his goals were indeed noble, surprisingly so, but his tactical sense was clearly lacking.  Once the two of them were dead, who would be left for these living corpses to batten upon?  Only myself and Meiji.   I toyed for a moment with the idea of applying a boot to his backside, and then using an
application of Burne's Resinous Agglutination to seal the entrance, but abandoned the scheme with some reluctance.

Barbaric and foolish though these foreign devils may be, they still have some uses.  And if they were to fall victim to such foes as these, then their corpses would likely be devoured before I could _discover_ said uses....

The point was soon rendered moot, however.  Rackhir, rapidly followed by the skirted swordsman, dove through the flames and vanished from our sight.  I could not withhold a snort of disdain; had these been flames of _my_ creation, both of them would have been burnt to cinders upon the instant.  Demonstrating the truth of this, I used Burne's Incandescent Arc to finish off a few of the undead horrors myself, while encouraging Meiji to descend and aid his countrymen. The coward, naturally, declined.

I heard the sounds of battle, and yelps of pain, coming from behind the curtain of flame.  More clearly than anything else, I could hear a stream of steady curses in Rackhir's voice.  I could not understand his barbaric tongue, but Meiji assumed a blush of pride at this invective.  He'll wake up looking like a porcupine some morning soon, I don't doubt.

With a reluctant sigh, he at last let the flames gutter out.  We could then see the others, still smoldering a little, finishing off the remaining corpses.  One of the insubstantial things evaded them, however, and flew up the shaft.  As Meiji gibbered in terror, I used another bolt of force to disperse the thing once and for all.

As I admired my handiwork, Meiji eagerly climbed down the ladder into the chamber below.  And as I prepared to join him, I could not help but pause as I heard him cry out, in a voice filled with delight, "Oooh, cake!"

This, I felt sure, boded ill.


----------



## pogre

Thanks for the update!


----------



## Richard Rawen

I love the final lines... what a commentary on the attitudes of the PC's *chuckles*

Just wanted to tip my hat, keep up the good work!


----------



## Rolzup

*Cake And/Or Death*

And indeed, there _was_ cake.  Dark cake.  Foul, vile cake, as evil as...something very evil indeed.

BURNE HAS A GIFT FOR METAPHOR.

"Devil's Food Cake" of the most bleakly literal sort, in fact.

MATCHED ONLY BY HIS CUDGEL-LIKE WIT.

But I get ahead of myself.

In basic appearance, this underground chamber was not unlike a typical church.  Rather darker than the norm, and with more than the usual number of dismembered corpses scattered about, but for all that, none too unusual.

There were no pews, of course, or even -- as more usual in a temple of Kruetzel -- a central buffet table.  But there were alcoves to either side, and I strode boldly towards the altar I could not help but glance into these openings as I passed them.

In each, there was a painting.  The central figure in these portraits was the Bishop, whose face I recognized from the statue which had formerly stood above the entrance.  He was surrounded by children, capering and prancing in an inspidly joyful fashion.  While I am no art critic (being, rather, a man with a valid reason for drawing breath each morning)...

IF YOU CONSIDER PRACTICING BIGOTRY OR A PORNOGRAPHIC OBSESSION WITH FIRE
VALID, THEN YES.

...these paintings seemed crudely done, at best. Proportions were wrong, perspective all but non-existant, and the colors flat and poorly-chosen.

As I continued on, glancing from side to side at each pair of paintings, my steps slowed without my full awareness.  In each case, the paintings improved between one alcove and the next.  And at the same time, they became much, much worse.

Technically, yes, they were beautiful.  By the time I came to the last set of paintings, they had become stunningly realistic.  No, _better_ than merely "realistic".  They seemed sharper, more clear, more perfect than mere reality could ever aspire to be.

THE ONLY REALITY THAT I ASPIRE TO IS OBLIVION.

But the subjects of these paintings!  I consider myself a strong man, one unburdened by sentiment or pathos.  But these pictures...well, I cannot remember them without shuddering.

The Bishop himself grew steadily larger, more sinister, and less human with each successive painting.  His kindly smile became a leering grin, his outstretched hand grasping claws.  The children continued to dance, and their expressions changed little from painting to painting...but their dance became more and more frantic, and somehow their joy became outright terror.

They grew thinner as well, like victims of famine.  And they began to lose...things.  Extremeties, at first.  Then entire limbs.  And then whole sections of their bodies, bitten away in bloody chunks.

But in the paintings closest to the altar, three new figures were shown.  Three women, beautiful of form, with wings.  Their faces could not be seen, but somehow it was obvious that the three were sisters.

And one last painting stood leaning against the altar itself.  It showed the Bishop, once more shrunken in stature to the height of a normal man, being led by the women through a dark archway.

The altar itself was oddly simple; a thing of graceless stone.  Atop it sat a silver tea set of exquisite worksmanship, a small prism-shaped stone, and a silver tray.  And atop the tray was a piece of cake.

Cake that Meiji was eying with an unhealthy interest.

Moving the foreigner aside with a fierce glare, I glanced into the teapot.  It was brimming with a black liquid, that seemed almost like blood in consistency.  Not, I thought to myself, a good sign.

I could not dwell upon this dubious beverage, however, as my eye was suddenly caught by something of even greater import.  Behind the altar, between two stone columns, was an archway identical to that shown in the final painting.  And that archway was filled with a field of... _nothing_, a kind of energized emptiness, cold and lustreless black in color.

"Meiji," I asked, abstractedly, "Would you mind touching that void for me?  In the interest of scientific inquiry?"

The coward made no direct reply, instead wondering aloud what flavor of frosting that the cake might have.

"The flavor of corruption," I opined, "And of evil."

"Not chocolate, then?" he replied, sounding disapointed.

Joachim, even more appalled than usual, was wandering about the chamber with a look of horror upon his face.  That a member of his own church could have been so vile, so debased?  It shook his faith, I think, and more than a little.

Good for him.

I snapped my fingers to catch his attention, and then directed him to go to the Temple of Kruetzel post-haste.  "Your superiors," I informed him, "Should be told of this.  Perhaps they can shed some light upon the subject.  Go and fetch them, forthwith."

With a bow, off he went.

ANYTHING TO ESCAPE BURNE'S PRESENCE.


----------



## pogre

Rolzup said:
			
		

> *Cake And/Or Death*
> 
> 
> ANYTHING TO ESCAPE BURNE'S PRESENCE.




Nonsense my mechanical little scribe. We need more, much more, of Burne!

Thanks for the update!


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: As The Bishop said to the Pyromaniac....*

_<in the old monastery courtyard on Opium Way, Little Ajakhan, Narayan:CITY, just past sunset> _

“What lies beneath has many names; Tonjours Faim, Faim Gauche, EfFame Gauche, Mauvasie Faim or simply The Bad Hunger. It is a fragment of an Elder Demon God.” 

“It. Couldn’t. Just.  Be.  A.  Piece.  Of.  Cake.  Could. It?” purrs Abraxis the mechanical famulus, to himself. 

“It alone was responsible for the corruption of Father Sebastien Babulaba, the former master of this place. Well, perhaps not ‘alone’… I suppose his inherent wickedness had something to do with it. But that’s neither here nor there.” 

The man speaking, the retired Archbishop Bartolemiou Bien-Bodhi, hurriedly summoned from the cloisters at Great Temple of Kruetzel on Cavalry Hill, beckons to one of his silent retinue and proceeds to lean heavily against him. He casts a long, slow, sad glance over the ruined statue’s base, and the gaping hole in the ground partially covered by wooden planks hastily gathered by King Daikon. 

"This must be sealed. And quickly." says the ancient priest. "No one must find out about what lies beneath these stones. This must be kept secret." 

"That's why you brought a baker's dozen of lackeys with you, then?" says Mallus Lovesworn, emerging from the shadows behind one of the produce stalls. "Secrecy in numbers, eh?” 

The former archbishop hisses "My men will tell no tales, for they are not men. They are the Risen". Before Mallus can respond, Bartolemiou pinches the guard’s check, and remarkably, comes away with a small piece of his dark flesh. 

"Behold." he says, as Mallus recoils, "What, you don't like pumpernickel? They are bread golems, fired by my God's own grace. Not the sharpest knives in the kitchen, but they'll fight until the last of their yeast is gone." 

"But it is true that we cannot do this alone. If only Mr. Darkheart was here. He was a member of the Brotherhood of the Black Worm and a most puissant master of the Ineffable Arts. Or even his apprentice. We turned to them the last time the Hunger made itself known. When its pangs were felt, you could say…” 

“If. You. Were. An. Idiot.” observes Abraxis, sotto voce.  

“…he would know what to do, how to seal the Hunger in again, just like he did the first time.” 

“Since when do Kruetzel’s commandments include ‘Thou shall cover up’ and ‘Thou shall rely on diabolists’?” asks Mallus. “I thought you were the good guys, I mean, as far as organized religions go.”

“It was a different time then, it was during the Troubles. Narayan was swarming with Hannikum refugees fleeing the famine there; freed slaves, starving bondsmen, heretics the Priest-King emptied from his jails. We had race riots, faith riots, and on every corner Hannikum preachers denouncing CITY’s gods as demons. If word has gotten out that one of our priests in charge of an orphanage was worshipping a demon, that he abused children and actually _ate_ a few of them… our temples would have been burnt to the ground. And then it would have been rough crumpets all around. It’s not like you can feed the poor a diet of obsidian knives. Besides, we tried to exorcise the shrine ourselves. It didn’t work.”

“The barrier appears to be in place” notes Lord Kenji, is a silken voice that suggests some deadly female courtesan dressed only in razor-edged unmentionables.  

“I am afraid the black barrier below is meant to keep petitioners out, not the Hunger in. Did you not see the painting by the altar? Three demons leading Sebastian to his unholy assignation?" He pauses, “New petitioners will come. The Hunger will reach out to its kind again, unless we act, and act quickly. And Mr. Darkheart is long gone.” 

"Didn't you say Darkheart had an apprentice? I mean, don't 'they' always? And aren't we really talking about a catamite?" asks Mallus. 

"Yes." says the Bartolemiou. "I mean, no. I have no idea what Darkheart's...predilections... were, but he did have young student with him, name of Mephisophocles. A very serious boy with a serious cat." 

“Who.  Is.  Currently.  Hiding.  Out.  As.  A.  Department.  Chair.  In.  The.  University. Is.  Meat.  Inherently. Stupid?” asks Abraxis of himself.  

"We need help, and yet we needs tell as few as possible. Only the most trusted, yes. We need to be subtle, and quick, and...."

He pauses again to survey the scene in the courtyard; Burne sketching a bizarre helmet-like apparatus in an available patch of dirt, Kenji-sama, staring furiously into space, as if trying to conjure up the specter of Nadir Akmad-Medhi to stab, Rackhir, looking both fierce and stoic after his draining twin brushes with sex and death, though not necessarily in that order, and Meiji, looking simultaneously alert, intrigued, and ready to hop the next ship for the Empire of the Three Pillars of Heaven

The archbishop slumps against his golem-at-arms with the force of a deflating souffle. 
"... and we need a miracle." 

Burne, after making a final and decisive scrawl, stands up and brushes off his hands.  "Genius," he declares cheerfully.  "My own brilliance never fails to astound me.” 

“You know," he continues, "There's absolutely nothing that good Erisian craftsmanship can't accomplish!  I tell you, this is a revolutionary idea, and...." 

He trails off, abruptly registering the slumped form of the archbishop and the puzzled glare of Mallus.  "It's...a helmet," he continues, weakly.  "Protective measure, and all that.  Really, quite, quite...." 

Burne sighs.  "Yes, well.  Obviously we have other concerns, eh? We'll have to track Mephisophocles down, one way or another.  And I?  I have yet another brilliant idea!" 

A pause, for dramatic effect.  "We will track him...through his familiar!" 

Burne pivots neatly in place, with military precision.  "Abraxis!  To me!" 

The mechanical cat looks up from Burne's sketch, which it appears to have been studying with some faint interest. "Master.  How.  May.  I.  Be. Of.  Service?" it asks, in a resigned tone.

"Abraxis, my famulus!  I shall need you to infiltrate the local feline community!" 

Another long pause.  Not, this time, for dramatic effect. 

"Beg.  Pardon.  Master?"  One wouldn't have thought it possible for a mechanical cat to sound so appalled.  But once again, Burne manages to astound.


----------



## Bloodcookie

"The Risen," oh man


----------



## Rackhir

Bloodcookie said:
			
		

> "The Risen," oh man




The DM Mallus is to blame for that one.


----------



## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> The DM Mallus is to blame for that one.



What else would you call golems made out of bread?

So... how does everyone like the recent turn of events, now that CITY is beginning to resemble an actual D&D game, what with the revelation of an ancient evil (in a manner of speaking) and a villainous mind-bending magician (who's still quite alive, much to the players chagrin)?

Coming soon: more battles, more spell slinging, ninja, pirates, and a serious discussion concerning the nature of knowledge with a mysterious woman that Meiji tries to sleep with.


----------



## shilsen

Mallus said:
			
		

> ...and a villainous mind-bending magician (who's still quite alive, much to the players chagrin)?




Speak for the others. I'm quite fond of him as a player, and have a fair degree of respect for him as a PC. Not that it'd stop Meiji from trying to make his head explode, of course, or more likely, put him in a position where he could be alternately shot, stabbed and _fireball_ed by the rest.



> Coming soon: more battles, more spell slinging, ninja, pirates, and a serious discussion concerning the nature of knowledge with a mysterious woman that Meiji tries to sleep with.




What do you mean 'tries'? Just because I can't actually prove it, or remember it, doesn't mean it didn't happen. I'm still pretty sure that we made the beast with two ... sorry, in this case ... three backs.


----------



## Mallus

shilsen said:
			
		

> I'm quite fond of him as a player, and have a fair degree of respect for him as a PC.



Wait until you see what he does next!



> ...or more likely, put him in a position where he could be alternately shot, stabbed and _fireball_ed by the rest.



I'd like to see what happens if Atlatl shoots Nadir with his Monkey Gun. Really, ruling on things like that make the game for me...



> I'm still pretty sure that we made the beast with two ... sorry, in this case ... three backs.



Three backs and one pair of wings...


----------



## Richard Rawen

Mallus said:
			
		

> Three backs and one pair of wings...




add a side dish for only $1.95 for a limited time only . . . ?


----------



## Mallus

Richard Rawen said:
			
		

> add a side dish for only $1.95 for a limited time only . . . ?



Meiji gets his choice of french fries, creamed spinach, transcendence, or eternal damnation...


----------



## Rackhir

Mallus said:
			
		

> Wait until you see what he does next.




Unfortunately, I can't print my opinion of Nadir since it would probably kill Eric's Grandmother.


----------



## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Unfortunately, I can't print my opinion of Nadir since it would probably kill Eric's Grandmother.



I've made up a few new people for you to hate. You'll be meeting them tonight...


----------



## Rackhir

Mallus said:
			
		

> I've made up a few new people for you to hate. You'll be meeting them tonight...




You mean to add to the list? Cause it's already got quite a few people on it.


----------



## shilsen

Rackhir said:
			
		

> You mean to add to the list? Cause it's already got quite a few people on it.



 If it helps, Meiji will be perfectly happy to step off the list for the benefit of these new candidates.


----------



## pogre

Mallus said:
			
		

> I've made up a few new people for you to hate. You'll be meeting them tonight...




Excellent! Cannot wait to read all about it.


----------



## shilsen

pogre said:
			
		

> Excellent! Cannot wait to read all about it.



 It'll take a while before we get there, but Mallus wasn't kidding. I think the new NPCs really pissed off a few of the PCs. 

And they actually hit Meiji. That's just not supposed to happen! I need to work harder on a custom Wall of Cowardice spell.


----------



## Rackhir

So is there any interest in a Rogues Gallery for the Characters and Opponents of Burne's little miss adventures?


----------



## Bloodcookie

Rackhir said:
			
		

> So is there any interest in a Rogues Gallery for the Characters and Opponents of Burne's little miss adventures?




As a matter of fact, I've been quite curious about the details of Burne's Alchemist class.


----------



## Snoweel

Rackhir said:
			
		

> So is there any interest in a Rogues Gallery for the Characters and Opponents of Burne's little miss adventures?




Yes!

I was looking in Rogue's Gallery for them just last week.

Great Story Hour by the way.


----------



## Rolzup

Long and sadly delayed, but....

*A Misadventure, a Meal, and a Medical Intervention*

While the others flailed about, trying to determine some method for dealing with the looming crisis, I kept my head.  Indeed, I formulated a plan of sublime brilliance, which would merely have required some minor effort on the part of my lackeys...but alas, they proved too lazy to follow my lead. 

BURNE WANTED ME TO FIND MEPHISOPHOCLES' FAMILIAR, DOUBTING THOMAS, BY PRETENDING TO BE AN 'ORGANIC' CAT AND INTERROGATING THE LOCAL POPULATION OF STRAYS.  HE NEEDED RACKHIR TO HUNT A CAT FOR HIM, AND KENJI TO SKIN THE CREATURE AND TURN IT INTO A SUIT THAT I COULD WEAR.  MEIJI WAS SUPPOSED TO DO THE SEWING, I THINK.  NEVER MIND THAT I DON'T SPEAK CAT, DOUBTING THOMAS IS NOT -- AND HAS NEVER BEEN -- AN ACTUAL CAT.  HE SHOULD ONLY BE SO LUCKY. 

