The Doom That Came To Lookshy

[The Demented One]

Less than a mile from the walls of Lookshy, a blasted and barren heath cuts across the cultivated fields like an unhealing wound. The weeds and brambles of this field are all dead, and have been for centuries, but they never decay. The Seventh Legion salted the ground, to no avail. Now cairns bearing wards ring the Mourning Fields, the shadowland that lingers at the fringes of Lookshy like a cancerous vestige of sloughed-off skin. No one, living or dead, would be so foolish as to transgress against the borders of the shadowland, still haunted by the maddened ghosts of Lookshy's fallen, those cut down by their own army's devastating arsenal of soul-breaking weapons. No one, neither man nor ghost, can hope to escape it alive once he has entered.

And thus, the Mourning Fields were easily the choicest beachhead from which to storm Lookshy. At the Mask of Winters' behest, all five of you, deathknights or deathknights-by-honor, have been sent to this dead land–sent, or else exiled, though that would be too harsh a word. Within the week, the five of you have managed to establish a fortification–or rather, the army of zombies entrusted to the Hollow Carnifex by his liege has built such a fortification, an earthwork fortress reinforced with bones and mortared with refuse and decay, a mound rising up from the shadowland's heart. With the ghost-haunted wasteland encircling it on all sides, it could easily be said to be a fortress unassailable, impenetrable to all advance.

And thus, the five of you are fraught with the starkest of confusion as Saturnday comes to noon. A bell tolls in every trench and chamber of the fortress, pulled by loyal dead arms. Alarums, alarums proclaiming an intruder on the shadowland. Impossible. But nevertheless, the alarm goes out. It is with a dread certainty that you rise to seek out the cause of the alarm–whatever may be proud or foolish enough to enter into the Mourning Fields will surely find his pride broken, his foolishness corrected at the hands of the Deathknights.

[GryffonDurime]

Bloodied Mulberry stirs from the deep alcove of bone where she's been reclining, half-asleep in the murk of a Shadowland morning. She leaps from her position, tumbling with palms outstretched to the floor before bending backwards to let her feet touch as well. A belt of silver and bright fire opals rests loosely around her waist, jingling at her hip with every brisk step as she crosses the length of the hall. She straightens her simple black dress, stitched as it is with moonsilver, and it erupts suddenly, inflating like a blowfish before contracting, spreading across her skin like living ink before settling as a taut black catsuit with a short train of dark lace and a veil to match.

"Probably just an errant dragon or two," She smiles to herself and then leaps from the window, catching hold of a bony parapet before flipping backwards onto the roof. She clings tightly to it, staying in the shadows as she surveys, looking for the source of the alarm.

[Krimm_Blackleaf]

Plated arms reach out and grasp tools of dark iron. Saws, scalpels, pliers and hammers... Flesh stands before him filled with dark mechanisms, twisted gears and tendons holding it together, though the bulk that belongs to the leg is shrouded in darkness. His dark lab could possibly more considered a torture chamber. Hooks, saws and other tools of both surgery and agony hang from the walls and high ceiling and piles of corpses lay around in various states of alteration, some for the better and most for the worst... for now.

A thin man in a black hood and bowed head approaches the Carnifex and speaks in a low voice, inaudible to all but the Carnifex himself. He turns his pale face toward the minion granted to him by his liege. His face is nearly incapable of expression, but a sense of curiosity lights up his face. Once he shoos the undead servant he walks up a set of black stairs where the alarm is more audibly sounding. "Mulberry!"

[WhiteKnight777]

Grim

A figure steps out of the mist with the soft, mournful jangling of bells, moving with a cat-footed step over the unhallowed ground. The Grim Foole wears a faint grin as he sees the others rushing to answer the alarm, though he seems in no hurry himself. His instrument and his weapon are both slung over his back, and a faint chorus of moans echoes softly from the accouterments as their owner moves. He nods in acknowledgment to the other two already present

"Ah... lovely, broken moon and glorious, shattered husk.. the nightbirds cry as feet trod the black sanctuary. Sally we forth to dance with lost children and lead them capering down into the dark?"

[Naquadah]

In one of the courtyards, Kohl moves in an erratic manner, clad in an ash-colored linen hakama. The air is silent. He makes no noise; the only sounds are the scrape of the undead and the settling of the fortress's own bones.

