[Twi]Chronicles of the Impaler: Crisis of Infinite Draculas OOC

[Draxx]

Well, since heroes aren't linear (which is why they can be summoned before they actually exist) then theoretically? Anyone with a decent amount of fame, ever.

For example, Shatterworld is a previous game where every single superhero existed simultaneously (That was a fun game). They were all killed in a terrible war over a few decades, by Lex Luthor and Molly from the Dresden Files (Long Story, but not one you need to be familiar with). So there is nothing to stop you picking (for example) Batman, Superman or Captain America. Warhammer 40,000 exists somewhere as well, so by the same token you could summon Sagnius or Jangatti Khan.

See what I mean?

So your best bet is a pick a larger then life character you like, then play them even more so. Think utility. We have a Saber and an Archer, we need a Caster, Berserker, Lancer, Assasain and Rider. Which appeals to you?

[Terry576]

...Any character? Well I love the Denarians (eeee meciel eeee) so....

Anduriel before he Falls as a Caster. (Ridiculous angel abilities totally count for Caster stats.)

Spoiler alert:

Anduriel is also Nicodemus. Lucifer could also work for that. :V

[Draxx]

Nicodemus, eh? Well isn't that interesting...

Nicodemus has been a well received member of these games for a long time now, and has become a significant part of our lore, in no short part due to the excellent characterization of Industrious. Unfortunately, there are a few problems. None that can't be worked out, just that there are problems. I don't mean to discourage you.

The first one is that Nicodemus refuses to stay dead. Anything to avoid the big fire below, you understand. He was hung by Alexander Anderson (by the neck, until dead), however Satan got him reincarnated (as a literal anti-christ, to whit the grandson of the devil), and Voldemort used his body restoration mojo on him. He was then taken to Leng, dragged up to the highest floor on the Dark Tower, and left at the end of the universe. Fortunately, he bounced back from that as well, by meeting a few angry Primordials who were looking for someone to help open their prison. He's now back alive (for, I believe, the third time), and a Green Sun Prince Infernal working for one of them (I think the Ebon Dragon), so he's probably not going to work so well since nothing tossed his way has managed to get him to stay dead.

And worse still, Anduriel is far deader then dead (fed to Stormbringer, which is pretty much curtains for God or Man), so if you tried to bring her back, you'd get something far, far worse.

And Lucifer himself might be a bit too much an overwhelming force when it comes to being overpowered, unless Saint Michael shows up.

[Terry576]

You underestimate the power of Nasu making things up.

The Grail summons things at the moment, the very moment of their death, eg, I can totally summon Anduriel, and then when the war is over?

Back to being eaten by Stormbringer. It's pretty depressing when you think about it.

Alternatively I can just run with someone else, like Berserker Shinji Ikari, Rider Caim (Drakengard!), or Caster Voldemort.

Caster Voldemort trolls the crap out of Harry all the time forever.

[Draxx]

Really? Well then, Nicodemus is perfect. Anduriel's death is irrelevant, since the coin is an artifact so he creates a perfect copy automatically, thus creating an imprint of the demon.

Personally, I was always against the idea of Counter Guardians and all the rest, and figured it was actually the souls choosing to enter the cycle, their powers sustained by human belief, rather then imprints of people who may or may not have existed (hence Shirou having a dramatic future where he does epic battle with the Britannian Empire against Lelouch and Light Yagami) since if they are only approximations, then Archer's entire struggle is utterly meaningless.

But then, the thing never really bore up to scrutiny, did it? Afterall, Sasaki Kojiro claims he probably never really existed, therefore killing Shirou won't do Archer a bit of good, since actual causality has no bearing on the collective unconsciousness. It only works if none of them are Counter Guardians and they aren't actually the people they represent, or all of them are Counter Guardians, and have unfinished business (to whit, the Holy Grail's wish allowing them to make their grand visions a reality (and in Shirou's case, the possibility of a good old fashioned suicide by paradox), which makes sense as every single one of the canon characters had unfinished business they wanted to complete using the wish). Of course, it seems a little too convenient that every major historical figure all took the deal, from Alexander the Great to Odysseus to Jack the Ripper.