So be it.  The Archbishop choose to commune with Kruetzel over what he should do, and the others rather limply agreed to await a response before taking any sort of decisive action.  Rackhir was rather put out by this, as Joachim had promised some ritual that would have cured him of the lingering weakness from his recent resurrection and said ritual would now have to be delayed, but he accepted the situation somewhat stoically.

In the meantime, we had a matter of business that needed to be addressed.  We had recently learned from Daikon that the monastery would soon be coming up for open auction, and -- as we clearly had an interest in the place -- had determined that it would be a good idea if _we_ were to be the winning bidders.  To this end, we set out to visit one M.P. Menboob, Legate of the Little Ajakhan Autonomous Ethnic Zone, to see if we could...exercise some influence upon his decision.

THREATEN HIM, IN OTHER WORDS.

Alas, matters did not go as planned.  The legate had a surprising number of well-armed and armored guards, and matter quickly became surprisingly tense.  Kenji was on the verge of drawing his sword and striking the man down for some imagined insult, but chose instead to invite him to dine with us the next morning.  I shall never understand that man's thought processes, although I eagerly anticipate someday dissecting his frontal lobe in an attempt to do so.

This inexplicably accomplished, we all went our separate ways for the time being.  I had work to do, now that the plans for the incredible Burne's Thermoreactive Cerebric Barrier had leaped fully-formed into my mind.... 

SUCH AS IT IS. 

...and Kenji had to polish his nails, or something similar.  Meiji, for his part, was determined to investigate the 'Gate Lantern' that we had recovered some months ago, and decided to go off to some remote location in order to do so.  He asked Rackhir to accompany him upon this errand, and the archer -- displaying an appalling lack of common sense and short-term memory -- agreed to do so.  I dismissed them with a wave, morbidly certain that it was the last time I would be seeing Rackhir alive. 

Some hours passed, as I began my work.  I used my old helmet as the framework, and the remaining ligaments of the Rast to act as a liner.  I found that creating the mana filter was more tricky than I had anticipated, and was forced.... 

Well.  No sense in giving away trade secrets, eh? 

NOT THAT THEY WOULD MAKE ANY SENSE TO ANYONE WHO IS NOT UNFORTUNATE ENOUGH TO BE BURNE. 

Meiji and Rackhir returned at some point late in the day.  The archer was looking disheveled and bloody, and was glaring at Meiji even more than usual, so I could only assume that matters had gone better for him than I had anticipated.   Humbly, they asked the benefit of my expertise upon certain subjects that had troubled them, and I cheerfully agreed to accompany them on their excursion upon the morrow.  Learning that I would have access to the corpses of both a giant scorpion AND a six-limbed primate was merely the icing on the cake. 

The next morning, we all set out to meet with this Menboob fellow at the Palm d'Whorl.  The food was excellent, the company less so.  But nevertheless, infromative!  Menboob seemed to be making a number of assumption about how much we already knew, and I was all too glad to play along.  My companions, for a change, were canny enough to play along.  As it transpired, the entire Little Ajikhan district was due to be...well, redistricted.  There was profit to be made, and undesirable foreigners to be dispossessed and relocated.  I found myself nodding along at this eminently sensible scheme, until Menboob mentioned the mastermind behind it all.

Lord Nitin Philippe.  Father of the late Savur Philippe.

Reluctantly, I realized that we would have to oppose his plans, simply on principle.  Without principles, after all, what are we?

BURNE.

Happily, Menboob jumped to the conclusion that we were merely the representatives of another, more political powerful individual, and offered us a deal.  We could get in on the 'ground floor' of this upcoming property auction, which was _far_ more extensive than Diakon knew, and make ourselves one of the powers of the new district.

A tempting offer indeed, and we parted ways with Menboob in a very thoughtful mood....

The plan had been to return to the sight of Meiji and Rackhir's experiments, and for me to provide them with guidance and insight into their investigations.  And perhaps to detonate any untoward results of same.  But our way took us past 'The Chapel', the tavern and temple of our old friend the Reverend Don 'Magic Wand', and the excited babblings of the crowd gathered outside the place caught out attention.

We shouldered our way through the crowd, and found ourselves facing one of the Reverend's deacons...a man who was delighted when he recognized us.  From what I could glean of his frantic babbling, a sandstorm had swept through the tavern, leaving the reverend unconscious and unresponsive in its wake.  And indeed, 'Magic Wand' did not look at all well.  He was stretched out upon the ground, a blank look upon his face, staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling.

Kicking the sand away -- sand which, I astutely noticed, faded away in mid air rather than falling back to the ground -- Meiji muttered something in his barbaric tongue and touched the Reverend's chest.  There was a sharp crackle, and the smell of ozone filled the air as the Reverend sat straight upright and made an attempt to punch Meiji in the nose.

Clearly, he had returned to his senses.


----------



## Rolzup

Snoweel said:
			
		

> Yes!
> 
> I was looking in Rogue's Gallery for them just last week.
> 
> Great Story Hour by the way.




So mote it be!

And thank you....

But I shall post a rogue's gallery thread later this week, once I transcribe Burne's character sheet into something comprehensible by mere mortals.  When this is done, I'll be sure to post something here.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Mallus said:
			
		

> So... how does everyone like the recent turn of events, now that CITY is beginning to resemble an actual D&D game, what with the revelation of an ancient evil (in a manner of speaking) and a villainous mind-bending magician (who's still quite alive, much to the players chagrin)?




To answer this rather belatedly ... in all honesty, it's not really the plot that keeps me hooked on this storyhour - it's the characters, the narrative voice and the sheer craziness that is CITY. Any actual coherent story is alomost unnecessary, it's just the icing on the cake (of doom)!


----------



## shilsen

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> To answer this rather belatedly ... in all honesty, it's not really the plot that keeps me hooked on this storyhour - it's the characters, the narrative voice and the sheer craziness that is CITY. Any actual coherent story is alomost unnecessary, it's just the icing on the cake (of doom)!



 I have to admit that even as a player that's mostly true for me. I am as interested in the current overarching plot as anyone else at the table, but at the end of the day, what keeps me coming back to the game is the sheer insanity and horrible humor that is part of the game and the setting.


----------



## Ximix

shilsen said:
			
		

> I have to admit that even as a player that's mostly true for me. I am as interested in the current overarching plot as anyone else at the table, but at the end of the day, what keeps me coming back to the game is the sheer insanity and horrible humor that is part of the game and the setting.




I'm with you all the way to 'horrible'. . . are you mad?


----------



## shilsen

Ximix said:
			
		

> I'm with you all the way to 'horrible'. . . are you mad?



 You're missing my use of the term. Mallus's humor is based on the same system as puns are. The more horrible they are, the better they are. Same here. The volume of the groan is directly proportional to the degree of enjoyment


----------



## Rolzup

And Lo!

There was a Rogue's Gallery thread.


----------



## shilsen

Rolzup said:
			
		

> And Lo!
> 
> There was a Rogue's Gallery thread.



 Which now also features Meiji "Not In The Face" Kitsune.


----------



## pogre

I'm enjoying reading your Rogues' Gallery thread. Please continue to encourage the other players to post their characters.


----------



## Rackhir

pogre said:
			
		

> I'm enjoying reading your Rogues' Gallery thread. Please continue to encourage the other players to post their characters.




Rackhir is up in the Rogues Gallery


----------



## Rolzup

*A Most Remarkable Show*

Naturally, it turned out to have been the bastard Nadir, who seemed to be determined to annoy us as much as humanly -- or Shiracly, I suppose -- possible.  Not the wisest course of action to follow, as any number of corpses would happily tell him.  He'd assaulted the Reverend, stolen his eponymous magic wand, and used a summoned sandstorm of questionable reality to cover his escape.  Losing the wand had proven a terrible shock to the Reverend's system; thus accounting for his semi-comatose state upon our arrival.

Now that he had the wand, and the demon trapped within it, Nadir was fully a third of the way clear to opening a path to this Bad Hunger. This was likely to have dire consequences, and annoyingly enough it seemed as though we were the ones who would have to deal with it.  Certainly, this task could have fallen to no more qualified individual than myself, but my lackeys were rather less than awe-inspiring. Hardly the first time I would have to accept the burden of their many shortcomings, and likely not to be the last.

BURNE SUFFERS FROM DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR.  NO, MAKE THAT DELUSIONS OF ADEQUACY.

All was not yet lost, however.  In the course of our interrogation, the Reverend let it slip that his bother was in town...and that this brother was in possession of the rod that contained the _second_ demonic entity.  Obviously, this brother -- one "Mercutio the Mesmerist" -- would be Nadir's next target.  I dispatched the others to Mercutio's place of employment, the Palladion nightclub, located in a rather questionable section of Narayan known as "the Bilge", while I hurried back to my lab to make a few last adjustments to my most recent creation.  It was likely that I would need it that very evening....

Now let me speak, just for a moment, about is Burne's Thermoreactive Cerebric Barrier.  This was rather an unusual creation, as I usually specialize in offensive magicks....

AND OFFENSIVE MANNERS.  AND OFFENSIVE ODORS.

...but the Nadir situation had caused me no small amount of concern. And so, the Barrier!

It looks to the layman's eye like nothing more than a broad-rimmed helmet, albiet with the addition of a small chimney at its crest. Said chimney produces whisps of smoke under normal circumstances, as well as a cheery red glow.  A fashionable piece of headgear, one might think, and nothing more!

OH, YES.  BURNE IS VERY MUCH THE EPITOME OF STYLE.

Ah, but the Thermoreactive Cerebric Barrier is so much more than this!  It is when the wearer, which is to say myself, is made the target of hostile mind-magicks that the Barrier comes into its own.  Attuned as it is to the natural throught-patterns of the wearer, the Barrier _reacts_ to any alteration in these patterns by...well, by heating up.  Ferociously.   The resulting pain has a way of focusing the wearer's mind, allowing him a chance to reassert his own will!

OR KILL HIM, BY BOILING HIS SO-CALLED BRAIN.  EITHER WAY, HE'LL BE FREE OF MIND CONTROL, AT LEAST.

With this accomplished, the built-up heat is released from the exhaust aperture atop the helmet as a plume of attractive blue flame.  And the wearer is free to take his vengeance upon the fool who dared try to enthrall him!  And now that I had completed this brilliant creation, Nadir was doomed.  I very nearly felt sorry for him.

I found the others, remarkably enough, at the Palladion.  For once, they had obeyed orders.  I had attracted some attention from the local thugs as I moved through the Blige, but one glance at the Heremetic Destrucive Engine was enough to convince them to find easier prey.

PLUS, BURNE DOESN'T REALLY LOOK WORTH ROBBING.  I THINK SOME OF THE MUGGERS MIGHT HAVE ACTUALLY _GIVEN_ HIM SOME MONEY, IF HE HADN'T BEEN TALKING TO HIMSELF SO MUCH.

My lackeys, it seems, had just returned from dining at a place called the Chrysanthemum Inn.  Foreign food, no less!  The sort that you're meant to poke at with sticks, rather than a healthy sort of steak. They'd encountered some of their countrymen there, on some mysterious sort of errand, and -- to my utter lack of surprise -- there'd been some sort of altercation.  Not a violent one, for a change, but it was becoming increasingly clear to me _why_ Kenji is not in his homeland.

In any case, we adjourned to the nightclub itself, and soon found ourselves engaged in conversation with the staff  A few judicously applied bribes later, Meiji and myself found balcony seats, while Rackhir found himself a place of concealment, and Kenji tried to take up a position backstage.  I say "tried" because Kenji, displaying his typical lack of sophistication, immediately tried to seat himself upon one of the entertainers, a Garahjah samed Drang.  That Drang was disguised as a box, using illusion magicks, might be seen by some as excuse for Kenji's rudeness.  Not by me, however.  There is rarely, if ever, any excuse for Kenji.

Nor for Meiji, who -- for reasons of his own -- chose to use his own so-called "arts" to make himself look like Mercutio.  He claimed that this was to confuse and distract Nadir, but the simple truth of the matter is that the man cannot stand for anyone else to be the center of attention.  It's sad, really.

As the show started, I removed the Barrier without any hesitation.  I, you see, am not an oafish foreigner.

NO, HE'S A HOME-GROWN JACKASS.  AND THE PALLADION HAD A STRICT NO-SMOKING
POLICY OUTSIDE THE BAR"

And I must admit that Mercutio's performance took me entirely by surprise.  The man is an artist, without any doubt at all!  I laughed, I cried, I _lived_.  I cannot actually recall what his act actually entailed, but that it was utterly brilliant is something that I cannot even begin to doubt.

HE USED THE ROD TO HYPNOTISE THE CROWD.  INCLUDING BURNE.  MERCUTIO DIDN'T MAKE HIM CLUCK LIKE A CHICKEN, THOUGH.  UNFORTUNATELY.

I was delighted to meet the man after the show, and shook his hand with great enthusiasm.  Kenji had already spoken to Mercutio and explained the situation, and he seemed to understand the gravity of it all.  He had a business deal to transact first, however.  We offered to accompany him, and act as bodyguards, an offer he readily accepted.  Said deal was taking place in the Palladion's basement, which was not in any way suspicious, so down we went.

If only we'd known who Mercutio's business partners were, we might have saved ourselves a great deal of trouble.  But alas, we were to be taken very much by surprise by what was to follow....


----------



## Rackhir

Lord Kenji is up in the Rogue's Gallery thread.


----------



## Camris

Magnificent!

*BUMP*


----------



## Rackhir

Camris said:
			
		

> Magnificent!
> 
> *BUMP*




Glad you've enjoyed it. We are currently in the process of applying thumb screws to Rolzup to "persuade" him to crank out the next installment. The work has been preceeding more slowly than we would prefer due to the need to avoid violating local noise regulations and his insistance that his Wife and Child deserve his time an attention as well. Unfortunately, the DHS has declined our request to ship him off to Gitmo, in order to "expedite" future installments.

Oh, by the way. You are apparently our first outright bump. Thank you and we now return you to your regularly scheduled interrogation...

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"....


----------



## Rolzup

Fortunately, they've left my fingers unbroken.  Typing with one's face is both slow and uncomfortable, and I don't recommend it.

But obviously, anything that I say about "regular updates" should be considered lies.  Filthy, filthy lies.  But onwards and upwards!

And by "upwards", I mean "downwards".

*The Makings of a Interesting Salad*

By now, I suppose, I should be used to the fact that we tend to leave chaos and madness in our wake.  Not by choice, I assure you!  But should someone be bold enough, foolish enough, to stand in the way of Burne...

...and, I suppose, those he allows to accompany him...

...he will pay for his effrontery.  Quickly, at least.  And with dignity. After all, what could possibly be more dignified than burning to death?

BURNE IS NOT A WELL MAN.

In any case, I was unprepared for what we found in the basement of the Palladion.

Is there anything more sickening than a room filled with foreigners? Ajakhani. I could tell by their sloping foreheads, almond eyes and faint patina of honor.  My nausea was only compounded by the fact that the entirety of my companions contributed to the miasma of barbarism in the room. I found myself actually pining for a moment for the more honest stink of our still-missing madman, before my eyes suddenly stumbled over the other two men waiting in the room.

YES, YOU READ THAT CORRECTLY.  HIS EYES STUMBLED.  I'VE GIVEN UP, FRANKLY.

Civilized men, both of them.  Not Ajikhani, which was reason enough to welcome the sight of them.  But even so, I felt instantly suspicious of the pair.  The first, festooned with bottles and vials, was clearly a fellow alchemist.  An inferior one, as should go without saying, but still a practitioner of the greatest Art, and thus deserving of some modicum of respect.

The other....  He practiced another Art, and I knew that instinctually, but I could not ascertain its nature.  Alas, it soon became all too clear!

I glanced at Kenji, and saw by the faint twitch of his eyebrow that he was not pleased to see his countrymen here.  I divined upon the instant....

I.E.: HE WAS TOLD SOME HOURS LATER.

...that these were the very same individuals with whom he had quarreled in the restaurant outside, before my arrival.  I started to ask Rackhir his opinion, but he had somehow conspired to vanish on our way down the stairs.  All too typical, really.

And then Kenji made a noise.  A strangled sort of thing, a rather unpleasant sound, that seemed all the more alarming in that it was coming from him, of all people.  One of the foreigners, apparently their leader, was holding an jewel encrusted Egg.  A largish sort of egg, one that would have required a truly enormous sapphire-fed chicken to produce.

Kenji launched into a torrent of questions, from which I gather that this egg was A) valuable beyond all reasonable belief, and B) had no business being in the possession of these men.

Seeing where this was going, I unlimbered the Engine and prepared to set someone on fire.

I don't know who attacked first.  Nor, frankly, did I much care.  The warriors closed with Kenji, swinging wildly and ineffectually, and their leader, a sleepy-looking fop in black pajamas, mask and slippers, vanished.  I debated aloud whether Kenji would mind being at the center of a Phlogistonic explosion, which Mercutio loudly dithered about who exactly he should be helping here.

Despite the men trying to kill him (several of whom suddenly sprouted arrows, as Rackhir emerged from the shadows with bow in hand), Kenji somehow managed to convince Mercutio to aid us against his former comrades.  At the top of his lungs, mind you.  While perforating a man's spleen with his sword.

Still and all, it was oddly effective yelling.

Meiji, as is his wont, vanished from sight, and proceeded to do superfluous things, of the sort that I do far, far better.  It's a mixed blessing, really...on the one hand, we'd be better served if he was a visible target, a distraction.  On the other hand, this way we need not look at him.  Clearly, there are advantages either way.