Kohl ends his kata just as the first alarm begins to peal. Only a few drops of sweat bead his brow and chest after his workout. He smiles, stretching languidly and reaching towards the soulsteel stave driven chisel-end down into the shadowland soil. Balanced on the blunt end is a goblet of dark iron, inset with rough chunks of amber. He savors the cacophony of the alarm, his flesh prickling with excitement as he drinks deeply from the mulled blood-wine filling the goblet. With a quick motion, he plucks It Holds Enthralled from the ground, turns, and strides towards one of the doors leading into the fortress. The alarm continues; Kohl moves in tune with its rhythm, moving purposefully but leisurely into the darkness towards his chambers. He squeezes the stave gently; it collapses into a short baton. With another flick of his wrist, the chisel end blooms like a dark lotus, shaping itself into a fan.

Kohl fans himself as he enters his chamber, stripping quickly and donning several layers of dark silk: ghost-corpus gray, midnight black, and a deep mossy green. He slips black, light-eating bracers over his wrists; faces whorl in them and mouth a silent scream, then fade apathetically back into torpor. Pausing before his vanity, he quickly applies kohl above his eyes before turning and moving out of the room, still with the rhythm of the alarms. He allows himself a small smile as he exits the fortress and heads for the main gate of the compound. "Finally, the neighbors have come to greet us!" His steps grow higher with the alarms as he pirouettes towards the gate.

[AmberVael]

Sable

The bell tolls, but whispers still cling to her mind. Slowly, reluctantly, Sable Scion drags her contemplations away from the quiet words of the Neverborn, directing her focus outwards and towards the gray world once more. Her eyes take a moment to adjust to its light, having grown used to the darkness, while she takes her time getting to her feet. For a moment, she is unsteady- but she recovers her balance and poise, taking in a breath and giving a single brush along her clothes with long fingered hands.

Voices whisper and clamor quietly around the desolate 'garden' that she has claimed as her own, echoing the quiet pull of her masters. She found it soothing, and helpful for her concentration... though doubtless it would prove maddening to simple mortals. Negative emotions and feelings tinge the area, creating a dark mire from which it was difficult to escape.

With a quiet sigh, the necromancer moves away from her refuge to seek out the cause of her disturbance. Soft streamers of silk follow the movement of her limbs as she walks swiftly to join her fellows.

[WhiteKnight777]

Grim

The jester capered about his companions, his eye glittering with childish glee. One hand idly slid delicately over the soulsteel patch that covered the other, shadowed orb, as if contemplating its removal. Then, with a single fluid motion, his hand darted over his shoulder, drawing his slim, elegant blade and plunging it downward. There was a soft, wet sound and a high-pitched squeal, and the tip of his blade came up, impaled upon it a pale, bloated corpse-fed rat, an unwholesome beast whose deathly pallor revealed its unnatural origins. Grim leaned forward with a delicate, birdlike movement of his head, biting off the front half of the rat, crunching into it with disturbing gusto. He licked his lips, dabbing at them fastidiously with a lacy white kerchief before stuffing the still-twitching hindquarters of the creature into a pouch for later. He gave a satisfied sigh, then began to walk forward into the spectral mists, looking back at the rest of his circle with one eyebrow raised in askance, one hand beckoning.

[Naquadah]

Kohl hears a loud squeak, followed by crunching and smacking as he exits the fortress, betraying the presence of his fellow deathknights. He suppresses a shudder at the thought of what the Grim Foole might be eating this time. Even after the torture and its release and the plunge into this state, existing on the line between life and death, he still appreciates some of the finer things...except now he likes his wine made from blood, and his silks spun from giant maggots. But not much has changed, not fundamentally.

Nobody could tell him what waited outside the walls. He extends his senses forward, probing for the soft flutter of a heartbeat, the scrape of boots, or the clank of gear against armor in the chill, still air, tuning out the loud clang of the alarm bells as they fade behind him.

Kohl hears his Circle move, and their attempts to conceal themselves in the mists amuse him. He knows each is a weapon, just like himself, optimized for use against all things living. And each has his or her own special talents. But none other among them is a Child of Blood, and none other is as silent as Death itself. He draws the misty shadows close and silently flicks the soulsteel fan open, holding its bladed edge against one forearm, ready to lash out. Ghostly scenes play out across it; he reverses his grip so the flowing surface points toward his arm, so that its movement does not betray his presence. It quells its movements at his mental urging, and Kohl becomes one with the mist.