If the former, then it should be revealed to Archer at a suitably dramatic moment, prompting despair, then acceptance, then badassery (It's Archer, afterall), as he realizes he's trapped in the cycle, and may as well be awesome about it. He can then depart, giving some advice to Shirou that he was wrong all this time, and he should be true to his idealism, because fatalism doesn't work afterall.

If the latter, then we need a reason for Nicodemus to be bound in the cycle. Could be part of the conditions for his reincarnation, could be the actual, physical, flesh and blood Nicodemus somehow hijacking the summoning (happened before), could be many things.

If that seems like too much work, then one of the others should be fine. Of course, Voldemort is the only one I know.

[Terry576]

...I lost you somewhere. Who am I trying to summon again - Nicodemus or Anduriel?

[Draxx]

I assumed Nicodemus, since Anduriel is already a metaphysical spirit, and furthermore exists primarily as an artifact. But I'm just offering suggestions.

[Terry576]

Ah.

See I've been trying to convince myself that 'metaphysical beings' and concepts could totally work as a spirit. For instance, I would like to somehow use THE TOWN OF SALEM as a Berserker at some point.

[Draxx]

Actually, that would be extremely easy. We already have living, self-aware archetypes thanks to Neil Gaiman's 'The Sandman', so that's not too much a stretch. I suppose a place would be a walking reality marble, like Night of Wallachia.

That would get on pretty well with my (not so) mystery character, and a wizard summoning the spirit of a place that exists solely for the purpose to burn his kind at the stake is possibly as horribly ironic as my kid summoning his embittered future self who's trying to keep himself from existing.

[Terry576]

Welp, the Personification of Salem it is!

Now we have several options! Should it be a Pilgrim girl, a generic Protestant farmer, or a really hot girl?

[Draxx]

I'd say probably an even mix of options one and three. A sweet, innocent looking southern belle.

[Terry576]

Who just so happens to be crazy and murders everything magical.

In the face.

[Draxx]

With fire. (I don't know the first thing about the Salem Witch Trials, but people associate Witches and burning at the Stake, so it must be true, or at least should be).

[AnimeKid]

Geez, leave you two alone for a night and you guys come up with this. Man this is going to be h*ll on Kidd and Maka. As if their jobs weren't already hard enough with trying to get the Kishin Egg souls of the Cullen's, Light, and Misa.

Plus Maka is gonna have to be there to pull Soul's ass out of the fire when he inevitably hits on Salem.

[Terry576]

Well technically Salem is a (anti)-heroic spirit, like Nasu!Medusa. She isn't a bad person, but she's not really a good person.
i differ them because Rider from FSN causes me incoherent mythology rage

And Harry's more of DLP's Harry then canon!Harry, because I liked jaded!sarcastic!Harry better than "kind of a prat" Harry.

And now back to reading Storm Front. Oh Jim Butcher, why won't you cradle me in your big strong armswords?

Oh and Salem would shut Soul down faster than an iron gate in front of a peasant. Then she'd try and convince Harry to let her "kill him so that he may only burn in the fires of eternity temporarily."

[darkblade]

What's DLP?

[Cracklord]

So, going by what we have so far, if we are still assuming that the magicians are and always have been the power behind the throne of Brittania, which is roughly still the British Empire at the height of it's glory (lots of colonies, in other words) (which we sort of have so far), and the rival factions, given their limited resources and powers believe them to be evil librarians, then what's Hogwarts exactly? At makes sense that the magical capital of the world would be in Britain, since it's the worlds superpower, is Hogwarts the center of this?
If so, it leads to some interesting possibilities. They most likely have laws against marrying muggles (don't want to weaken the blood that gives magic powers, do we?) and most of the wizards probably have titles. Not big, impressive ones, just baron and marquis and viscount, but nonetheless serve as the power behind the throne in most of the worlds governments.

[Corvond]

You know, Raven is a pretty good candidate to summon a servant, if you want, and she'd be easy to pull in, since she's working for Tim. Just have her guided by a vision, or some other mystical mumbo jumbo (or have Zantana give her position in the battle, or however the wizards organize things), show up, move in with Tim (Much to Steph's irritation), and badda bing, badda boom.

[darkblade]

My main explanation for the lack of wizards in this Grail War is that Draxx's mystery character has already murdered the canon Fate/Stay cast off screen.