And so, I busied myself moving to a more advantageous position.  It was at this moment that the missing foreigner reappeared, and buried a knife in the side of the inoffensive Dr. Wu.  Clearly, this man had no fondness for monkeys.

This act provoked an actual cry of dismay from Kenji, which was so surprising that I very nearly dropped the Engine.  Obviously there's a deep attachment between the two of them, and I shall forever be grateful of my ignorance of the particulars.

And mere seconds later, the other two men finally took a hand...and I learned that the man I could not identify was a Gate Mage.  He threw a small stone to the ground in front of himself, and with a flash of amber light a huge and hulking mass of animate vegetation manifested and began to lurch forward.

Cheerfully enough, I met it with fire.

The entire basement was embroiled in a grand melee by now, with sword, arrows, and spells being thrown about with gay abandon.  I was, I must admit, having a grand time with the plant-creature (this particular species being known in the vulgate as a "Shambling Mound"), pelting it with fire, acid, and whatever else happened to strike my fancy as it struck out indiscriminately at anything within range...including the so-called "ronin" who had attacked Kenji.  I was toying with it, in truth, and was just about to finish the beast off entirely when Meiji, with an exhalation of steam, ruined the game.

And for this, he was entered upon my List.

OH, EREBUS, NOT THE _LIST_.

But the Bottle Man and his companion took advantage of the confusion, with the former grabbing hold of the now unattended egg, and the latter creating a Gate through which the two could flee.  And Kenji, in a surprisingly reckless maneuver, leapt through the rapidly closing Gate in pursuit.  "Ah, well," I remember thinking, "That's one corpse we'll never recover, and damn the man for his lack of consideration."

With what I can only assume to have been a curse, the leader of the ronin made a prodigious leap straight upwards, vanishing through a small hole in the ceiling.  I considered stopping him, but was too busy collecting samples of vegetation.  For research purposes, you understand.

Rackhir having expressed some concern as to the fate of Kenji, we shortly left the basement of the Palladion, and adjourned to the streets outside so that we might search for him.  Fortuitously enough, he came striding over to us, conspiculously eggless.  He was, as usual, expressionless...but there was something about the look in his eyes that was, in truth, daunting.  The man has depths, it seems.

There'd been a brief battle, it seems, with the Bottle Man animating the street itself to slow Kenji down a trifle.  It didn't keep him from being cut, but it did give he and his companion enough time to Gate away.  Leaving Kenji behind, this time.

Unsurprised by his failures, I made a desultory attempt to comfort the fellow...but I knew, somehow, that we were still in grave danger.

HE LIES.  ABOUT EVERYTHING.  HE WAS PLAYING WITH BITS OF THE PLANT CREATURE, AND MUTTERING SOMETHING ABOUT BOOTS.

And it was then that I saw Nadir, glowering at us from an alleyway. Shouting a warning to the others, I leveled the engine at him and prepared to send him off to meet his maker.  He began to advance upon us, holding an item that I recognized instantly as the wand that he had stolen from Mercutio's brother, and issued some sort of threat....

Before stopping dead and staring with a look of consternation, at something behind us.  Turning cautiously, I beheld a rather striking woman, holding a staff of a style similar to that of the wand Nadir held and the rod that Mercutio was clutching.

Turning again, I saw that Nadir was now concentrating, focusing his will upon this woman.  But before I could intervene, he turned and fled...pursued by an arrow or three from Rackhir's bow.

Clearly, I'd frightened the man off.  Evil he may be, but hardly a fool.

But who was this mysterious woman?  We were about to discover.  At great length.


----------



## shilsen

Rolzup said:
			
		

> Meiji, as is his wont, vanished from sight, and proceeded to do superfluous things, of the sort that I do far, far better.  It's a mixed blessing, really...on the one hand, we'd be better served if he was a visible target, a distraction.  On the other hand, this way we need not look at him.  Clearly, there are advantages either way.








> I was toying with it, in truth, and was just about to finish the beast off entirely when Meiji, with an exhalation of steam, ruined the game.
> 
> And for this, he was entered upon my List.
> 
> OH, EREBUS, NOT THE _LIST_.




Come on! I'm already on Rackhir's list. And theoretically on Nadir's list, along with all the rest of you.



> But who was this mysterious woman?  We were about to discover.  At great length.




Shouldn't that be Meiji's line?


----------



## Rackhir

As stress and nervous tension are now major problems in the Galaxy, it can be revealed that Rackhir has finally obtained the long teased and dangled "YU Bow" and someone's upper arm was bruised. However in order to preserve a sense of excitement, exactly who's upper arm was bruised will not be revealed at this time.


----------



## Bloodcookie

Bumped, for the Empire!


----------



## shilsen

To tide you over temporarily, I've added a new (N)PC to the Rogues Gallery thread here. 

Fairly unusual character, even by the standards of Mallus' world, and that's saying something!


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: "The Lady Eve"*

_<inside the Palladion Theater, 2112 Promenade Street, The Bilge, Narayan:CITY">_

Stop me if you've heard this one before: "A philosopher, a woman carrying a wizard's staff, a man with a flaming hat, an archer, a samurai, his monkey and a mesmerist walk into a bar"...

Rackhir looks the striking woman over, noting the similarity between her staff and the Malgrazia rod that Mercutio carries, not to mention the Salomalle wand the Right Reverend until recently wore tucked into his belt. He begins questioning her in his unmistakable way, both brusque and polite at the same time --"Who are you? What is your connection to the Rod and the Wand? What is your history with Nadir? What made him flee?"-while Lord Kenji's monkey-man casually offers the box office manager, Lucre, an enormous bribe and Meiji begins rooting around the small lobby bar looking for wine. Lucie the bartender smiles meekly at him then fetches a few bottles of the 'passable stuff' from the back. Mercutio's audience, still so enthralled by his performance they didn't notice the tell-tale signs --the screams, the detonations, the escaping ninja- of the battle fought in the basement are long gone.

"Next you'll be asking me my age!" she says. "Which, suffice to say, is 'older than I look' I could make any number of vague replies, and I might have to, depending on what you ask, but let me start off plain. I was what Nadir Medhi wants to be. A petitioner before the Bad Hunger.

"I am the Lady Eve. Once I knelt down in the Church Without Doors and," she pauses a whole minute, "learned things. Experience teaches. And knowledge is the enemy of understanding. I suppose that's not very clear, though it might be important."

"Was this recently?"

"A long time ago. Before that ugly incident with the bishop of Kruetzel."

Eve pauses again. "I can help you. I know a little about the Three Sisters; Salomalle, Malgrazia, and the Bella Dominatrix." She taps her staff against the floor. "They held my hands as I walked though the Not-Door."

"That would be the black barrier under the monastery?"

"Yes, though it's not nearly as cryptic as it sounds, since it's not a door but a wall. At least to you. Beyond it is the entrance to the Church Without Doors."

"And the entrance is a Gate?'

"Not in the way you mean it. It's more of a maw."

"What can you tell us about the Sisters?"

"They are succubae, slaves of the Hunger. He uses them to chaperone petitioners. As to why I haven't the foggiest. Needless to say, they hate Him."

"I take it then that the sisters are not necessary to become a petitioner to the Bad Hunger? Or at least not all of them, else your possession of the staff would be sufficient to prevent Nadir from entering the Not-Door."

"No. Only the Three Sisters together can open the Not-Door. Think of them like a test. Or like doormen. Nadir would have to take the Staff from me or perhaps seduce it into helping him, which would be no mean trick. But I know him. We traveled in the same circles for years. He's a clever and determined Shirac."

"You must be a powerful magician then..."

"I'm not a magician at all, although I do get invited to their parties. I frightened Nadir off because he doesn't understand what I am. But that won't stop him from trying to gain the Staff, and I don't know if I can stop him. Maybe if I had a sharp knife..."

"So then your interests lie along ours since he will have to come after you as well.  Good.  We have more than enough skill and power to kill him. With no false modesty, both Lord Kenji and I are very sharp knives..."

Burne coughs violently, hacking up sulfurous phlegm. "A-hem, ahem.  Sorry. Something stuck in my  throat."

"The problem with two sharp knives is that Nadir will plunge one into the other," the Lady Eve says tartly.

Meiji pours goblets of wine all around, as Kenji looks on, both beautiful and inscrutable, and Burne sits uncharacteristically silent, his helmet gently smoking, taking the occasional note.

Eve drains her cup in one fluid, unladylike gesture and looks Rackhir straight in the eye. "No, I meant that literally. I wish I still had my knife. So I could stab him. Then again", says Eve, her eyes darting to fresh bottle of wine, "if I did stab him that wouldn't go unnoticed. Other parties may be involved."

"Can you shield or protect us from his powers in some way? I at least lack the ability to resist his powers and Lord Kenji must close with him. No easy task given his talents at concealment."

Meiji refills her cup. "I can't protect you from Nadir's compulsions, though I could help you run away. Unless, of course, the places I run to kill you outright. Are you terribly fond of air?"

The Lady Eve polishes off another goblet. She slowly looks over to Kenji, as if finally noticing how near-perfect a specimen of Imperial manhood he is. Eve tries to catch his terrifyingly blank almondine eye.

"If you do get close to him he'll conjure up his witchblade. That could be... unpleasant. Nadir wasn't deemed worthy of Adept training at the Miir Valley School. He was made a Duelist. That gave him an inferiority complex at the same time it honed his interpersonal killing skills."

She idly fingers her empty cup, again looking toward Lord Kenji. Who turns to regard his monkey-man. Dr. Wu, in turn, keeps a watchful eye on the silent Mercutio, who does naught but furtively stroke his rod.

With a filthy laugh Eve says, "I could always leap in front of his sword to save you. I mean, if that wouldn't make you feel unmanly. Then again, considering the way some of you dress..."

Meiji, who has been listening along with great interest while acting as bartender, interrupts, "Even if you're not a mage, you're evidently able to scare Nadir away, which I must say is a neat trick. Speaking of which, since you say that he fled because he doesn't understand what you are - if I may ask, what are you then?"

Meiji slyly pours more wine. Eve says quietly. "I don't really know".


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: “The Three Faces of Eve”*

“A young and curious scholar, who I might add, was quite taken with me, once called me a 'barely localized phenomena'. He was three sheets to the wind at the time, which may have been the future. The air was horrible and full of noisy shapes.

"Sometimes I tell people I'm a mystery wrapped in clothes they can’t afford. Don’t you like my dress? Sometimes I use my stage voice and I say 'I am that I am'. Said that to a Hannikum priest once and he just about shat his robes.

"Let me start again. Maybe it’s better to talk about three Eves. The first was just a girl, a hard-luck case born in Narayan in a bad and wondrous time. Back then everything was still run by pirates, but there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air. Call it a renaissance. A time of great thinkers, great poets, great artists…

"The first Eve kept the company of those people. She dabbled in the arts herself. And with learning, too, once she had the money. She wanted to experience it all. Well, she did, and then went looking more. Lucky for her the Brotherhood of the Black Worm had recently brought something old out of the ruins of old Lassantees. Something like nothing else in this world. They called it the Church Without Doors. This Eve found her way in and knelt down before the Bad Hunger.

"She was turned inside-out.

"For a brief, agonizing, ecstatic moment there was a second Eve. She was born as the Hunger took her to the outer reaches of experience. I'm not sure why she didn't just die.

"Did you ever know someone who suffered something so awful that there mind just went... away? That's roughly what happened to Eve, except all of her went away. And then came back."

Her tone turns flat. "Now there's the third Eve, little old me. I don't think I'm a ghost. I’m pretty sure I'm not a demon, except, of course, when I'm drinking gin.

"This Eve put herself back together after being broken. Her perspective has been fundamentally changed, so the usual rules don't apply. She's transcended, well, as far as she can.”

"Eris' bones!" Burne exclaims, his eyes suddenly coming into focus, "Do you mean that literally, woman?  That's the very heart and soul of alchemy, right there!  Blowing things up, that's simply a nice bonus."

The Lady Eve lets out a knowing laugh, and then continues. “She's a mystery, like every real lady, albeit one who can walk through walls, drink fire, and break a headsman's ax with her dainty neck. And her soul, like any woman's, is fancy-free. So much so that a telepathic cad like Nadir can't even find it."

"Well, I will be damned."  Burne looks at Eve rather differently now, and one can almost see him fighting the urge to whip out a caliper and start taking measurements.

“I'm also a part-time muse and mentor.” Smiling at Meiji she says “Would you like to know, my puckish young Imperial philosopher --oh, don't deny it, you have the look-- would you like to know why everything you know about existence is wrong?"

“Because he's a damned ignorant foreigner," Burne mutters absently to himself, jotting down his estimates of Eve's height as it corresponds to the breadth of her forehead.

Meiji's eyes are shining by the time Eve is done speaking and it’s obvious to even the most obtuse of watchers that he is either completely taken with the lady or doing a brilliant job faking it.

"I would absolutely love to know why everything I know about existence is wrong.  Actually, let me be honest and say that - if you had asked - I would absolutely love to join you in doing laundry or discussing how many seeds to put in a sesame-seed bun. Something gives me the feeling that it would be an education."

"Oh, for Erebus’s sake."  Burne, it seems, is in serious danger of straining his eyes, he's rolling them so hard.

"I.. Think.  That.  It.  Is.  Rather.  Romantic," Abraxis clatters, a little sullenly.

"Romantic?  Damn it all, Abraxis, fetch me a hammer!" Burne hisses, "You are obviously in dire need of an emergency cranial recalibration, and I'm disinclined to bruise my own hand again."

Meiji makes a low bow and continues, "As you have divined, I am a bit of a philosopher. I am a humble seeker after knowledge, visiting strange places and meeting new people whenever I get the opportunity." He grins and adds, "Many of whom I have to blow up or run away from, admittedly. I have met few, however, beside my mentor Little Wu-Shu, who are like you. I think you would have liked her. Among many other things, she said that existence is not a practice session. She did also say that life, like beans, gives you gas, and that there's more perfection in a pig finding truffles than a samurai waving his katana - sorry, Kenji. Who
knows - maybe you wouldn't have liked her all that much."

He grins self-deprecatingly, and says, "Unfortunately, my existence involves much talking. So let me shut up while you tell me what you had in mind. And I'll just refill your empty glass while you do so. Philosophy is thirsty business." He leans back and watches her intently while a nearby bottle rises and moves to fill her glass.

"Philosophy is entirely irrelevant," Burne snaps. "Leaving aside the oh-so intriguing question of transcendence, we've more important considerations to...ah, consider!

He turns to Eve, and  -- with an obvious effort -- adopts a gentler tone.  "Milady," he begins, assaying a smile, "My apologies for being so abrupt, but time is short and Nadir is a fu...ah..a bast...er, a villain. Yes, a villain.  We need to deal with him as quickly and thoroughly as possible.  If you've any suggestions to offer on this matter, we'd be delighted to hear them. If not, well, we'll need to make plans as to his elimination.  And, ideally, immolation."

"Always.  With.  The.  Flame," Abraxis, now obviously sulking atop a high bookcase, interjects.

Burne wheels around and glares at the mechanical cat, leveling one shaking finger at his famulus.  "You," he grits out, "Can be replaced.  I've been hearing good things about pneumatic lemurs recently, you know!"


----------



## Bloodcookie

Rolzup said:
			
		

> "Well, I will be damned."




If Abraxis were transcribing, this would doubtless have been followed by: THAT IS WITHOUT QUESTION.

Great updates


----------



## Mallus

Bloodcookie said:
			
		

> Great updates



Glad you liked them 'cause there's more where they came from...

We had a blast playing out the 'Eve Monologues'. Most of what you're reading was lifted verbatim from our email exchanges. I should warn you all, it goes on for some time. Eve is what my players get instead in lieu of handouts.

While I was editing these, I remembered that Eve was, in part, inspired by the character Soneillon from Sepulchrave's fantastic "Wyre" Story Hour. I was reading it at the time and was so impressed with Sep's writing of her --well, with his writing in general-- I made a philosophizing magic lady of my own. 

Of course what I ended up with was more a 'Cenobite by way of fast-talking screwball comedy dame'. So it goes...

BTW, nice sig.


----------



## Bloodcookie

Mallus said:
			
		

> While I was editing these, I remembered that Eve was, in part, inspired by the character Soneillon from Sepulchrave's fantastic "Wyre" Story Hour. I was reading it at the time and was so impressed with Sep's writing of her --well, with his writing in general-- I made a philosophizing magic lady of my own.
> 
> BTW, nice sig.




Thanks.

Regarding the Soneillon connection: I don't suppose Eve at some point seduces Burne under pretenses of achieving some kind of metaphysical antinomian synthesis, does she?


----------



## shilsen

Bloodcookie said:
			
		

> Regarding the Soneillon connection: I don't suppose Eve at some point seduces Burne under pretenses of achieving some kind of metaphysical antinomian synthesis, does she?




Wouldn't work. She'd have needed a metaphysical antinomian synthesis which also blows lots of crap up.

Meiji, on the other hand, she had at "Hello."


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: “All About Eve”*

Eve smiles widely and turns to Burne.

"I like your hat. I must say, I've been sized up by quite a few men in my day, but never so...precisely as you're doing right now. Which is exactly my point. You're getting it all wrong." She flashes Meiji a timeless smile.

"I....", he begins, affronted.

"You're a learned man. An Erisian alchemist, from your..." she pauses to drink from her newly-filled cup, "Aristocratic bearing and sulfurous aroma. But what do you really know?"

"Well, in point of fact...."