[The Demented One]

As Sable and Kohl stride towards the main gates, they catch sight of their remaining circle-mates, Carnifex, Grim and Mulberry perched atop the roof of the fortress. Pushing open the heavy slabs of deadwood that serve as makeshift doors, they see the cause of the alarm. This is no invasion from Lookshy–the lowest private of the Seventh Legion would never be so foolish as to march right up to the gates of an enemy fortress and wait, or to enter a ghost-haunted shadowland without bringing in talon after talon of soldiers, armed with the finest arsenals of Lookshy. And that is exactly what the would-be intruders have done.

They are three, no more and no less. Standing almost patiently at the front gates, shining a beaming smile at Sable and Kohl, is a young man, red-headed and brazen-skinned. He wears a deep red coat of monkish cut, its collar ringed with bells, over a bare chest that is impressively muscled, almost statuesque thews in perfect definition. He clutches a red bamboo-shoot, an impressive length that he holds like a traveling stick.

To his right stands an older man, dressed in a rustic shepherd's accouterments and just barely greyed with age. He has little of his companion's sanguine smile, a hard-etched scowl on his mien, and one hand on the handle of a massive tetsubo that dangles from his belt, studded with iron flanges. The last of the three is a girl just out of youth, almost bored-looking; her hands tucked deep into the pockets of the long leather coat she wears, along with a wide-brimmed hat.

"Well met!" shouts the young monk, his overbearing smile no less repugnant than the sun's light. "Could a few weary wayward wanderers prevail upon your hospitality for a night's stay? I fear we're utterly lost." He laughs, seeming idiot enough not to know he walks the paths of the dead.

[WhiteKnight777]

Grim

Grim rocked back on his heels, his head tipping towards the sky as he gave a hearty chuckle, clapping his hands together with unrestrained mirth as peal after peal of laughter burst from his lips, curtailed with a sudden snapping motion as his head swung downwards again, his eye focusing on each monk in turn. His lips curved in a broad grin, his teeth perfectly pearlescent as he spoke in a joyous voice. "Wayward wanderers led astray... sheep or shephards on true night's path, sun their only shield... Oh, the doors swing wide like hungry jaws, the portal yawns, the belly of the beast yearns for fullness. Songs unsung and tales untold 'round hearthfires, a disease as must be remedied and twice-quick. "

[AmberVael]

Sable

"We may prepare a welcome for you."
Sable says graciously, gesturing for them to enter as a good host should. There's a little bit of hungry curiosity to her smile, however, that isn't entirely comforting.
"As my friend's doggerel implies, we have few visitors in this area. Your presence would be most appreciated, as would any stories you may have picked up on the road."

With effortless grace, the necromancer moves to guide them inside, deciding that even if they were enemies, it would certainly be better to have them contained, so as to more easily deal with them. While some enemies were better outside of your walls, three travelers were not likely to be a substantial threat to her circle... and if they were, walls wouldn't stop them.

"Tell me, where was your destination, before you lost your way? Perhaps we can set you on the right path."
She asks, waiting for the tacit assent of the others before taking them further inside than through the gate.

[The Demented One]

The youth heaves a sigh of relief, following Sable into the fortress, as it is. After a moment's hesitation, his companions follow, each one warier than their apparent leader. As the necromancer closes the doors, the entrance hallway fades to a dim gloaming, lit only by the loose beams that slip through the gaps in the crude planking of the makeshift roof–gaps wide enough to see through, some even broad enough for a man to pass. While his partners seem fraught with suspicion at the morbid costuming of their hosts, their leader seems entirely unaware of anything unusual. "Thank you for your gracious invitation, madam. We had just set out from Lookshy, and I fear we've come far astray. I would only beg a night's rest, and we will set out by the morn!" he says, words seeming to come all too easily to him.

[Krimm_Blackleaf]

The pale, skeletal face that stared down at the wandering monks remained expressionless, as if Carnifex were lost in thought. He watched them enter the fortress from on high and mutters a small string of incomprehensible curses. He puts his hood up and begins to descend the stairs, the clacking of his cane.

Just as the monk finishes his sentence the dark figure walks into a beam of light almost as a ghost from the shadows, blocking their path. Two dark metal gauntlets reach out from the cloak and lowers the hood upon the man's head. His skin tight over his face, and indeed missing many appendages from his withered head. Ears, nose, eyelides, hair... leaving bare many pointed teeth and aberrant dark eyes. Very swiftly a third metal arm reaches from the darkness of his cloak and grabs the hilt of his weapon and letting it hit the ground with a sickening sound of metal on stone.