[Terry576]

What's DLP?

DarkLordPotter, they write fanfiction.

[Cracklord]

Where All Fear to Tread

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There is a place called the Astral Plane, or Emptiness, or Elsewhere, or any of a thousand other names. It is not the Void, the antithesis of Creation, merely the absence of Creation, where nothing is, not time, not distance, no gravity, no anything. Nothing but a great, endless sphere of clear silvery sky, both above and below, stretching forever as a circle stretches forever, coiling in on itself endlessly.
It is a place of thought, memory, an empty, barren place with only rare bits of solid matter that had been left here by travelers, by accident or design. The Astral Plane is unique in that it is infinitesimal instead of infinite; there is no space or time here, though both catch up with you when you leave. Indeed, it is interesting for only one reason.
It is where gods go when they die or are forgotten and serve no further purpose, or, most likely, both. Floating in the void like enormous islands were the immense petrified remains of dead gods, as the spark of their divinities left their burned out shells and went on to empower new beings. Were they worshipped enough, memories might remain for a time, getting on as best they could, but they would fade and be forgotten soon enough, and that would be the end of them.
And in this plane, something watched.
It was a probe, built by a civilization that had begun to explore the multiverse. It was a hideous thing, with six manipulator arms extending from a central pod and several retractable sensor arms for gathering samples. It had glass lenses, but no transmission equipment or indeed any way of recording what it saw. It didn't need them, an intelligence stared through it's blank, dead eyes and didn't need such things. The probe drifted, sailing slowly through the silver sky as long forgotten gods drifted past. It had been created to harvest the spark of the divinity, too strip mine these ancient remains until it captured what mysterious element had made them divine, then return to it's creator, but that had left these things, and there was nothing here but cold, dead flesh, petrified like stone. Or so it had seemed.
But the probe had not been recalled, and mere (or perhaps mighty chance) had allowed it to stumble onto a discovery that was greater still then even divinity.
The body of the Primordial Autochthon floats within this plane, adjacent to and separate from the Creation he helped envision. He slumbers, as he has since his hands wrought creation, and his sleep is troubled. Within his vast, pressurized outer hull, his body is in turmoil.
The Great Maker was sickly and frail even at the dawn of the world. Before the Timelords and the Valheru met and battled for rights to creation he was. Before mortals were sculpted of clay, and put on the path of evolution he was. Before sentience gave birth to the Endless he was, before the worlds were sculpted he was, indeed he had a hand in fashioning the divine spark that created the Gods at the behest of the supreme authority while his kin sketched out the stars and skies. Before time and light and space and matter he was. Before chaos he was, before the Cataclysm he was. Before the Word, he was. Before Good, Before Evil, Before, he was.
But the world had moved on, and left him and all his kin far behind. He was many things, the inspiration for the mythical Prometheus among them, who had given lessons to mortals and set them on the path of inspiration that would lead to the secrets of the universe, that would lead them to challenge the gods and discover themselves. And when the world would no longer support his primordial self, his illness spiraling out of control, and his body rising in open revolt against itself, he had come here, and slept, slowing the process but not stalling it completely. His kin were not so lucky, having survived the end of the reality by virtue of not being part of it on any level they now rage impotently, no longer able to create without the Supreme Authority's blessing, and turn on each other or plot a reclamation, waiting for another realm to be born in order to claim it. Such is their broken nature that they could no longer conceive of a way to build something new and better on their own. All they remained able to do was to change that which already existed to suit their needs, and after the end of everything, all that remains is they themselves.
Autochthon is not so far gone. Not yet. For now, while he struggles to rebuild himself, he retains enough self to keep from degenerating into stagnation. For The Great Maker is also comforted in his sleep even as he is wracked with torment. Men and women selected by his own hand and taken at the beginning have been kept here for uncountable generations, living and working within the world that is his body. They labor ceaselessly to regulate his processes. They fill his internal reservoirs with their prayers and worship. They wield dogma, faith and tools in support and defense of their god and their world, for they are one and the same. They repair it where they can, easing his growing madness and restoring his damaged systems.