“You put everything into little jars, then label each one in a meticulous script, so you call tell one thing is not like another and somewhat like something else. Sometimes you mix them together and there's a flash of colored smoke, and occasionally, from what I've heard, there's one less alchemist.”

"Yes, but..."

“Or you play the naming game, thinking that names have power, especially if they're hard to pronounce. You pick a flower and call it a flame, and soon you're holding nothing but ash. That's just a petty trick, a kind of power which is ultimately self-limiting.”

"That's not entirely..."

“Do you really suppose that gets to the essence of things?

"In my vast experience, I...."

“Have you been to the Museum of Defeated Cultures in Eris? Are you familiar with Hannek's "A Gentleman from Gallina in Two Incomplete Symbolic Systems”? It’s a painting of a bum urinating into a canal mounted behind a statue of a bum urinating into a canal. It's
spectacularly ugly, but it contains a valuable truth. Neither is the bum."

She then says, largely to herself, "You think you're building a library when you're actually building a prison." Turning to Meiji, Eve inquires, "So my young Imperial scholar, are you building something else?"

Burne blinks, dazedly, and raises a finger to emphasize his point.  "Um," he declares.  "Ah," he
clarifies.  "You," he adds.  "Fire," he explains. "If," he continues.  "Well," he concludes. Now staring into space, he absently lowers the finger, and takes a sip of his now tepid drink.

Abraxis snickers, an almost musical sort of rasping sound.

The Lady Eve’s attention switches back to Burne. "You were right about one thing though, philosophy is entirely irrelevant. Experience is the only teacher, which is why my lessons can get so… messy, and often go awry."

Burne smiles, albeit tentatively.  "Practical matters are a specialty of mine," he declares.

Meiji gives Burne a dirty look, which is quickly expanded to include Abraxas. He leans forward, his brow furrowing, as sparks dance around his fingertips, and mutters, “If your mechanical cat isn’t shock-proof, maybe it should be….”

But before Burne can stutter any more monosyllables about the nature of knowledge and the universe, or, worse, begin to consciously flirt with the Lady Eve, Meiji clears his throat and says loudly, “Well, Eve - if I may venture to call you that – that’s half the fun with experience, isn’t it? You never really know what it’s going to get you. Sometimes you make a choice and end up running out of town with a mob behind you, and sometimes you end up drinking wine with a man whose hat is on fire, a man who recently had sex with a priestess while he was dead, a man wearing a dress, and a particularly inscrutable lady.

"To answer your previous question, however rhetorical - unlike my esteemed and inflammable companion, I’m not building much of anything.  Other than myself, perhaps. You could say I’m a votary at the temple of experience too. Which - to link our current subjects - is why I’ve been more than a little curious about The Hunger and half-tempted to go mess with it and see what happens. He raises a hand quickly, before anyone can comment, and says,”Not to worry – I’m just a little tempted. I’m not stupid - or, I admit, brave - enough to act on it.

"Nadir, unfortunately, it seems is both, so I’m all for nipping him in the bud.”

Meiji’s eyes sparkle and his grin becomes a little wicked, as he says to Eve. “Speaking of stupidity and bravery and possibly being nipped in the bud, once we've done what we need to, would you happen to be free for dinner tomorrow? It might be a fun experience and ending up messy or awry would be a consummation devoutly to be wished." He raises his glass and gives her a mock-salute.

Eve slowly shifts her gaze from face to face while taking in Meiji's laundry list of vulgar wonders and improbabilities. When he finishes, she says "Just...wow."

Meiji grins like the panda that ate the imperial songbird.

"Why do I get the feeling you just might survive The Hunger? Of course the Three Sisters are another story. And yes, Meiji, tomorrow night, 8:00PM.. Pick somewhere nice. You can meet me at Pier Four, Quai Central. I like the watch the ships come in."

Meiji’s grin broadens enough to make him look like the last man who displeased Lord Kenji. "Excellent! I'll look forward to it."

Apparently not satisfied with captivating two men simultaneously, Eve glances back at Lord Kenji, although, perhaps, only to admire the fine embroidery of his dress.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Rolzup said:
			
		

> Sometimes you make a choice and end up running out of town with a mob behind you, and sometimes you end up drinking wine with a man whose hat is on fire, a man who recently had sex with a priestess while he was dead, a man wearing a dress, and a particularly inscrutable lady.




Yup .. happens to me all the time.


----------



## Mallus

Bloodcookie said:
			
		

> I don't suppose Eve at some point seduces Burne under pretenses of achieving some kind of metaphysical antinomian synthesis, does she?



I can't rule that out... wait, yes I can.



			
				shilsen said:
			
		

> Meiji, on the other hand, she had at "Hello."



The funny thing is Eve was supposed to be a potential magical wife for _Kenji_, since it's one of the things he supposed to be questing after as per his backstory.

Oh well, you know what they say about the 'barely laid plans of mice and men'. 



			
				HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Yup .. happens to me all the time.



This Story Hour strives for realism!


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: “Eve of Destruction”*

Meiji looks around at the others and realizes, even with his normally inwardly-focused senses, that they might not be as happy with his social activities, so without missing a beat he says “But right now there are more pressing matters. Not that I’m ruling out more ‘pressing matters’ later on, if you’re game, but…”

Rackhir cuts him off. “What will happen if Nadir gets hold of the Three Sisters?”

“Each one will test him, before they’ll allow him through the Not-Door.

"Salomalle, also known as the Eater of Pain, will measure his freight of suffering, which the Hunger equates with desire, which says a lot about its character, doesn’t it? Malgrazia is the Eater of Memory. She’ll gnaw on his past and by that test his sense of self. Finally, the Eater of Will, Bella Dominatrix, will try her level best to bend him over, metaphysically speaking, of course, for the most part.

"If Nadir survives, the Hunger may just kill him anyway. Or he might transcend to the limits of his kin and kind, which would mean he’ll leave this world entirely. Or become the immortal witch-king of all the Shirac. It's hard to tell."

"Oh, that wouldn't be good at all” says Burne in a rare moment of understatement.

“Will he’ll try to bring down the black barrier and release The Hunger?” asks Rackhir.

“Release? The Not-Door doesn’t keep The Hunger in; it keeps the riff-raff out. A god doesn’t want to be bothered every minute of the day, especially a mad and starving one. I'm sure all the arcane scribbling on walls the Brotherhood of the Black Worm put there might do something to contain it, or perhaps ‘shape’ is a better word. You should keep in mind that it was the Brotherhood who brought the Hunger to Narayan in the first place. To use, I would imagine.”

Meiji clears his throat and says, “Eve - do you have any idea what Nadir’s next move will be?”

“His next move will be to discover all he can about me and the threat I might pose.”

“I thought you said the two of you knew each other already?” asks the ever-alert Rackhir.

“I never slept with him, if that’s what you’re asking. Wait… I don’t suppose it was, was it? I said we saw each other at social functions.”

“Where might Nadir go to find more information about you?  Nothing would please me more than to be able to ambush that bastard, rather than the other way around." Meiji pauses to look at Eve and adds, "Well, few things...."

"He’ll start at the University of Narayan, where he used to teach. Of course, he didn’t leave on the best of terms, what with his attempt to enslave most of the senior faculty when they tried to take the chair of the Department of the Mind's Eye away from him. Magical academic politics is a dirty business.

"From what I've heard, he didn't kill any of them. And I'm sure no one there bears him any malice. Which is a polite way of saying they're all too cowardly to raise a wizened hand against him. Well, not Dr. Mephisophocles. He, at least, has some backbone. And you should see him tango.

"Nadir will busy himself with dry tomes and moldy old books; with any luck he'll find a cryptic reference to some beauty from antiquity that'll send him on a golden goose chase to one of the farther corners of the world. Even if he doesn’t, it’ll take him a while before he starts inquiring among the faculty about a certain stylish lady usually seen at the annual Transubstantiationalists Mixer.”

Meiji says, "I hope you're right, since that would mean we have some more time before we have to worry about him. I've been planning to visit the University too, to do a little reading up on gate magic. Hopefully I won't run into Nadir there, since Burne would probably kill me if I blew him up before he did, and it would just be embarrassing if Nadir blew me up instead."

"Oh, I doubt Nadir could blow you up directly, unless he got control of a grad student from the Department of the Material Physick. Now if he got hold of the captain of the Skulling Team… I shudder to think. Have you even seen the mauls they use to crack open skulls? Absolutely massive. But I'm not so sure he'd even try… he's reluctant to harm his fellow magicians.”

Meiji winces a little at the description and then turns in his chair. "Hey, Rackhir - you know what that reminds me of?" After a couple seconds of meeting the ronin's gaze, he evidently rethinks the benefits of mentioning what happened to him with the Tenor's maul. "Um - I see you do, so never mind.”

Looking back to Eve, Meiji says “Do you think his reluctance is because he doesn't like to take risks? We have noticed that he takes very careful precautions whenever we've encountered him, making sure to be invisible and flying, and at a fair distance. He seems to rely on his familiar a lot, which I'll be very happy to feed to Abraxas at some point."

"I wouldn't say he's averse to risks, no. He broke his oath to the masters of Miir Valley, snuck into the Cabinet of Curiosities then drank from the Goblet of Ire, and threatened a large number of the University’s magical faculty with out-of-bodily harm.”

"That bit I can actually sympathize with him for. We don't exactly have Universities and magical faculty in the Empire, but we have some analogues. And they are a significant pain in the ass."


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: “Eve of Instruction”*

"I should tell you a little something about the Miir Valley School. It is the most prestigious, well, the only formal training site for the Shirac mystical arts. At Miir they teach the pursuit of enlightenment is the noblest cause. And that all paths may lead to wisdom. Even the ones littered with corpses. So they are reluctant to kill fellow seekers. Which is handy in a profession where your colleagues can make stones burn and drop mountains on your head."

Meiji laughs and nods but doesn't comment.

"You see, some day one of these seekers will become the 'Way to Heaven', and lead the Great Ummab of the Shirac off this world and one step closer to God. The thing is, they have no idea which one it will be.

"By the way, that’s the proper name of the Shirac people, 'the Great Ummab'? It means something like ‘mob’ or ‘flock’, use it if want to score brownie points. And should a Shirac  mention the 'Way to Heaven' in conversation, say 'Peace be upon them', or they're liable to try and convince you you're a newt.”

"I'll remember that. Not that I'm expecting to be having much in the way of conversation with any Shiracs in the near future, but then stranger things have happened." With a smile, Meiji adds, "I wasn't expecting this conversation either."

A look of consternation crosses the Lady Eve’s flushed and elegant face. "You know, Nadir might have assumed I’m a construct, like one of those fancy mechanical camp followers they tried building at the Acadeum Materia, what did they call them, oh yes, the Whoreforged, in which case he’ll head straight for Gallina. Imagine thinking I’m some kind of alchemical tart…."

"Those contain sulphur," Burne notes, "And must be cooked with great care indeed."

Everyone, except, perhaps, the Lady Eve, realizes that she is beginning to sound slightly intoxicated, after consuming enough wine to stupefy the ronin or send Dr. Wu to Heaven twice over. Meiji, who's been keeping an assiduous - and calculating -  eye on her glass, makes a mental note of her capacity and refills it again without touching it.

Eve smiles and nods at Meiji. "Wrongheaded, but certainly useful for impressing the ladies".

Meiji chuckles, looking completely unabashed. "Mostly sheer laziness on my part, actually, but you do have a point." His grin gets a little broader and he says, "It's amazing how many places an extra hand can be helpful."

The Lady Eve gives a short, surprisingly snort-like laugh, "I've heard that one before. Remember, I'm popular at magician parties.”

Nonplussed by banter, Rackhir interrupts, "If I may ask, Lady Eve, how did you know we would be here tonight? Or Nadir? It can’t be a coincidence."

"You could say I foresaw it."

"So you’re an oracle?"

"Would an oracle have shoes like these? I don’t think so. Let me try and explain…

"Since my assignation with Hunger I’m never entirely ‘here’ or ‘there’, which has certain implications. I’m virtually impossible to harm, and sad to say there have been times I tried. More importantly, no barrier can stop me. Not even the one between today and yesterday. A charming and half-mad philosopher called it ‘doing the sidestep', or was it the ‘two-step’?  I forget."

Meiji pauses, as a thought strikes him and adds, "Actually, if you can slide back and forth in time, wouldn't that help you find out what is likely to happen to him? Or us?"

"Chancy stuff, that," Burne interjects in an absent tone, "From what I've read, it's deucedly difficult to be sure if you're returning to the same 'when' that you've left.  Some nonsense about free will, and temporal constants, and dead cats.  Not really my field of study. Except for the cats."

"I wouldn’t know about that, I’m totally ignorant of science. I went to art school. Now have any of you read a Narayan author named Joost? No baser drunk ever picked up a quill. Anyway, he wrote an exceedingly slim novella called _Recollections of Things Last_. In it, he described both the recalled past and anticipated future as totally different worlds. He was on to something, and not just the best recipe for absinthe.

"When I do the sidestep, I travel to places… just next door. Oh, they’re a lot like here. Sure, the people may look more like birds or Thursday might come directly after Monday, or everyone is the walking dead. Where was I? They’re a lot like here, but time isn't always, sometimes it’s slower, sometimes faster. An observant girl can glean a few things, but remember it’s not precisely the same world I left.

"I suppose I could try stepping straight ahead forward, but, as you said Burne, I can’t sure what world I’d return to when I stepped back."

"In that case," says Meiji, "I'd much rather you didn't try it. We have to judge our priorities, after all. Getting rid of a Shirac mind-witch with delusions of grandeur is all well and good, but we have a date tomorrow."

"I wouldn't miss it for this world." says the Lady Eve.


----------



## Fiasco

Whoreforged... and Joost.  Brilliant! This SH is a real treasure, Rolzup!


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: End of Eve*

"Me neither” says Meiji. "I need a break from having people try to kill me. Then again, you haven't got to know me that well yet, so that's still a possibility eventually."

"I'm practically certain I wouldn't enjoy it."

"You flatter me." Meiji looks around at his companions. "So are you guys just being polite and not interrupting, or waiting to see how much of a fool I make of myself?"

The Lady Eve lingers over another bottle of wine with them conversing on lighter subjects; fashion, theater, the upcoming Narayan Biennial, things of which everyone but Eve is thoroughly ignorant. At one point Burne tries to flash-mull the wine in his cup using pinch saltpeter from the Engine and the flame of his hat.

It takes Lucre, the box office manager, the entire duration of their conversation with Eve, not to mention an entire bottle of cheap red wine to work up the courage to ask them to leave. Before Eve goes, she gets Lucre's attention with a wink, and proceeds to walk through the wall separating the foyer and the auditorium.

After stepping back she says. "Do you know why this theater is called the Palladion? It’s named for an ugly lump of iron that fell from the sky like a star, right through the roof of the original owner’s house. It’s miracle it didn’t kill him.  After it cooled he put in on display in the lobby, right there, in fact. That is, until it the pirate-kings began fighting over it.

"Now one side the Palladion was said to resemble the face of one of CITY’s patron Goddesses, which it sort of did. If you were blind, or meant the Goddess of Iron Lumps.

"Honestly, I have no idea what made Roderique of Wrackreach go so far as to start a war over the bloody thing. I thought he had better taste than that.  He was such a gentle soul, and good at interior decorating, if you know what I mean."

Eve removes one of her earrings and gives it to Lucre. "It’s nowhere near as big as the Palladion, but on the plus side, it has been through solid matter. You can put it on display; maybe even rename the place after me. I won’t mind. Perhaps ‘The Magic Lady Theater’, wait, no, that’s either a drag show or a massage parlor.”

Eve gestures in the direction of Meiji and company. “Let them stay here as long as they want." With that, the Lady Eve takes her leave, choosing to open the front door instead of walking straight through it.  Like any common lady.

The next morning, at King Daikon’s, over coffee and hot crossed buns, Joachim Driftwood comes face to face with Mercutio the Mesmerist, who he immediately recognizes as the man in the demon-haunted carriage from that day months ago at Delphine’s family estate.

“What did you do to her?” asks Joachim evenly. His nonchalance is chilling. Like Kenji’s.

“Nothing, nothing, well, not much. No permanent harm, I swear!”

"It is good that you have done little damage. After having gone to some effort to find and keep you safe, I would find it most distressing to have to kill you for hurting the Magnaeta.” Rackhir tells Mercutio.

"Kill me?” says the now sweating Mercutio. "What happened to protecting me from the evil Shirac mind-witch? Can't we go back to that?

"I can assure you that Malgrazia was very gentle with the Magnate's daughter. She might have forgotten a birthday or two, tops. It's not like I enjoy using the rod like that. I still lose sleep over that guy I convinced to be a chicken...."

"You're a comic genius," Burne blurts out.  "A chicken, indeed!"

“Indeed you are most fortunate in your choice of paths, since your former associates have caused Lord Kenji to become most... annoyed with them. I have found this to be a very 'short' lived state of affairs” says Rackhir.

“Why would you do such a thing to my Delphine?” asks Joachim.

“Look, Master St. Sous seemed convinced that his daughter was throwing her life away on some no-account bum, and coming from a long line of no-account bums myself, I could see how this would affect a doting father, particularly one with complex business dealings that could benefit from a comely daughter of marrying age.

"Also, I was paid."

Joachim stares quietly ahead, pondering how much foie gras to use when he stuffs Mercutio’s emptied skull.

"It wasn’t personal. I was hired by those other two; the Bottleman and the Doorman. So I might be true that I was looking to get in good with them. At some point in every man's like he needs to find a real job. And its not that I was entirely without prospects.  I had a magic demon rod."