"Lookshy? You're from Lookshy, are you?" He said with cold rage, approaching the monks more and more swiftly.

[The Demented One]

As the Carnifex drops down, the monk's companions flinch away–and by the time they have regained their composure, they have weapons in hand. The man hefts his tetsubo high, gripping it in both hands; the girl now wields a pair of flamepieces, one in each hand. The brazen-skinned monk, though, never falters, his smile still shining bright. He takes his bamboo staff and holds it out before him, as if to block the path between him and his companions.

"I'd thought as much. You're something Exalted, aren't you? His smile is especially annoying. "Exalted, but of death-essence. I suppose I should introduce myself to you, no? These are my friends, Jareth and Chaya. My name is Little Beam. Little Beam, Son of the Unconquered Sun!" As he speaks, light flares from his countenance, sunbeams shining from his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth.

[Krimm_Blackleaf]

"Unconquered Sun!" He exclaims with mock resplendence, stopping short of them with two of his three arms held out, and he stood higher, now towering well over six feet in height. "Now I suppose you're those filthy little Sun-children, aren't you? Yes, I can tell from your annoying light show." He looked back down at him, looking him dead in the eye. "I suppose you're here... because we are here, am I correct?"

[AmberVael]

Sable Scion

"Subtlety continues to elude us, it seems."
Sable observes, though she doesn't seem overly disappointed by this. Her voice is most expressive as she continues.
"Though, at least we have presence of mind to work from a position of strength. Others, perhaps, lack this discretion. Tell me, what do you plan now, Little Beam? Do you think to bring your righteousness to us?"
Tone and emphasis play along the name condescendingly, turning each sound into a sneer.

"You may be brave enough to test yourself against us, but it seems your companions lack the same steel. Is it because they are weaker, I wonder? Or because they are heir to a little more wisdom?"
Her words flick out like knives, forming cracks in a wooden surface as she attempts to break his certainty- or at least that of his companions.

"Take care with your next words and actions, little light."

[The Demented One]

"This world is broken, you know. Ignis Divine now longer commands the loyalty of Heaven, the Sun's Chosen no longer rule the earth. If it weren't for that, things like you couldn't even exist!" He shifts into a relaxed stance, leonine in appearance and vigilance–surely some powerful technique of martial arts. "So no, I will not 'bring my righteousness' to you. I bring the righteousness of the Unconquered Sun, of the Creation-Ruling Mandate. You may submit, and flee the world of the living forevermore–or else you shall know the purity of the sun's flames!" Bold words. But only words.

[Naquadah]

Kohl flicks his fan shut with a snap, appearing from a shadow. "Oh dear, my darling," he murmurs, eyes catching on Little Beam's hard muscles, eyes filling with the dual hungers of lust and Oblivion. "The lands of the living, you say? Well, you don't quite know where you are, do you?"

He slips beneath and around the staff, eyeing Little Beam's companions. He holds their eyes, taps the fan against his lips as he circles them until he is again standing near Little Beam and his staff. "Oh no, none of you quite know where you are," he chuckles lightly. He runs the closed fan along the red bamboo staff and shoots a knowing glance at Carnifex, then steps back and under it again, flicking the fan open and easily obscuring himself in the dim light.

[WhiteKnight777]

Grim

The mad Moonshadow gives a wolfish, hungry grin, staring down Little Beam and his companions, catching them in his gaze like ghosts drawn towards Oblivion, his voice ringing out in soft, sibilant, urging tones.

"Three in light and five in darkness... but all walk in the night, and night holds sway. Sun sleeps and shadow rules the land - even mean guests and hungry ghosts know the laws that living and dead must abide. Guests are guests and ghosts are hosts, let them not devour each other while so many others remain uneaten." He turns his gaze to his companions. "Prophets of truth do not consume the flock before it has heard the message" he said in meaningful tones before returning his attention to the monks.

"Come... walk into the web with no fear of the spider, for it is really a black-winged butterfly, in caterpillar's guise and cocooned in lies of others... but the core is sweet indeed. Let us show what lies beneath."