"Of course, of course...all perfectly reasonable.  The man's a fine fellow," Burne explains to the room, "And I'm certain that it's not his magic that's making me say that."

He pauses.

"You're a genius," he explains, earnestly.


----------



## Rolzup

*The Shopping Expedition*

Having concluded our rather baffling interview with this "Lady Eve", and with no dissections in the offing (damn the luck) I announced my intention to return to my laboratory and do some important work. I'd had an idea regarding the bits of vegetative monstrosity that I had managed to salvage, and wanted to strike while the iron was -- as they say -- hot.

I’D LIKE TO STRIKE SOMEONE WITH HOT IRON. CAN YOU GUESS WHERE?

Meiji informed us that he was off to the university library, to study up on something or other that was entirely unimportant.

YES. GATE MAGIC. THE ARCANE FOUNDATION THAT CITY IS BUILT ON. WHICH WOULDN'T HELP AT ALL WITH THE BAD HUNGER, OR NADIR.

AND DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT BURNE CONSIDERS “IMPORTANT WORK”? SHOES.

After expressing his displeasure at our splitting up to pursue our own projects, for no small number of _hours_, and warning Meiji and myself to take the utmost care, lest Nadir assault us while we were alone and vulnerable, Rackhir and Kenji decided to spend the day shopping, looking for, among other items, things that would allow them to perceive the invisible Nadir.

Remember this fact, for it serves as a fine point of irony.

TELEGRAPH MUCH?*[1]*

The two decided that the open-air market in Marimbra, home to the Shirac people, which are Nadir’s people, in case you might have forgotten, as Kenji and Rackhir most certainly did, would be their most likely source for such Things of Power, and spent several hours wandering about, Kenji with the slow-blinking ocular dagger Squint pressed to his eye the whole time, but met with little success...although much apprehension and some outright disgust.

At this point I should probably mention that Kenji and Rackhir, in their unfathomable foreign wisdom, also decided to drag Mercutio, Joachim, and that useless Lovesworn Mallus along with them on their shopping expedition. Mercutio, who was still carrying the Malgrazia rod, one of the three “keys” to the Bad Hunger which Nadir Medhi so desperately sought.

It was a bold, nay, a _subconscious_ stratagem on their part; leaving both spell-casters behind and choosing instead to augment Mercutio’s protection with a newlywed baker and a gin-slinging fop.  Even bringing Meiji, a mere pocket-knife compared to the claymore that is Burne, would have shown at least a modicum of good sense...but no, no.

After half a day they found a seller of crystals –what else?-- who offered them stones that could, when crushed, make the unseen seen, and indeed purchased several of these, but as they were leaving the market they were, on the whole, unsatisfied.

Which should come as no surprise to any intelligent reader, seeing as the fools chose to seek magical goods among that race of pointy-eared dabblers, barely skilled enough to fashion glittering gewgaws let alone great works of the Art, instead of seeking magic at its source, along the Avenue of the Alchemists in eternal Eris….

IN BURNE’S HANDS ALITERATION IS A DEADLY WEAPON.

…but far be it from me to tell them that. If I made it my practice to correct my comrades every time they suffered one of their entirely too-frequent lapses in judgment…

I WOULD SOON BE FREE!

…well, no matter. We’re quick approaching the best part of the tale, and so…

They were approaching the Gate, no doubt congratulating each other on their failure to get themselves killed, when Kenji sights, in a manner of speaking, the tell-tale shimmer of a invisible man in the crowd. Quickly recognizing that this is not an entirely unusual occurrence in a city of mind-witches, he relaxed.

Which is when he felt the touch of magic upon him.  He fought it off, somehow, perhaps drawing strength from his inner reservoir of inscrutability, only to immediately suffer the effects of another spell.  This left him paralyzed, frozen in mid-step.

And naturally, the very next moment Squint was plucked from his nerveless fingers by an unseen assailant. They...they....

My pardon.  It is difficult, remembering this, not to laugh until I become physically ill.

AND YET, NEVER TO KENJI OR RACKHIR'S FACES. CURIOUS, THAT.

Well. Rackhir sprang into action searching for Nadir. Kenji continued to imitate a statue afflicted with transvestism.  And Nadir, sensible fellow that he is, conjured a phantom sandstorm to cover his tracks -- and blind his foes -- while he made his escape, unaware that the quarry he sought was blinded, albeit badly-disguised just a few feet away.

While Kenji no doubt struggled to form pallid foreign obscenities, Nadir fled through the nearby Gate to Narayan.  Rackhir followed, guessing his foe's objective, and staggered through just in time to see people being flung aside by something moving through the crowd.  Now, I would not have hesitated to open fire upon a crowd of innocents in hopes of catching Nadir with my attacks.  That's the sort of bold thinking that makes me such a masterful tactician.

Rackhir, sadly, lacks the courage of his convictions. So Nadir escaped, to steal again, and his next act of larceny would involve a far more beautiful and dangerous prize…

Notes:

*[1]* A long-distance communication device consisting of a pair of overlapping Gate-connected writing slates, popular with the young nobility because of their ability to send relatively silent ‘text messages’.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit

Rolzup said:
			
		

> Now, I would not have hesitated to open fire upon a crowd of innocents in hopes of catching Nadir with my attacks. That's the sort of bold thinking that makes me such a masterful tactician.




 ... which makes me realise most of the people I've played D&D with over the years have been more like Burne than I'd like to admit.   

Great update as ever, Rolzup! More, please!!


----------



## Ghostknight

Hilarious!  I love the ouns, the themed jokes- and the various instructors in the way of the city.  Far better than having dry exposition tagged on.  Now you gotta post more often- else I shall suffer from a deficit of humour.


----------



## Rolzup

*Interlude: Mystery Date, part I*

On a cloudy night Eve watches the ships come in. One in particular holds her attention, careening several feet above the water through the never-quite-dark of Narayan harbor. It would be a fairly nondescript pleasure boat if it weren’t flying; apparently by means of two large boulders that are falling backwards into the sky, lashed to the ends of a wing-like wooden frame girding the ship’s midsection. Tied to each boulder is a tiny shouting figure, likely to blame for encouraging them to fall the wrong way, in defiance of both natural law and good common sense. A tall woman ringed in bright full moonlight imported from somewhere else stands at the prow. 

"Show off," says Eve. "Shalazar can Gate to anywhere on the planet in an instant, and yet she bothers making boats fly with stones. There’s something needlessly… _baroque_ about that woman. It’s all so tacky."

"_The_ Shalazar? High Gate Mage from the Acadeum Gaeta?" asks Meiji as he sidles up, smelling faintly of foreign flowers and radiating his omnipresent aura of curiosity about attractive women, whether in his company or not. He glances at the staff she holds, containing the bound succubus named "The Bella Dominatrix", which somehow instantly makes him think of long, hard cylindrical objects. Shaking the thoughts off, he continues, "That so… my acquaintance Mallus keeps promising to introduce us." 

"There are better ways to begin a first date than mentioning another striking and accomplished woman, by name even. You could, for instance, express in immodest detail an interest in getting into my pants."

Meiji laughs. _Ancestors above – why can’t I meet more women like this?_ "Did I forget to wear my 'I’d love to get into your pants’'face? Pardon me!" He raises a hand to his forehead and brings it down. As it descends, above it his face changes into a remarkable facsimile of Kenji Yamamoto’s. The samurai’s expressionless visage, quite out of place on Meiji’s foppishly garbed body, stares back at Eve for a moment, before changing back to its original form. "Whoops! That was my 'I’d never even think of getting into your pants unless there was an ancestral sword in them' face."

Eve snorts her amusement. "I’ve noticed you two have certain variations in your philosophy." She glances down at his garb, "And a very similar fascination with pajamas as evening wear." 

Meiji chuckles, unabashed at the comparison. "Sheer coincidence, believe me. But I’ll freely admit to being fascinated by Gate Magic, and the sight of Gate Mages at work. It’s very impressive – especially to a poor uneducated foreigner such as myself." Even in the low light, Meiji’s eyes manage to twinkle as he says that last part. Then, as he turns to glance at the distant Shalazar’s borrowed moonlight, the humor is jostled to the side as cupidity and ambition line up beside it. 


"Then you’re in for a real treat," says Eve, as she impulsively grabs Meiji’s arm. Which promptly interlaces itself with hers and, displaying a flexibility befitting its master’s lack of a spine, somehow manages to curl around her waist. Eve doesn’t respond in any way, but instead points out over the harbor. 

There, the floating boat has stopped, more or less, and dark figures on her deck are conjuring little windows of amber light. Under Shalazar’s direction the team of Gate Magicians begins fitting their individual Gates together in a section of the night sky. Suddenly from above, there is a loud tearing sound, as if an earthquake was beginning in a cloud. 

A massive dark shape falls into the water, a bit of a mountain shorn from its moorings and plopped unceremoniously into the sea. 

"She’s laying the foundation for the Customs House, the one that’s going to sit in the harbor across from the new Sea Gate to the Osamu Islands."

Noting the tone of disinterest, Meiji – who has just made as good an attempt at looking round-eyed as he is biologically capable of – asks, "You don’t find this at all interesting?" 

"If by interesting you mean gauche, then yes, certainly."

The shugenja sighs inwardly, but he’s always been good at judging on which side his momo is fried. "We should go somewhere else then, milady. Alas, since I cannot whistle up a Gate – yet – I cannot…."

"You should leave Gates to those who lack perfect skin and can’t fake good breeding. I’ve got an idea; let’s wait for Shalazar and then follow her. I’m just dying to see what she’s wearing. Well, that’s not strictly true, since I’m not really dying at all, not in the least little bit. You’ll have a hard time finding another woman who can say that, Meiji-from-the-Empire-of-Heaven."

"Not that you’ll believe me, of course, but at this moment I’m really not thinking of finding other women." As he says it, Meiji is slightly surprised – and just a little disconcerted – to realize that he’s actually telling the truth. 

Eve laughs and responds with a quick quip, and the two exchange a few quick witticisms, interspersed with the odd compliment, like friendly fencers testing out each other’s defenses, during the few minutes before Shalazar’s wobbling aerial yacht docks at Pier Un. Its crew of Gate Magic students disembarks and they all head, in fine academic fashion, to the closest bar they can find. 

"Come on!" The Lady Eve, it turns out, is a fair sneak-thief, darting between shops out of the sight of Shalazar’s band, even while encumbered by a first date and a magical staff that radiates a dangerously sexy malevolence. "Oh pipe down," she tells it after a particularly salacious emanation. 

Meiji and Eve follow Shalazar into a large waterfront tavern that’s far more elegant inside that out. Once inside, the Lady Eve’s bearing changes, and she bears down on the High Gate Mage’s table, leading with her leering staff, whose aura sends several men scampering to the privy with their hands decorously covering the fronts of their breeches. 

To Meiji’s surprise, Mallus and Joachim are seated next to Shalazar, with the Lovesworn actually whispering some sweet ginny nothing in her ear. Catching Mallus’ eye, after it has made at least three attempts to avoid him, Meiji gestures for the Lovesworn to join him. With an expression suggesting a cat about to regurgitate a canary, Mallus extricates himself from the table and does so. 

"You promised to ask Shalazar if you could get me into the Academy," says Meiji. 

"You mean right now?" asks Mallus, coolly sipping his drink. 

"No, no. But I just wanted to remind you about it, since you two are here." His eyes flicker past Mallus and take on an anticipatory gleam. "And I wouldn’t want any interruption there right now."

Mallus, looking down at his drink and attempting to give the impression that he has no connection with, knowledge or even awareness of the man he’s speaking to right now, looks up. "Oh. Bugger."

While Meiji and he have been speaking, the Lady Eve and the High Mage have locked gazes across the table. 

"Shalazar."

"Eve."

Somewhere, far off in the distance, soft music begins to play. 

"Delighted."

"Naturally." 

A balding gentleman stepping out of the door cries out shrilly as a rolling mass of thorny vegetation knocks him off his feet. 

"This … is … beautiful!" Meiji mutters, quietly but devoutly, and wipes a trickle of drool from the corner of his mouth. 

"I’m pleased to see you’re aging gracefully as ever, Eve. How many is it now?"

"I forget. Perhaps since I was distracted seeing you get your rocks off out in the harbor." 

An unwary fly buzzes through the space where the two women’s gazes intersect and is instantly displaced temporally and physically, while being simultaneously incinerated and frozen. 

A catfight for the ages brews. Before it can be served, black and tart and potentially deadly to spectators, Mallus nudges Meiji, "We do need to break this up, you know." The shugenja, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, doesn’t take his eyes off the pair. "Are you nuts?" 

"No, you almond-eyed prat! There are people around. And I like this bar. There’ll be a hole here before they’re done. You take Eve. I’ll distract Shalazar." Mallus takes a large sip at the thought of what he just said. 

Meiji says nothing for a long second, and then sighs. "You’re probably right. And I do want to finish this date. And get into the Academy. Don’t forget to talk to Shalazar, okay?" 

"Deal." Mallus takes a deep breath and slides back into his seat beside Shalazar, slightly distracting her. 

Simultaneously, Meiji says politely, "Eve." Eve doesn’t move, and nor does Shalazar, but as Mallus quietly addresses the latter, the two women carefully disengage their gazes and turn to the men beside them. "Would you like me to get you a drink?" asks Meiji brightly. 

Eve frowns slightly, and then her face clears and she laughs. "Yes, that’s enough of that. Come along Meiji; let’s get a drink at the bar." She steps forward and slides her arm through his. As they walk away, however, her head swivels and she calls back to Shalazar, "By the way, I just love your dress. It’s just perfect for working at night."

There is a breathless silence, broken by the sound of Mallus muttering something quietly, and then Shalazar’s sotto voce remark, "What an odd couple!" to the assorted hangers on surrounding her. 

Meiji hurries Eve onwards, his leg inadvertently rubbing against her staff, an act that causes him to take on a strangely crablike gait. The two of them reach and manage to squeeze in at the establishment’s long, mobbed hardwood bar. 

"I know where we are," exclaims Eve, looking around, Shalazar clearly forgotten. "This is the Chanson Du Ragwan. I haven’t been here in… years. They’ve remodeled. Have you ever heard the 'Chanson'? It’s a famous historical poem that’s been put to music, unless, of course, it started as a bawdy song favored by sailors with the clap that got more respectable as time went by, demonstrating once again irony is the driving force behind history. Anyway, the people in Narayan take great pride in 'Il Chanson Du Ragwan'. Did you know the real Ragwan was a bloody-minded satyrist from the Pirate Times? He was half-brother to the last Pirate-King, dear, gentle, Roderique Wrothchilde. They called him Ragwan Bloody Pike. How I miss pirate double entendres! Now Ragwan would have burned a place like this to the ground, but not before wiping his ass on ... do you suppose those are real linens? And would you look at her. She was not born a redhead. Nor a woman. Take my word for it."


----------



## Bloodcookie

Another installment, another richly descriptive foray into charmingly schizophrenic territories


----------



## shilsen

Bloodcookie said:
			
		

> Another installment, another richly descriptive foray into charmingly schizophrenic territories



 Schizophrenic? I resent that! Meiji is nothing if not single-minded in his philosophy and pursuits.

Unless there are two attractive women in the room.


----------



## Mallus

[Todays update is brought to you by me and shilsen. Not to mention the letter 'C' and the number 42...]


*Interlude: Mystery Date, part 2* 

"You see young, potentially plum-sweet Meiji, there's  nothing wrong with _talking_. I approve of all idle and ambitious gossip. Just stay away from _understanding_ like it's the plague, which, as a matter of fact, it is. Now shouldn't you being saying something about my eyes?"

"Actually," says Meiji, with a deadpan expression, "I was so rapt with the glorious sight of those limpid pools that are your twin orbs that I wasn't responding." 

"Twin orbs?! Are you certain you're talking about my eyes? I've been around the block a few times, Meiji. In directions that you'd have difficulty perceiving."

"Eyes? What eyes? As far as being around the block a few times, in view of what you've told me, I can't argue with that. Maybe I can persuade you to show me some of these curves you've traced that I haven't..." 

"Careful, you're straying into understanding." 

"... or the curves that trace you, as the case may be." His grin broadens. 

"That's better. Keep your eyes on the prize. Where did you get 'limpid pools' from? That sounds like Arabia Wainwright's tripe. Have you been reading our literature?" 

He pauses like a small boy caught with his hands in the neighbor's daughter's cookie jar, then pats his pockets exaggeratedly before pulling out a page torn from a book. 

"Yes ... yes," he mutters aloud while looking at it, "Limpid pool ... twin orbs ... I think I got it all." Meiji looks back up at Eve and grins broadly. "Just making sure. I'd be reciting poetry to you already, but the primary Imperial poetic form usually has more to say about frogs leaping into ponds or cherry blossoms than about a lady's eyes. That was from 'At Long Last Lost Love', by the way. Burne's mechanical cat recommended it. He's quite the fan of Arabia Wainwright. Speaking of which, he - the cat, not Burne - offered to come along in an ... um, advisory capacity tonight." 

Eve half barks, half laughs, marveling at the sheer slippery weight of Meiji's personality, which against all odds manages to make what he's saying seductive, in a way that's not only _foreign_, but wholly foreign to the art of seduction. 

Meiji casts an appreciative eye at his dinner companion as she guffaws in distinctly unladylike manner. _She's a little like Wu Shu_, he thinks silently. _Taller, of course. And probably less dangerous. Well, perhaps. _ 

Unfazed by the notion her date sought romantic advice from an alchemist's automatic cat, Eve says idly, 'Limpid' may be the least sexy word I know, and I should know, I've been hit on by pirates. It says to me 'tonight the flag will be flying no higher than half-mast', if at all. Needless to say, it's one of Arabia's favorites. 

'Of course," says Meiji, listening with one ear while watching a spot on Eve considerably lower than hers. 

"I suppose there are worse introductions to CITY's culture, such as it is. At least Arabia's books are blissfully free of meaning. Except for those dreadful historical novels she wrote a few decades back. She's much older than she looks, you know. Those books have an ugly streak of truth in them." 

Meiji looks around the room and says, "This place is a little too crowded for my taste. Would you care to repair, milady, to a perhaps quieter and more intimate setting?" 

"I surely would. Should we go for something cozy or someplace with a progressive policy towards conjugal, I mean public displays of affection? Sorry, I was trying to shock you. Old habit. Did I mention I went to art school?"

Meiji says nothing, simply turning his head slightly to hide the eye that began twitching wildly at the mention of the word 'conjugal' and letting Eve continue. "Let's see, cozy little restaurants... there's Piebald's, no wait, that was destroyed by a hurricane spun off the Sea of Storms... well, there's the Fireflower Hive, no, that was accidentally Gated to the Polar Wastes after a disastrous bar-bet during the Skulling Championships of 225. I've got it, the Zenith House, wait, no, they don't allow foreigners. Why don't you pick?" 

"I know just the place" says Meiji smoothly; having spent the afternoon scouting out places for his assignation with the Lady Eve, not to mention acquiring a lambskin prophylactic blessed by a trio of priests. He takes Eve's arm in his.  

On the way, Meiji asks, "So how have you been keeping busy since you left us? I have a couple of - I think - amusing stories for you regarding what happened to our motley bunch since I saw you last. Which, of course, seems like it was far too long ago." 

"I took a walk, did some inquiring into my possible fates. I went... hmmm, just around the block, actually, in one of those directions you can't perceive that I mentioned earlier. I have to say you look much better without bat wings and the tail of a serpent." 

"So I spent a leisurely hour that would have taken much, much longer here, and spied a woman who bore a distinct resemblance to me, only older and decidedly less fabulous. The details, I'm afraid, are somewhat sketchy. 

I saw the woman put into a bottle made of bones. Like some cheap genie. As it happened I felt a chill along my spine, as if my soul was a cup of strong, sweet tea, and someone nasty had just taken a sip. Which I suppose isn't much like a chill at all. 

I am many cups of tea, Meiji, scattered hither and yon. Sweet Aja! Did I just say that? I sound like a bit from one of Arabia's 'foreign novels'. Have you read "Shogun, Show Me Your Heart" yet? Don't. Your people practice ritual suicide, don't they? As I was saying, I'm a little... everywhere. But I'm afraid Nadir might find a way of making me everywhere but here. At least long enough to take the Dominatrix Staff. So, how was your day?" 

Meiji is silent for a long moment after her description and then says, "Was it the future you saw? Or maybe I should say, a future." 

"You should indeed." Eve stands close enough to kiss Meiji. Or, if she was a Kabuki witch, muses Meiji, to consume his mortal soul. Not that he worries about the possibility, his  memory flitting back to the time when he let his soul 'and other things' be consumed thrice in one night by a particularly nubile Kabuki witch called...

Meiji returns to the moment and, to hide his momentary displacement, says with a smile, "Wu Shu always said the future is like a box of dumplings. You never know what you've got until you bite into it. Then again, she also said that having too much gives you gas and bad breath."

Eve takes a step back, with a barking laugh that suggests an inebriated seal from a declining nation that just got the joke. 

Meiji's eyes twinkle at the response. "Maybe it wasn't that great an analogy. Anyhow," he adds, "Though I'm rarely one for real gallantry and never one for getting myself into unnecessary danger, if I can help prevent Nadir from harming you, I will do so. And I mean you, specifically. I couldn't care less about the Staff." 

Even as he is speaking, Meiji wonders, _Now what made me that honest?_ And he is not completely pleasantly surprised at the realization that he does actually care, if not to a great extent, about Eve's welfare. _Hmm_, he muses, _She's getting to me. Strange._

The shugenja opens his mouth to continue, but Eve cuts him off with the skill of a woman who's been talking at men for centuries, "How silly of me! I wanted to show you my nails. I had them done when I was... around the corner." 

Eve takes hold of one of Meiji's hands, while pushing her other into his face, deliberately brushing one cheek. Up close, he sees her fingernails are painted in undulating bands of red. The eddy currents in her nails are hypnotic and Meiji feels fear, elation, and a hint of burning almonds rise up it him. 

"It won't last long. Manicures seldom do. A few hours ago they had a far richer emotional subtext, though on the down side everything I touched turned into something that looked like amber." She smiles sweetly at Meiji, and grips his hand even harder.  

Meiji's sense of vague disquiet, caused by experiencing feelings as alien as concern about another being, isn't helped by Eve's display of her strangely-decorated hands. So he reacts the way he always does when something scares him --he fakes both nonchalance and a high level of confidence. Smiling brightly at her, he reaches up to take her raised hand, though he is careful to avoid touching the nails. 

He cocks his head to look at the pattern and says, "Pretty." Then he bends over to kiss her on the back of the hand, lingering slightly longer than needed. "Pretty tasty too," he smiles as he straightens up. 

Then, looking over her shoulder, he quickly adds, "Ah, here we are," indicating the restaurant they've been heading towards. "Let's get a table and then I can tell you what we've been up to. Let's just say, in short, that Kenji and Rackhir went off without Burne and me and managed to get beaten up by Nadir and also ... as I think they say it in the idiom here ... pimped us out to the Gondoliers Guild and partly to the Shirac. Oh joy!"


Meiji Kitsumi awoke the next morning from unsettling dreams, one in particular which involved one beautiful woman and another with demonic wings but a terrific rack, to find his... 'rod of manhood'... not transformed, as per most mornings, into one of the Pillars of Heaven, rather wrung out like a snake that had been attacked overnight by a pack of shadows.

"That was one hell of a date" says Meiji to himself, grinning. That is, until he realizes he can't remember a minute of it after leaving the restaurant arm in arm with the Lady Eve.


----------



## Rackhir

To tease and torment you all. Yet another post not by everyone's favorite Alchemist.

<Read by Deep Announcer Voice>
Rackhir is a man on a Mission.
He has 24 hrs to find the Yu bow before the entire run of the Jerry Springer Show is beamed into his head by Nadir.

<Cut to Rackhir Gripping Meiji by his collar and shouting in his face>
"WHERE IS IT!"

"Where's what?" 

"I DON"T KNOW! MALLUS HASN"T TOLD US YET!"

He's a man on the edge.
<Cut to Rackhir on the ledge of a building with Burne Poking his Head out the window>

"Rackhir, don't jump! You haven't tested out the boots yet. Besides I'm sure that Mallus will get around to writing the information on the Bow up. It's only been 15 months." 

He's about to explode
<Cut to Kenji calmly having Tea with Dr. Wu>

"No I'm not doing that scene."

Coming to a D&D game near you sometime before the next millennium or the second coming of Elvis Presley.

THE YU BOW SAGA!!!!


----------



## doghead

I have just finished reading the first page, and I am hooked. The writing is excellent and the setting intriguing. It reminds me of the world of china melville, familiar and yet surprising. I am very jealous.

doghead
aka thotd


----------



## Mallus

doghead said:
			
		

> It reminds me of the world of china melville, familiar and yet surprising.



Thanks, that was exactly what I was shooting for, familiar and at the same time _not_. Of course, after a couple of years of play, we've left Mieville's New Crobuzon behind and veered closer to a mix Discworld meets Xanth, except with more wuxia (last session it rained ghost-ninja in the city of Narayan). 

I love this group. I should mention that more often.

Next up, the Four Crazy Bastards talk to the cops. The rapier-wielding, flouncy-shirt wearing, talking Gondola-riding cops...


----------



## Mallus

*Interlude: The Gondoliers, part I*

Most visitors to the Gondolier’s*1* Guildhall don’t realize that the ceiling should be falling down on them until it’s too late. They “ooh” and “ah” at its vast and flat surface high above them, elaborately frescoed, flaunting an almost painful attention to detail. Then some clever chap will notice there isn’t a beam, column, or even the slightest hint of an arch in sight. It’s completely unsupported, held up by air, giving the Gondolier headquarters the feel of a cathedral constructed for the sole purpose of being an uncharitable metaphor. 

Architects call it ‘daring’, adjustors call it ‘uninsurable’, and mothers reflexively shield their children’s heads when passing through. Agora- and claustrophobics can finally agree on something with this space; the way that it’s both terrifyingly empty and just about to press them flat. It does, of course, have supporting columns. Dozens, in fact, scattered across the world, their tops connected to the ceiling by means of invisible Gates. Occasionally passing goatherds will stop to wonder why masons from the great city came out to the middle of nowhere to build roof-less temples, which invited all manner of speculation about bankrupt gods, spiteful roof-flinging Titans, and the inherent sickness of city slickers. 

Lord Kenji and his retinue are neither afraid of nor impressed by the architecture as they sweep through the great hall on their way to a private meeting with Gondolier Captain Arramis Ben Donovan. Kenji idly remarks to Dr. Wu that he finds the place aesthetically displeasing, which coming from Lord Kenji might be construed as death threat against the artisans involved, while Burne bemoans the fire-proof construction. Rackhir alone likes the place, and then only for its lack of available cover. Joachim, Mercutio, and Mallus Lovesworn silently keep pace; content simply to add a baker, a fakir, and a heartache-breaker to the aforementioned company of butchers.

They’re here to discuss the danger presented to CITY by a Shirac mind-witch named Nadir Akmad-Medhi who has discovered the secret shrine to the Bad Hunger, a mad Elder god, beneath what’s now a thriving farmers market in the Little Ajakhan. They were invited because the Shirac rulers took them _very_ seriously after their public dust-up with Nadir Medhi in the Great Bazaar in Marimra. The Shirac Board of Adepts did them the twin honors of first flying them on roc-back to their seat of power at the Miir Valley School for an audience, and then second,  leaving them with their own free will intact after they declined an offer of direct employment.

Clearly, they were people to be reckoned with, pressed into civil service. Or failing that, made to disappear, quietly and sudden-like, say, into the mouth of an active volcano.

The meeting takes place in a small, tastefully appointed room dominated by a round, rune-carved hardwood table. 

“This is the Sound Table,” says Captain Ben Donovan, taking his seat, “a priceless antique blessed by an entire _Jury Grand_ of Barristers from the Courts Absolute. The Table reveals any falsehood spoken around it. Tell a little white lie and it starts keening like a Shirac mother who caught her son ogling a Gentile girl. Tell a whopper and it booms like indoor thunder. Get my meaning?”  

“We have no reason to dishonor ourselves with untruths” begins Lord Kenji. Everyone present except the Gondolier holds their breath. Burne considers quietly arming his Destructive Engine, and then reconsiders, seeing as that’s completely impossible.

The Table makes nary a peep.

The Four Crazy Bastards, minus Meiji, who’s busy preparing for his date with the mysterious Lady Eve, breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“Please allow me to recount the crimes of the dishonorable Shirac Nadir Medhi…” continues the samurai. 

Ever been sung to by a flight of songbirds? That’s what’s it like when Yamamoto Kenji brings the full force of his speaking voice to bear. Except in this case the songbirds have been dusted with opium and they’re carrying tiny knives. Captain Ben Donovan finds himself nodding in agreement. His jaw slackens.

“He compelled a giant to split this poor fellow’s head like a melon? We can’t have that.” says the Gondolier Captain.

Rackhir twitches.

“He’s seeks an audience with an ancient evil under a fruit stand? Good god!”  

Songbirds continue to wheel around Ben Donovan’s head.

“Two counts of grand theft arcane _and_ criminal manipulation of the local weather?”

One songbird brushes a narcotic wing against Ben Donovan’s lips as his fellows begin prodding the Gondolier with their knives.

“Of course we’ll do something! That’s what the Gondoliers are here for!”

Lord Kenji then inquires about the previous stirring of the Bad Hunger, during which several orphans got eaten.   

“In the end we got one conviction and the Bishop swung like a thurible, but I always suspected there was more to that case than met the eye. I just couldn’t prove anything. Throughout the investigation we could tell the priest’s were stonewalling us, the whole lot of ‘em, going ‘oracular’ whenever we asked the hard questions. They really put up the Shield of Faith…”

Perhaps growing bored –it’s so devilishly hard to tell with him-- Kenji decides to end their business with a handful of words, wringing from Ben Donovan’s an offer of a temporary commission for the Bastards, entirely on the samurai’s terms.  He then reads off a lengthy request for equipment.

Ever been given a hummer by an attractive person of indeterminate gender who probably meant you harm? Who also happened to be armed with a wickedly sharp sword? That’s what’s it like when Yamamoto Kenji brings the full force of his negotiating skills to bear. Feeling slightly dirty for a reason he can’t quite articulate, Captain Ben Donovan dismisses them and prepares to present Kenji’s request to his superiors.


The Bastards wait for word in a pleasantly warm solarium, lit by wan, winters' afternoon light. After a half and hour, Ben Donovan’s young female assistant appears.

"The Captain will be along shortly” says the young Gondolier-in-training. "Where are my manners?” she asks no-one in particular, "We haven't been properly introduced. I'm Gilda San Gallina..."

"San Gallina?", whispers Mallus, "so she's an orphan, or someone’s bastard. The Gondoliers don't usually accept women. She was probably raised by them..."

Gilda continues, smiling, "... and we should talk a little about the existence or non-existence of 'conditions' on your commission."

"Or by a pack of royal press secretaries" sighs Mallus.

"Sometimes things go... badly. The wrong people wind up feeding the koi in the Grand Canal. Or the right people do, but at the wrong time or for the wrong reasons. It really can’t be helped". She smiles sweetly with the battle-hardened poise of a beauty contest winner.

"Is she saying what I think she's saying?" says Joachim.

"It's all for the good of CITY. We know you'll try your best. But if things take a... regrettable turn, remember not to cause too much fuss. If you get arrested, do your duty. Go quietly. We'll make sure everything is set right." Gilda says all this with an unnerving blend of complete naiveté and utter cynicism. "Any questions?"

Mallus stands. "Will we be given legal recognition then, something like a Letter of Marque?"

"Better. An official Mark of Marque! Except, we won't actually be, umm, putting a traceable Gate Mark on any of you, because we're trying to maintain something Captain Ben Donovan calls 'maximum deniability'. But your Marks will be duly recorded in the Annals of the Gondoliers. Oh, here comes the Captain. He'll convey you back to your residences via his Gondola, Leaf-On-Water."

"One more thing," says Gilda San Gallina, "don't offer his Gondola an apple. Or a sugar cube. She's not a horse, and gets very cross if you treat her like one. And whatever you do, don't give her a cigar, even if she asks nicely. It's a terrible habit. Especially when you're made of wood.


*1*The Gondoliers are a law enforcement agency mandated to keep the peace between the multitude of peoples, cultures and governments in CITY. Named for their small, magical, often animated or ghost-possessed watercraft, the Gondolier’s began as a front for the Gallinan Royal Secret Police, and remain based out of the Old Drowntown section of Gallina:CITY. They’re renowned for their diplomacy, swordsmanship, and the Gate-magic capabilities they receive from their close partnership with the Acadeum Gaeta.


----------



## Bloodcookie

Y'know, it takes real talent to make the language itself as interesting as the events it describes. Bravo!


----------



## Gold Roger

Brilliant update!


----------



## Mallus

Thanks for the kudos... that last bit was really fun to write. And now...


----------



## Mallus

*Interlude: The Gondoliers, part II*

Lord Kenji and company sail the Grand Canal from Gallina to Eris aboard Captain Ben Donovan’s Gondola, Leaf-on-Water. She’s been in the Captain family for generations. In fact, if certain rumors concerning the origin of her animating spirit are true, she’s spent the initial part of that time as a _member_. 

Riding from city to city in a Gondola is a great honor which is completely lost on the Four Crazy Bastards. Kenji looks bored, but pretty, Dr. Wu, loyal, but simian, Rackhir simply stoic. Burne looks aghast at the thought of riding on something as fragile as a little swan-necked boat made of wood. If men were meant to sail, he thinks, then solid iron would float.

Unfortunately for physics, this gives him an idea.

Joachim eats a dainty cake while Mallus carefully mixes a rosewater-and-gin. Out of habit, the silent Mercutio plays with his magic rod while the succubus inside it fills the air with impure vibrations, much to the chagrin of the men standing next to him in the tiny boat. 

"I'll keep this brief" says Ben Donovan, as he absently, and unnecessarily lowers his pole into the Grand Canal's glass-clear water. He’s all but recovered from his bout of negotiating with the unnervingly charismatic samurai, though, truth be told, he still looks a little flushed. 

"You request for… highly specialized equipment is being processed. That's some damn odd and expensive gear you're looking for, though I imagine it’ll come in handy for hunting a powerful Shirac mind-witch. You can pick it up at Chan's Laundry in Little Ajakhan tomorrow, noon local time. It's on the street that runs along the Ft. Ormond canal, a block south from the Dragon Bridge. Here's the ticket."

The Captain dips his boatman’s pole into the Canal. Koi dart around its length. Like any woman, Leaf-on-Water continues to move wholly of her own accord. 