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Attempting a Social roll to convince them to stay and telling his companions to back off so they can get these three at the most opportune time. Say, night. He's invoking the rules of hospitality to convince each party it's the best thing to do, but it's mostly aimed at Sparkle Boy and friends, because he assumes his companions will pick up the real message.

Also, he'd like to get a better opportunity to aim the Eye at Mr. Shiny Pants to see if he's telling the truth. If he is, there's probably something fun they could do with him.

Activating Exquisite Etiquette Style for 1m and making a Manipulation + Socialize Roll, because he's lying through his pearly whites.

Manipulation + Socialize (12d10)[9][10][8][6][8][8][9][3][2][1][3][2](69)

[Krimm_Blackleaf]

The Carnifex quickly turned his head to his generally perplexing comrade, his face showed it's common blankness. One that knows him might think with the level of contempt he generally showed everyone that he would cut down not only the Chosen of the Sun, but his painted ally. He however turned back to the opposing faction, his head moving very slowly and locking eyes with the crimson-clad man before him. "Yes... what is it you've come to say?"

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I'm preparing to parry anything he has to throw at me. I suppose physically or socially, but I think I'll let the more socially capable characters handle that.

[GryffonDurime]

Mulberry, listening from the rooftops, decides that the time is right to descend from her perch. She rears back, gathers speed, and leaps, grabbing hold of a window pane in mid-flight before lowering herself gently to the ground beside the Carnifex. Her outfit has changed as well: now it's pale, orange sari wrapped tightly around her form that glints strangely in the Shadowland sunlight, reflecting all colors like the sick skin of an oilslick. Even Little Beam's light reflects strangely in it.

"How curious. A god claiming to act upon the Creation Ruling Mandate by violating it. Papa would be proud, I'm sure," she says as she entwines her arm around Carnifex's own. "Must be a big legacy to live up to, The Sun, don't you agree Carnifex? But trust Grimm to make our hospitality sound so...demented. Stay. All three of you, and let us divest you of your prejudices."

[WhiteKnight777]

Grim

Grim turns to Mulberry with a broad, cheery grin on his ivory countenance. Giving her an almost grotesquely exaggerated wink, he teases in the same upbeat voice. "Ah, broken moon, blame not the architect if the silver mouse cannot navigate the ebon maze wrought in the dancer's box of ivory."

his head swung back to the three travelers, his smile never wavering "But the spark must tire, a-wandering in the night. Strange paths before and behind, and side to side to side... come in, come in, and let there be night and rest and the trading of breath."

[AmberVael]

Sable

"Be careful, Little Beam. Your life is at stake here- will you gamble it so lightly?"
Sable's fingers play at the edge of her weapon, ready to draw it at the smallest provocation. However, it is not the weapon that is threatening, but her presence itself. Very slightly, her anima begins to show, coiling about her appearance and emphasizing its deadly, feral nature. Black tendrils of darkness tinge the air around her, not fully seen, but certainly felt.

"We can still invite you in as guests... if you will set aside your hostility."
Her posture, poise, and predatory gaze emphasize her power and capability as she attempts to make Little Beam and his companions back down.

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Spending 4 motes on Second Presence Excellency to add two successes. I think I've described this as Appearance + Presence, so...
(10d10)[9][8][6][6][6][10][9][6][5][9](74)
Its basically an attempt to intimidate and make them rethink fighting.

[The Demented One]

"I'm very sorry. I don't think so." says Little Beam, unswayed by your arguments. "I'm not the Unconquered Sun. I'm the first hint of dawn that shows the sun's course, the last violet of sunset that watches the shadows. If the Sun-Kings are ever going to reclaim their dominion, then the way must be laid before them by my hands–and if that means I must fight against you, then I will. I'm giving you one last chance, you know. You can still leave, go back down to the Underworld and tell your masters that Creation is not theirs. And if you will not..." He bows his head with somber resignation, the sunlight of his aura shading purple. "...then I must stand against you."

[WhiteKnight777]

Grim

Grim looked at the trio for a moment, before unslinging his instrument from around his shoulder. The bells on his motley jangled softly in accompaniment as he began to recite in a low, hypnotic voice, his fingers plucking out a strange, mournful melody on the soulsteel strings.


Walks in sunlight, walks in shade
while all around the world goes gray
love crumbles, hope fades
true night's grip alone remains

sun goes black
dragons cry
moon's face cracks
and stars shall die

stride without fear into the dark
and listen to this lyric lark
come and join us, oh argent light
come, and know the joy of night.