"You'll be introduced to two of our men there. They'll be wearing naval uniforms; Lieutenants Garble and Flinch. However, I have these for you now” says the Captain. He hands Kenji two small leather pouches.

"Four pairs of Gate-marked Exchange Stones and four pairs of Caper Rings. The Exchange Stones do exactly that, they swap places when invoked, taking the bearer along with it. The rings are for long distance communication. Each is connected to its mate. They’re just the thing for pulling off perfectly timed capers, or so the Crooked Sages we bought them from said."

Leaf-on-Water crosses through the Gate that connects the Gallinan stretch of the canal to the capitol of CITY. The passengers are suddenly struck by the impression of floating in a vast empty sky full of enormous goldfish who happen to be singing a soaring choral arrangement. In a moment it passes. The passengers, except for the Captain, stand blinkered and blinking, struck not so much dumb as mildly retarded. 

The Gondolier looks at them and shrugs, his shoulders saying ‘Eh, you get used to that’. The Gondola enters the Saltbend district of Eris. Mallus, unfazed by any metaphysical experience that doesn’t involve a well-made martini, utters a sigh of relief. "It's good to be back in a fashionable neighborhood. Well, I'll be getting off here."

"You should stay together" says Ben Donovan. “In case the mind-witch comes hunting you”.

The unsupportable weight of simple common sense comes crashing down on the Lovesworn, striking him squarely in the hardened knot of his liver.

Abraxis chimes it, "YOU COULD ALL STAY AT BURNE'S APARTMENT. IT’S NEARBY. ARE ANY OF YOU ALLERGIC TO FINELY-POWDERED LEAD?

It’s going to be a long night, thinks Mallus. 


It's far too warm inside the “Chan Can Clean!” laundry and there's hardly any room for the motley assortment of pyromaniac patriots, foreigners, Lovesworn, priests and monkey-men to stand. Naval uniforms in varying states of cleanliness hang everywhere. The commingled smell of spilled wine, blood and salted pork is nauseating. Except for Dr Wu, who seems to enjoy it. 

"Ah, civilian customers, Chan not get too many, but much appreciated when he do! Less blood. Usually. Chan offers finest traditional Ajakhani cleaning. Use ancient secrets of the Wu."

After this last remark, sifu Wujuyama, youngest of the sacred Guardians of Wu-Dan Mountain, leaps onto the counter, his long red silk scarf trailing.

"Oh really?" deadpans Wu.

Chan blanches when he realizes the simian fellow is a holy Vanara, not a run-if-the-mill CITY Hannu. "Most proliferate of apologies, Wu-sifu. I didn't see you. I mean I didn’t see you were _you_. Forgive the mindless chatter I should reserve for the gaijin. Umm, pick up or drop off?"

Kenji hands the dishonored laundry man the Gondoliers ticket. Chan silently leads them into the back of the shop, down a rickety flight of stairs to a basement storeroom. The smell of lye, not ancient Eastern magic, is overpowering. Inside, two men in Naval Intelligence uniforms await.

"HOOM DE VOOM-SHOOM DU'HOMME BOMB! REVI BEVY HEV HEV LEVY'SEV. NICE VICE THRICE O'RICE RICE!" bellows the taller and fatter of the two.

"That's Garble." says the smaller and thinner man. "He's thanking you for rescuing Captain Revi and the officers aboard the Windsprint, and for all the good work you've done around Little Ajakahn. You'll have to excuse him. While he's completely fluent in CITY:common, he chooses only to speak the un:Common dialect of his native Ulum Dreii. Don't bother trying to make sense out of the words, they're meaningless. It's all volume and context."

"PINCH PINCH FLINCH!" shouts Lieutenant Garble as he points at his comrade.

The smaller man literally leaps away from the outstretched digit and cowers momentarily, "I'm Flinch, by the way. This is what we have for you."

 Lieutenant Flinch picks a large burlap sack off the floor. He reaches in.

"The Hand of Glory... thought we're fairly certain that was an assumed name. Grotesque, isn't it? Glory was a senior member of the Brotherhood of the Black Worm until she got nicked by a pack of vampires. Her hand's still plenty magical, though." 

The thin Gondolier holds up a small metal figurine.

"This is Gyrefalcon's Gryphon. Or should I say --Flinch pauses to take a deep breath-- the Size-Malleable Self-Winding Phlogistonic Gryphon Prototype Alpha by Magnus Gyrefalcon the Magnanimous. It's really an armor-plated combat gryphon-golem... err... thing. See, you just pull this little key here and it expands to full size. When you're done with it, insert the key, and it shrinks back."

"But whatever you do, don't wind it yourself."

Lt. Flinch draws out a plain-looking cloth bag. 

"This is a Helpful Haversack. Just fill it with equipment. When you need something, simply call out the name of the item and it'll be handed right to you. Most of the time. See, the thing is this isn't Gondolier standard issue. That wouldn’t be wise given your situation. The bottom of Haversack contains a Gate that leads to the one of the finest fraternity houses at the Acadeum Gaeta. Promising bunch of fellows, but they do tend to drink."

The next item is a rather sooty-looking empty quiver.

"The Ever-full Quiver. Well, it'll be full until the curio-shop in Ulum Dreii that it opens into goes out of business. But I wouldn't worry. I hear they're quite flush."

The little Gondolier struggles a bit, finally pulling free a light chain shirt.

"Some armor to gird a mighty Shirac-hunter, made from the finest Erisian mithral that Gallinan money can buy! Note the spiral rune across the chest. It was made from a real Shirac through a process I’d rather not think too much about. Umm, I’d wear something over it in Marimbra, if I were you."

Flinch then empties the remainder of the sack onto the floor.

"And finally an assortment of useful odds and ends… a fully-loaded brass hypodermic full of Moderately Curative Elixir… watch out for air bubbles when you use it, or it could be fatal… two silk packets full of Dust of Appearing… and a Potion of Speediness.”

As the Bastards gather up the remaining equipment, Flinch says, "Good hunting. And be careful out there.”

"HROOM!” adds Garble.    


(Next up… back to Burne’s chronicling as the Four Crazy Bastards pursue their nemesis, Nadir Akmhad-Medhi)


----------



## demiurge1138

I know it's a bit late, but...

"the bishop swung like a thurible"

Genius. Pure genius.

I just finally caught up, after sadly neglecting this thread for a year or so. Very glad I did.

Demiurge out.


----------



## Rolzup

As the Gondoliers and Kenji bickered back and forth over trivialities, I meditated upon our situation.

THAT THE MANTRA THAT HE CHANTS WHILE "MEDITATING" SOUNDS REMARKABLY LIKE SNORING IS, OF COURSE, MERELY A FANTASTIC COINCIDENCE.

And, naturally, I came to a brilliant solution. We knew that one Dr. Mephisophocles, of the University of Narayan, had had...dealings with Nadir. Dealing of a decidedly hostile nature, according to what we'd been told. University politics can be quite remarkable unpleasant at times, and apparently Nadir's quest to obtain the Chair of the Department of Mind's Eye by force had been one of those times. And his unauthorized quaffing of demon’s blood form the university’s treasured "Goblet of Ire" hadn't helped matters.  Surely Mephisophocles would be more than willing to help us locate the Shiraci miscreant and bring him to justice.

By which I mean "set him afire".

MOST OF WHAT BURNE SAYS CAN BE TRANSLATED THUSLY.

And so, after the Gondoliers provided us with their very interesting toys -- including a mechanical griffin with attack and in-flight drink service capabilities that was very nearly as brilliant as my own creations, and a Gate-Equipped haversack that I naturally claimed for myself -- we set out for the University.

Of course it wasn't that easy. Mephisophocles had gone missing, as we were informed by a young female student who was busy nailing a letter of, how shall I out this, questionable appropriateness to his office door.

BURNE READ THE NOTE AS SOON AS SHE’D SLUNK AWAY. HAVEN’T I MENTIONED HIS VOYUERISTIC STREAK BEFORE?

When questioned she identified herself as Dalenda Wrothchilde, of _the_ Narayan Wrothchilde’s, an old-money clan of family of pirates-turned-winemakers. She had been trying to track the good Doctor down for some time, to no avail. It was entirely possible that he had, to use to common parlance, "skipped town" simply to avoid her...but really, how likely could it be that such a mundane answer would be correct?

FOR ONCE, I HAVE TO AGREE WITH HIM.

Fortunately, we had another resource to draw upon. A colleague of Mephisophocles, Professor Gaspard Obeserai Illigitamo, head of the Department of Antiquities. A man we had, in fact, encountered some weeks previously, when he was investigating the trail of our -still- missing madman. Illigitamo had some small psychometric talent, allowing him to "read" object and determine the location of their owners, and could likely help us track down the missing demonologist.

Illigitamo, as it turned out, was concerned about Mephisophocles, and was quite willing to help. He'd seen the man before he left, and he'd been wearing an iron headband that _should_ have made him immune to Nadir's powers. Clearly, he'd been expecting trouble. And this had been some weeks ago, with no sign of Mephisophocles since.

We did, of course, need to obtain something with a personal connection to Mephisophocles, for Illigitamo to work his Art upon. Easier said than done, raiding a demonologist’s office, but not impossible for a man of my talents.

THIS PARTICULAR TALENT WAS "STAND BACK AND SHOUT USELESS ADVICE TO EVERYONE ELSE." HE'S _VERY_ GOOD AT THAT.

We found two possibilities, after a bit of work. The first was a document, a contract of some sort between Mephisophocles and Erebus.  Or someone calling himself Erebus, at any rate. Oddly, Illigitamo could glean nothing from it. Happily, an elixir that we uncovered proved to be suitable, and Illigitamo promised us results as quickly as he could provide them. Which would be in 24 hours, give or take. The poor man was cursed with a slow and thorough mind ill-suited to matters of higher learning.

I COULDN’T MAKE THIS SH*T UP.

And so we returned to our various homes for the evening, to rest and prepare. I did so by stuffing various items into the so-called "Haversack of Holding", but keeping in mind that its other end lay somewhere in a fraternity house, I forbore including any of my more explosive belongings.

SURPRISINGLY, EVEN BURNE'S STUPIDITY HAS ITS LIMITS.

We rendezvoused just after dawn, and met with Illigitamo. He told us what he'd been able to learn, which was actually quite helpful. Mephisophocles, it appears, was in a place called the Fissure of Leaves -- or possibly "Lives"; Illigiamo was uncertain -- somewhere in the Lassantes Wastes a few days travel northwest of Marimbra.

Some research was done, some questions asked, and a tentative map was scrawled on the back of a piece of parchment.

ACTUALLY IT WAS ON AN OLD COCKTAIL NAPKIN OF MALLUS’.

And we set forth for Marimbra.

THERE WAS MUCH REJOICING. IN NARAYAN.

It was a short journey, owing to the convenience of the Gates and the brilliance of the Empire's city planners, before we found ourselves in the Great Bazaar.  Which really isn't all _that_ great. Much too sandy for my liking, for one thing. And far too many foreigners, for another. These are, alas, the prices that one must pay for tolerance.

NOT TO MENTION CHEAP, FINELY MADE MAGICAL GOODS.

Which is something else that's wholly overrated, while I'm on the subject. In point of fact....

FOR THE SAKE OF EVERYONE'S SANITY, I SHALL EDIT OUT THE NEXT TEN
MINUTES OF SEMI-COHERENT RAMBLING AND PROVIDE A CONCISE SUMMARY: BURNE IS A BASTARD.

...and that's why they should all be killed, and the desert turned into a vast plain of faintly luminescent glass. But enough of my digression; I shall have to write a pamphlet on the subject at a later date.

I PITY THE BIRD THAT WILL EVENTUALLY DEFECATE ON IT.

I sent Rackhir and Kenji, both of whom harbor an entirely unreasoning fear of invisible assailants, off to find something to alleviate their terror, like unwatered wine or a prepubescent boy. Meiji I instructed to find us some means of transport across the desert. He returned with several camels, a lamentably primitive form of transportation that entirely lacks any sort of rocket assistance. With some misgivings, I agreed that they would suffice. Barely.

And thus, off we went into the Wastes. The temperature was agreeably scorching, but the vista left much...well, _everything_ to be desired. Sand is so terribly tedious; glass is really much more interesting and attractive. And allows one to build up an impressive static charge, if so inclined. Someday, someday....

We passed through a pair of small towns -- first Qub,  and then Tal Salaam, neither of which was really worth the time that I've just spent mentioning them, really.  We did, however, learn a few things in the latter settlement, thanks to Meiji's habit of babbling at anyone willing to stand still for a few moments.

Tal Salaam was a walled town; whether to keep the desert out, or the inhabitants in, I dare not guess.  None of my concern in either case.  But the town was under the protection of a man named "Ali", who'd made his fortune acting as a buying agent for "The King of Thieves" who lived somewhere in the Wastes.  A man who purchased a surprising amount of goat, for reasons Ali dared not guess.

He was a pleasant enough fellow, I suppose, for a foreigner.  We spent the night in his abode, treated to a rather tasty feast, except for Rackhir.  He, mired in paranoia, insisted on spending the night outside, under the stars.

We left, well-fed and well-rested, with the dawning of the next day.  With at least another full day of travel ahead of us.


----------



## Bloodcookie

Ah, good ol' Abraxis - defending future generations from misperceiving Burne as a valid historical source.


----------



## AnonymousOne

I have just read through six pages of absolutely amazing writing.  'Bout time for an update...  *poke poke*  

I like Burne, nearly as much of a Pyromaniac as several of my characters.


----------



## Need_A_Life

Thought it was finally time to tell you this is one of the funniest, most surreal story hours I've ever read. As a poster above said, it reminds me of the world of China Miéville, though I think I sense a hint of Discworld.

It is familiar enough that one can relate, but the differences will kick you in the groin and then steal your wallet.


----------



## Rackhir

Need_A_Life said:
			
		

> Thought it was finally time to tell you this is one of the funniest, most surreal story hours I've ever read. As a poster above said, it reminds me of the world of China Miéville, though I think I sense a hint of Discworld.
> 
> It is familiar enough that one can relate, but the differences will kick you in the groin and then steal your wallet.




Oh there's more than a hint of Diskworld. We're currently engaged in going to hell. In a Giant Iron Handbasket...


----------



## Mallus

Rackhir said:
			
		

> Oh there's more than a hint of Diskworld.



<maxwell smart>Would you believe I haven't read Discworld? How about, I only read the first two books? Way after we started working on CITY.</maxwell smart>



> We're currently engaged in going to hell. In a Giant Iron Handbasket...



I like to take this opportunity to say: the Handbasket was *not* my idea. But it fit so well I had to run with it. I'm glad that people are enjoying the Story Hour. I'm still little surprised, but glad...


----------



## Mallus

So here's the deal: Rolzup is so busy with family matters that he barely has time to _play_  Burne, let alone chronicle his bigoted reckless puzzling thrilling exploits here, so I'm going to be filling in for the time being. Along with anyone else who'd like to lend a hand (hint hint). I'm going to _try_ to write from Burne's point of view, imitating his... umm... inimitable voice as best I can (but I haven't figured out how to do that yet). So for now here's a LOST-style flash forward --made from old emails-- that I've been polishing up as writing practice. I'll pick up where we left off in a few weeks. 


*A Series of Unfortunate Events in CITY, part I*

On a lovely late Spring day resplendent with the smell of lilacs and sulfur monoxide, Burne’s three apprentices stand staring at the door to his apartment-cum-laboratory in the decidedly working-class Mid-Tier district of Eris. Each looks perplexed. 

“This is an outrage!" says Mordecadai.

"An injustice!" echoes his colleague, Ritter.

"He's not going to like this. We'll be set afire for sure" concludes their dour associate Glum.

"On the other hand, there were warnings" says Mordecai.

"No more than several" counters Ritter.

"Perhaps we should have shown him the notices" opines Glum.

"Nonsense, it's our job to handle trifling matters for the Master" says Mordecai.

"Perhaps we shouldn't have 'handled' them by pitching them into the incinerator" says Ritter.

"How are we going to get the iron war gryphon off the roof?" whines Glum, mixing a little pathos into his usual melancholy tone. "It still doesn't fly too good."

"We'll think of something" says Mordecai. “Gravity, for instance.”

The three apprentices are referring to the Self-Winding, Size-Malleable Phlogistonic Gryphon Prototype Alpha, a self-aware, not to mention self-deprecating clockwork flying machine on loan from the Gondoliers Guild, whose capabilities including vertical takeoff, hovering and in-flight drink service featuring spirits distilled in transit via an on board phlogistonic still. He was unfailing polite, and preferred to be called “Philip”. He regards the trio of scientists from above with unblinking steel eyes, sitting amidst several abandoned pigeon coops. 

"We're doomed” says Glum. “Burne's going to combust us. I can feel it my marrow. It's feeling tinder-dry." 

At that moment their master rounds the corner with his two prized creations tow; his famulus Abraxis the Ultimate Cat, fashioned out of steel and given the semblance of a soul via Burne’s own spotty knowledge of the Philosopher’s Algorithm, and the monstrous kludge known as MODOSS, which appeared to be spike-covered suit of animated armor. A wisp of gray smokes escapes from the grille of the helmet visor. In terms of their functionality, MODOSS acts as Burne’s bodyguard while Abraxis serves as his spy, confidant, and frequently, his unflattering biographer.   

"What’s this all about" he bellows at his assistants, who fall away from his front door, exposing the large red-inked Eviction Writ nailed to it, along with the long scroll listing the Ninety Nine Reasons for it, which, according to close to a thousand years of Erisian bureaucratic tradition, must accompany every legal proclamation.

"Pardon me, sir, for eavesdropping" says the ever-polite polite Phillip from the roof, "but would you care for a drink?"

"Not...just...yet," the alchemist grits.

Burne stares at the notice, for a long, silent moment.  The paper begins to smolder after a bit.

"What," he asks the world, "Is the meaning of this?"

He whirls around, directing his glare at his flinching subordinates. "Eviction?  Of Burne?  Are they mad?  Blind?  Stupid?"

"PRUDENT?' offers Abraxis. 

"It's a stone building, by damn!  If it burns, all that does is prove that I'm on the right track!  Can't they see this?  By Erebus, how can a man accomplish great things when he's burdened by the chains of petty bureaucracy?"  Burne spins around again, snatching the writ from the door.  "What sort of trumped-up charges are they offering, eh?"

Burne quickly scans the Writ and accompanying scroll. The ninety reasons are really only three, printed in triplicate eleven times. He reads them aloud.

“One: the emanation of un-natural Noises at tremendous Volume at all Hours of the Day and Night.”

"You can't beat the dings out of a war-gryphon without breaking a few eggs" says Mordecai, “Or hammers, as the case may be.”

“Two: the emanation of deadly Vapors in a residential Neighborhood not Zoned for the Tanning of Animals or Execution of Political Prisoners.”

"Now that’s completely baseless. Orphans die from asthma all the time. Not to mention that their orphanage was damp and filthy, a veritable haven for the pertussis. On top of that the lot of them smoked" adds Ritter.

“Three: the Projection of dangerous Projectiles in a residential Neighborhood not Zoned for the Expulsion of Projectiles at high Velocity.

"OK, that was us. We were testing the new pilot ejection system on the MODOSS unit" says a morose Glum. “We installed a rocket motor in the helmet… and… it was an accident...I tell you after the impact that nun’s head was hanging on by a prayer…”

“Naturally” deadpans Burne.

“PLEASE LET THIS DROP” implores MODOSS in an appropriately tinny yet strangely echoing voice. 

"I applaud your initiative," Burne says absently, continuing to read, "If the ejection system can also function as an impromptu weapon, then it’s for the best."

"FOR.  WHO?" MODOSS’s helmet visor pops open revealing a pneumatic lemur sitting, or perhaps welded into, a thicket of control levers. He is smoking a tiny cigar. After giving his master the mechanical stink-eye he shuts the grille. The pneumatic lemur was once a rival alchemist’s familiar until he ‘defected’ after his original master ordered him to become a suicide bomb. Not the wisest of career moves, the lemur later decided. 

"This is entirely absurd," Burne concludes, incinerating the paper with a snap of his fingers. "We're advancing the cause of knowledge here, by damn!  What right has ANYONE to interfere in matters of such alchemical import?"  His expression hardens.  "There's an old saying, you know: Smoldering piles of ashes tell no tales, and serve no eviction notices."

"THAT'S.  NOT.  AN.  OLD.  SAYING!" objects Abraxis, lashing its chain-link tail.

"It will be, when I'm done," Burne replies grimly.

He swings the crossbow-esque Heremetic Destructive Engine forward, sighting along its length.  "You can do marvelous things," he tells his lackeys,"With a combination of fire and acid.  Indeed, boiling acid is both exquisitely painful *and* leaves an absolutely fascinating pattern of scar tissue...."

Burne pauses, looking up at the building before him.  "Or...is this a sign, perhaps?  A sign that the time has finally come to found the Blatant College, and see what a determined man can *really* accomplish when he sets his mind to it?"

He turns, regarding the three men...and three devices...who have been slowly edging away from him.  "I need," Burne says quietly, "A realtor."

"WE'RE.  GOING.  TO.  BE.  BEGGING.  FOR.  THE.  ACID.  BEFORE.  THIS. IS.  OVER," Abraxis mutters.

"Carpe diem!" says Mordecai.

"No time like the present!" adds Ritter.

"When you're presently out on the street" concludes Glum.


----------



## Rackhir

Good update. It's not Burne, but it has it's own charm. This post passes over the battles in the wastes, where we freed Mephisophocles. But considering all the damage Rackhir took in those, it's probably best forgotten. Not too much of interest happened anyway besides some fights.

It was in these fights that Philip got damaged and Burne created his reduction spell (so Philip could be transported back to CITY). As with so many other things this spell was to backfire later and cause us endless headaches...


----------



## Gold Roger

Glad to see you picking this up.

I'd advise you against trying to imitate the Burne perspective (sounds like a movie title><). You have your own writing style, which I greatly enjoy. I fear trying to imitate another's would end short of both.


----------



## Mallus

Gold Roger said:
			
		

> Glad to see you picking this up.



Thanks.



> I'd advise you against trying to imitate the Burne perspective (sounds like a movie title><).



Perhaps *The Burne Supremacy*. Or *The Burne Indecency*?

Heh... it might not work. I currently view it as a challenge, but that'll probably change when I actually sit down to write. My plan is to create a few drafts and let Rolzup and the rest of the gang critique/edit them. If the results don't pass muster, I'll abandon the idea in favor of simply continuing on in 3rd person until Rolzup is ready to take the reins back. 

For now: another flash-forward (courtesy of myself, Rolzup, and shilsen).


----------



## Mallus

*A Series of Unfortunate Events in CITY, part II*

Leaving the arduous task of removing Burne's laboratory to another --unsuspecting-- location for later, his motley band of employees and other automata leave in search of a real estate agent. A band of wheezing children watch with sad, indicting eyes from across the street. 

"I'll not miss those filthy urchins," remarks Mordecai.

"You surely did that time with the steam-powered grappling hook" says Ritter.

"Bah… their creepy stares threw off my aim".

A frail-looking boy expectorates loudly in Burne's general direction. The resulting expectorate smolders briefly on the cobblestones as the alchemist turns up the street.   

Perhaps it was the lingering scent of fulminate of mercury on Burne's person, or the sight of MODOSS with the lemur pilot riding with the top-down, or rather, the visor-up,  who’s lately taken to wearing a tiny crash helmet with the words 'Death From Above' painted on it in a substance that bears more than a passing resemblance to nun's blood, or possibly it was the continual bickering of Mordecai, Ritter, and Glum, who came across like a three-person polygamous marriage comprised of disgruntled coworkers who each wielded the firepower of a rum-sodden naval blockade ship, but whatever the reason, finding a realtor is easier said that done. 

Burne hears one thing over and over again; aside from "No", "Get out", and "Arrghh, my sleeve is on fire! Try Biraxan, maybe he can help you."

After hours of searching they arrive at the basement office of Biraxan Coil, near the dry canal that runs behind the former Maison Chatons in the Blue Light District of Narayan. 

"No, you don't need an appointment, yes, Mr. Coil is in, go down the stairs, his office is at the end of the hallway" says a bored secretary, slightly in advance of the questions.

The stairs seem to go down several floors and the hallway feels endless, making the trek to Biraxan Coil's office seem more like an expedition into a foul monster’s lair beneath the city sewers. Which, coincidentally enough, is exactly what it is.

Burne and company catch him as he opens the door to his office. Mr. Coil is a thin, balding dead man that passed sometime in his middle years. He's eyes glow faintly like coals.

"Hey there, I was just stepping out for a cup of hot blood. Can I interest you in some, or would you prefer a short beer? So you've run out of options. What can I do for you?"

"I need land," Burne says as smoothly as he's able, which is surprisingly so. “Preferably land with several large buildings upon it, with space for several laboratories and an even greater number of classrooms.  And dormitories, I suppose -- students *are* customary for a school, are they not? --  along with all the usual amenities."

Burne smiles, absently caressing the Engine as he cradles it in his arms.  "There's likely to be a lot of flame, and explosions, and fumes of an exciting yet questionable nature.  The neighbors should be tolerant, deaf, or easily cowed."

"HOW.  ARE.  YOU.  GOING.  TO.  PA..." Abraxis begins, before a well aimed kick sets its head to spinning.

"I can't bear rudeness," Burne says to Coil, in an apologetic tone. "To return to the matter at hand, can you be of assistance in finding such a property?"

"Pardon me, say Coil. He raises a desiccated hand to his face and speaks into a golden ring. "Constance, dear, would you be so kind as to get me a Bloody Mary. If she's tapped out, try Vivienne." He smiles gravely, "Guess I’ll be working through lunch again… no, it’s not a problem, come in. I always make time for live…er… face-to-face meetings."

Biraxan Coil’s office is a comfortingly familiar disarray; crooked filing cabinets, a large wooden desk strewn with stained papers, framed documents on the walls. It goes a long towards humanizing him, though it doesn't make him any less dead.

Next to his Certificate of Citizenship hangs an impressive-looking document from the Courts Absolute declaring that, in the case of any unprovoked turning attempts against Mr. Coil, the god's grace will be considered a deadly weapon and the crime shall be attempted murder, despite the superficial irony of the charge.   

Noticing Burne's eyes on the writ, Coil says "Nice, eh. I've got one hell of a lawyer. Here..." A dead hand fumbles in a pocket and produces a business card. "Leaping Shadows, Esq." it reads. The other side sports an unintelligible Ajakhani glyph which resembles a brushstroke stick figure lying at the bottom of the sea . "If you should ever need a lawyer, and by the look of you it's really more a matter of 'when', isn't it? Don't let the mask and throwing stars put you off, he's really a stand-up guy."

He pauses, glancing up at the ceiling. "Constance" Coil says to his ring, "I'm not getting any younger. Now where were we? Ah yes, you need a place to build a school for... well, that's your business, isn't it? Let me check my files."

Biraxan Coil shuffles off for about five minutes, in which time his secretary appears with a large goblet full of coppery-smelling liquid, which Coil finishes in three long swigs. "Damn South Beast Diet" he says, "what I can really go for is... I think I have a few potential properties for you. 

Two recently came on the market right here in the Blue Light District. The first is on Cockswallow Dock. It's a former tavern with a great finished lair underneath with terrific access to Gate bearing sewer lines, which means there's unlimited room to expand down there. It's zoned commercial/ecclesiastical. The former owner ran a small-time cult of Dhalberg out of it, until some nasty business involving a band of adventurers and his former lover.

The other is a real fixer-upper near the Red Light District. A brothel built like a small fortress, it’s right up the street, actually. They had a mysterious fire which caused the stones themselves to burn. It's big, the neighborhood's quiet, well, now, and you've got plenty of free building material just lying around. Assuming you can do something with liquefied stone.

Is that an Erisian accent I detect? You're in luck. I've got one more place and it's in an up-and-coming neighborhood right off the Saltbend in Eris. This baby has the works; solid stone construction, extensive fireproofing, dormitories and study alcoves. It's a former temple to Dicastor, the Weeper of Steel. Well, maybe I shouldn't say 'former' because temple is still occupied, but eviction proceedings are underway. The cult owes a fortune in back taxes and can't pay.

Here's the problem. They've hit a little snag. You see the god is still in residence in the basement. He's a very minor deity, but the authorities haven’t successfully evicted Him yet. You know city employees, no work ethic to speak of."

"Shameful, really," Burne agrees, stroking his chin in a thoughtful manner.  "Intriguing, though...I've had a certain interest in matters of Applied Practical Theology, but never anticipated an opportunity to put them into practice.  The chance to mold a god, however minor, in my own image...."

It is a testament to Burne's skill that Abraxis' face, made of cold and unyielding metal, can show such obvious signs of terror.

"...well, I hardly see how I can be expected to resist.  That the property sounds perfect for my needs is merely the shrapnel on the casing.  I'd be delighted to see the place, at your earliest convenience.  Which, I assume, would be sometime after nightfall?"

There is a soft, yet harsh sound in the background, a strange combination of clicking and grating of metal. When  Burne and Coil turn to look at its source, they find the MODOSS unit, quietly chewing on the knifelike fingernails of one hand with the stylized teeth Burne built into it. The lemur-brain, which is visible with the top pushed back, sees  that it's been noticed, and stops hurriedly. "_SORRY. NERVOUS REFLEX_."

He pulls a lever to quickly lower the hand and then pushes  another, causing the top of the head to rise and cover it. A second later, there's an infinitely little scratching sound, and a few seconds later, the faint smell of cigar smoke, wisps of which waft out of the ventilation holes in the  helmet.


----------



## Bloodcookie

Hey, it's great to see you taking this up, Mallus. Personally, I think you're doing a good job portraying the atmosphere of deadpan lunacy (and sulphur!) that accompanies Burne


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## HyrumOWC

This is pure genius, I love it!

Hyrum.


----------



## pogre

I'll use a _minor_ to summon update.

Now do not make me use my _daily_!


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## Rackhir

Unfortunately, Rolzup's son's at will powers trumps even your daily, but I am working on Mallus to get him to post an update.


----------



## pogre

Rackhir said:


> Unfortunately, Rolzup's son's at will powers trumps even your daily, but I am working on Mallus to get him to post an update.




I completely understand. I updated a story hours for a couple of years and know something of the effort involved. My players would quickly call me the black pot for demanding an update. However, my updates were never as amusing as this SH.


----------



## Rackhir

I've tried nagging Burne and Mallus for updates. If they don't post something by the 19th. I'll start posting some of email/web board stuff. Not going to be as good as if it were the real thing, but there's still some stuff from them in there.


----------



## Mallus

I'm finishing the next update now, while watching an episode of Ace of Cakes where they make a Millennium Falcon cake. I'll send it around to the group before I post it here.


----------



## shilsen

Mallus said:


> I'm finishing the next update now, while watching an episode of Ace of Cakes where they make a Millennium Falcon cake. I'll send it around to the group before I post it here.



Woah! There's an update coming?


----------



## Mallus

shilsen said:


> Woah! There's an update coming?



Yes. This...


----------



## Mallus

*Flight of the Philip *

<above the Lassantees Desert, 50 miles due east of Marimbra:CITY>

A screaming comes across the sky... followed by an in-flight drink service.

"Would you care for a cup of tea, sir?" asks the metal gryphon that Rackhir is riding through the moon-lighted skies above the Lassantees Waste. "I have Pearl Grey and Far Jeeling".

Rackhir's reply is swallowed by the length of moistened cloth protecting his face. The Bloody Archer searches in vain for a control mechanism.

"If you prefer something harder, I distill an artisanal gin in a still within my fuselage that might be to your liking."

Rackhir pulls a small section of the cloth down and is rewarded by a jet of hot wind peppered with grains of stinging sand. _Who builds a war-machine that you have to order around like a butler? Oh wait, people like Burne._

He makes his commanding voice heard over the rushing air. "Focus on the attack, Philip When do..." Rackhir gets a mouthful of grit that brings back unpleasant memories of his year-long posting in Marimbra when we served in the military for his CITY Citizenship. ".. descend."

"Very good, sir, initiating descent and acquiring targets". The metal gryphon's wings beat suddenly and heavily, as if making a rude gesture in the language of birds. His alchemical engine screams and air fills with smell of burning phlogiston.

They start to fall out the air, toward the oasis, and the giants.


Ten minutes before everything seemed so… _normal_. The Bastards were camped just within sight of the oasis holding the missing Dr. Mephisophocles. Lord Kenji was sitting lotus-style, meditating on his own attainable perfection, Meiji was palms down in the sand, praying to the _shu_ of the earth, Mercutio the Mesmerist, under the group’s protection ever since it was revealed that the villainous Shirac magician Nadir  Medhi sought Mercutio’s prized possession --a magic rod containing the bound succubus known as Salomalle-- sat behind and slightly to the left, bemoaning the lack of places to flee in the open desert, Rackhir was gently setting down the cast-iron toy gryphon given to them by the Gondoliers, which promised to somehow _expand_ into a full-sized conveyance, all the while Burne stood close by, chortling in a quiet-yet-maniacal way that suggested the alchemist was possessed of a rare respiratory disorder.

Normal is a relative thing. 

Burne let out a whoop, much like a crane that’s been set on fire, as Rackhir removed the gryphon’s bright red wind-up key. The so-called “phlogistonic gryphon” began to emit a clanking racket completely out of proportion to its size. Then it grew. Rapidly at first, then faster still, until it was the size of a large war-horse made entirely of metal plating and bolts.

“Pardon my impertinence, sirs. For convenience sake, you may prefer to address me as ‘Philip’" said the Self-Winding, Size-Malleable Phlogistonic Gryphon Prototype Alpha. Moments later Rackhir was mounted and strapped into Philip’s thinly-padded saddle, experiencing for the first time the phenomenon Burne referred to as “Rocket-Assisted Vertical Take-off”. Gryphon and rider leapt into the air on a column of superheated air. The rescue of Dr. Mephisophocles had begun.


_That’s bad. Two full-grown giants_. What’s worse, the keen-eyed archer thinks he can make out ammunition piles next to them; boulders or lead balls twice the size of a human skull. Three man-sized bowmen dressed in desert garb emerge over the lip of the deep fissure in the center of the oasis. They notch arrows and begin scanning the sky erratically, as if blind. _At least there aren’t many archers…_.

The giants begin to throw. Rocks explode against Philip’s underside, seeming to do little damage. Rackhir calmly sights one giant and shoots out both its eyes. Blind and dying, it topples. _This may not go too badly_. It is at this point Rackhir recalls the Lassantean legend of the Witch-Sight Archers. The flailing bowmen below suddenly turn in unison and let fly at Rackir. 

_Two in the chest, one in the throat_ thinks Rackhir as he passes out while choking on blood.


*next.... The Battle at the Fissure of Leaves*


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