Even as he speaks, the air around Grim grows dim. Shadows dance like flickering candle-flames, shadows without any light to cast them that whisper seductively in the ears of the three wanderers, wrapping sinously about them like lovers. Ghost voices whisper in their ear, a sweet, honeyed song of surrender, of the joys of Oblivion and the ultimate, seductive promise of letting go of desire, of pain, of all things.

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Hmmm... let's see if a little music will convince them, eh? Performance check, spending 8m for 4 extra successes from Second Performance Excellency and simultaneously activating Haunting Apparition Trick as part of it. A total of 6 Extra successes, including the 2 from the Sanxian.

Charisma (4) + Performance (5) + (3) for Specialty (Speechmaking) makes a dice pool of 12.
(12d10)[5][5][5][5][10][8][6][10][10][4][7][1](76)

[Naquadah]

There is a slight grating from the shadows underneath Grim's music, the sound of a sharp point drawn against unyielding material. From in front, from behind, but never seen, a grinding like a nail on a chalkboard, or jagged metal against granite. After a moment, Kohl's voice emanates from a shadow, and seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. His face appears, impossibly appears several feet up in the air. Only his face is visible, suspended within a wave of the shadows of unwholesome things. The grating noise continues.

As he speaks, the shadows in the entire room seem to writhe. The floor shimmers with the slickness of blood, and the few beams of light from outside bear screaming images of tortured souls bound into their ever-dimming lines. Before, he voice was cloying, as honey long ago left in clay jars in tombs. Now, it is sharp: the voice of cracked mirrors, maimed rats, insects crawling within a corpse. "You come into our home and insult us. You make claims and demands upon our own hearth in the name of an uninterested and absent god. And worst of all, you make a terrible mistake: we are not fully within Creation. Now, these offenses may all be forgiven, and we have offered that forgiveness to you. We offered you hospitality even as you act as an affront to it. You believe your light is enough. I rebuke you! May your torch flicker and gutter, and your tongue rot with the poison of your own ill manners! Your companions stand silent, but I see the glitter in their eyes; it is a look I am used to. Fear. Uncertainty. The faint gloaming of despair. Do they so gladly challenge Death itself as you do? It is not too late. Draw up a chair; fill a goblet. This need not end in bloodshed."

His eyes turn, spear both of the companions where they stand. His voice is somewhere between pleading and comforting. The grating noise sounds almost desperate; images of bats and large insects flicker at the edges of vision. "And if he does not, you need not bind yourself to his words. Do you make this choice? Does this man speak for you, or have you sense enough to realize that he has gladly led you to meet your end so far from your homes? Abandon him. It is not such a difficult thing to do. Has he done anything to safeguard your interests? If not, why should you suffer alongside him for his faux pas?"

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Kohl is using Soul-Dessicating Style to instill the emotions of fear and shame into Little Beam AND his companions. Roll is Manipulation + Performance + hearthstone benefits. It Holds Enthralled is providing the effects of Haunting Apparition Trick upon the scenery. My appearance is 4, so the targets may suffer a MDV penalty if their Appearance is less than mine.

[rollv] 11d10 [/rollv]

[The Demented One]

Little Beam stands resolute, but his companions are not so adamant. "I think we should go." cautions the older man, Jareth. "They have us right where they want us, we should escape, come back later with–" But the godling cuts him off with an upraised palm. "Leave, if you must. I will stay." A moment of wordless silence, and a decision. There is a thump as the man's tetsubo falls into hard earth of the fortress's floors, and he is leaving, back turned on his erstwhile allies. The doors groan, reluctant wood scraping hard earth as he pushes them open, and he is leaving. He will not survive past nightfall, not in this ghost-haunted desolation.

Chaya remains at the god's side, but there is nothing of courage in her eyes, nothing of the confidence that shines from Little Beam. She nervously unlimbers her firewands, fingers twitching on triggers drawn back to the precipice of firing. "No more words, dead men. The sun can dawn even amid shadows, amid shadowlands. I will show you!"

Violence.


Battle Joined

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Tick 0: Kohl, Little Beam
Tick 1: Sable
Tick 2: Mulberry, Grim
Tick 5: Chaya
Tick 6: Carnifex

Kohl

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2-die stunt on your Performance, 4 motes or 1 willpower.

Grim

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2-die stunt on your Performance, 4 motes or 1 willpower.

Tick 0: Kohl, Little Beam

[Naquadah]

"It's your blood, glowworm. Spill it wherever you see fit. I certainly will," Kohl chuckles and loudly pops his neck, grinning as blood from his caste mark cascades down his face and drips from his chin. As his head lolls to either side, the shadows around him on that side shatter into a refracted array of grays, purple-blacks, bloody reds, mossy greens, bruised blues, and sickly mustard yellows. His anima flares; images of crows initially surround him, then shatter into strange component pieces. They appear as if looking at the reflection of a crow in a heavily cracked mirror. Kohl's face seems to fade into this morass until only his burning caste mark and grinning teeth are visible, then they too become just another part of the roiling mass of shadowy images. Where he was now looks like nothing more than an area of kaleidoscopic broken crow madness; there is no obvious trace of the Day Caste in that location. The terrible scraping sound continues, the sound of men carving glyphs into living rock with jagged iron picks.

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I'll say I spent the 6m for Soul-Dessicating Style out of Peripheral Essence. Regain 4 and then, on my action, spend 6 more Peripheral motes to activate Crystal Chameleon Form (Speed 6).

Dodge DV 6, Parry DV 6

Soak 7B/7L, Hardness 0B/0L

Health Levels
-0 [ ]
-1 [ ][ ][ ][ ][ ]
-2 [ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ]
-4 [ ]
X [ ]

Willpower 6/6

Personal Essence 15/15

Peripheral Essence 18/36

Active Charm Effects:

• Crystal Chameleon Form: -2e to all attacks made against the character; character always meets the prerequisites to re-establish surprise in combat.

• Ominous Portent Method: removes the unexpected quality from an incoming attack or effect, so long as the character's Resonance is less than (10 - Essence rating)

• Soulsteel hearthstone bracers: opponents' soak decreased by 2B/2L

[The Demented One]

Little Beam stands unmoved before Kohl's kaleidoscopic anima, still grinning slightly. He moves to stand in front of Chaya, guarding her like a loyal hound–and then, with uncoiling thews, he lashes out with his staff, its tip licking at Carnifex's hand, one powerful blow aimed to knock the necroscientist's bloody goreripper from his grasp. But the Daybreak effortlessly twists his soulsteel arm out of the way with mechanical precision–and as the god spins his staff to catch him with the butt-end, Carnifex bats it away effortlessly with his dark metal claws. Chaya looks nervously over her guardian's shoulders, trying to aim from behind his defense, praying that he will not fall before these abominations.


Battle Joined

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Tick 1: Sable
Tick 2: Mulberry, Grim
Tick 5: Little Beam, Chaya
Tick 6: Carnifex, Kohl

Tick 1: Sable

[AmberVael]

Sable Scion

"The sun cannot shine where it has set."
Decrees Sable, her repeater whirling into her hand. Noting the fear of Chaya, and Beam's protective stance, she aims the weapon at her for a second, attempting to provoke a defensive reaction from Beam, or perhaps distract him from his defense, at which point she instantly changes her target, firing at the glowing man as soon as his defense falters.

Smoke erupts from the barrel of the weapon, along with a tortured, hellish shriek; a streak of a faint blue substance shoots through the air, intended to burn and sear Beam's flesh with deadly reagents from the underworld. As she streams her essence into the task, Sable's anima erupts as well, become increasingly pronounced. Blackened cracks begin extending from around her body, tearing jagged wounds into the working of Creation.

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Just noting all details here for my benefit- in case I get something wrong, you can correct me.

Flurry- draw the repeater and fire. Incurs -2 DV, and -3 to my attack.

Dexterity + Archery should be 8 dice (-3 equals 5). She'll spend 8 peripheral motes on the second excellency and add 4 successes.
(5d10)[6][7][10][9][10](42)
10 successes. Awesome.

Damage is 10L, as I don't add anything to base weapon damage for a repeater, unless I miss my guess.

Other stats:

Dodge DV 3 (5-2), Parry DV 2 (4-2)

Soak: 4B/2L, Hardness: 0B/0L

Health Levels
-0 [ ]
-1 [ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ]
-2 [ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ][ ]
-4 [ ]
X [ ]

Willpower: 7

Personal Essence: 12/16
Peripheral Essence: 46/55

Active Effects:

• Nothing but prayer!