And they suffer. Autochthon has become a dark realm of toil and danger. Its technological landscape was not designed for human habitation, and its mechanical denizens comprehend the frailty of mortal flesh and mortal emotion only with difficulty. The lives of Autochthonians are lives of routine, of repetition, of regulation and of restriction. Of denial and of stagnation.
And yet, they are lives. The teeming millions of Autochthonia love, dream, hate, covet, war, worship, wonder about tomorrow and marvel over the past. They strive and struggle. They know triumph and failure. So it has always been.
For the first time since The Great Maker came here, since the stars were completed, there is a change, too small to be noticed. A tiny object, no larger then a soccer ball, lands on the gleaming chassis of Autochthon, and extends, tentatively, a probe, then watches and comprehends what it is seeing. It did not find the spark of divinity. It found something far better.
What stared through the lenses on the probe was not a God, though it had declared itself one and had in many ways surpassed those that did have the spark of divinity. It was immortal, beyond corporeal form and belief, built in to the universe it held unshakably in it's absolute grip, and it's power was sufficient to grind the thrones of the lords of heaven beneath it's heel, were it to want to. It rarely took form, though in some things materialization was convenient.
You might mistake it for smoke, as it is grey and translucent, unsubstantial enough that you can see things through it. But it carries a deathly smell, of oil and rust and rotting flesh, and it keeps its shape, not billowing and curling as smoke would, not wavering in the wind or spreading out and dispersing. It was a dark cloud that hung in place, it's only features a pair of eyes. No shadow shows itself to those eyes, for he was the city's sun and moon and morning star. He was her every lamp, so that even his own shadow hid from him, turned traitor by the ache of darkness for light.
Just as what he saw defied comprehension, so did the observer. He was Yawgmoth, inexorable and ineffable, Lord of Phyrexia. Ash was his air, darkness his flesh, but even the darkness fled before him. His was a world of steel and flesh and a profane bonding of the two, and this vision had spread to every corner of the plane of Phyrexia, reforming worlds and caging suns, tapping magic and power and bringing it for he willed it to be.
Yawgmoth was absolute, his every word sacred, his every thought that which defined a universe. To his servants, his merest whim was their entire existence. Fully a fifth of all life was dedicated to recording his every thought, whim and fancy into the immense holy books that defined the lives of all that existed within. And so he had dictated law, as they had needed him to, in order to give their scuttling little lives meaning.
Most important of the commandants was simple, greater even then obedience to his word, was that all fashioned by any hand other then his own was heretical and a perversion, fit only to be destroyed. Yet he did not apply the laws to himself. He had been a scientist before he declared himself a God, and was not so arrogant to believe he had nothing new to learn, nothing new to inspire him to greater heights of perfection. Indeed, had he not acquired and begun rebuilding the Void Dragon, a Necrotyr artifact he had found, built of a sun-eater compressed into a shell of living metal? He found himself impressed at the promise it showed, and was giving it a new body to his own specifications, and could scarcely wait to unleash it. But what he saw here...
Perhaps. Comes the voice of Yawgmoth, that of absolute authority, as he looked at the living body of the primordial. Perhaps. All he had to do was seize it afterall. He was trapped, a prisoner in the universe he had conquered so completely, but he could find a way to bring it before him. The dark cloud that composed the form he had selected held another moment, then dispersed.

Wall

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The town of Wall stands here as it has stood for the better of a thousand years, weathering a millennium and all it had to offer. It had endured, regicide, civil war, plague and strife, fire and invasion and the ending of ages with surprisingly few changes. It has been rebuilt, as fashions change or repairs become necessary, as utility demands new buildings and as time marched on, as the town changed from sheep to cows and back to sheep, but it remains the same place fundamentally, still on the same high jut of granite amidst a small woodland, far enough away from the rest of the world not to be bothered too much by it.
The houses of Wall are square and old, built of grey stone quarried not too distant, with dark slate roofs and high chimneys; taking advantage of every inch of space on the rock. The houses lean into each other, are built one upon the next, and the streets are narrow and unpaved. Perhaps six hundred people live there, many of them children, and they are a taciturn breed, falling into two distinct types: the native Wall-folk, grey and stocky as the granite outcrop their town was built upon; and the others, who have made Wall their home over the years, and their descendants. Many of them have papers proving they've been here hundreds of years, nobody has come to wall in living memory though those with ancestors who made their way here are still looked on as outsiders, but the native-folk do not have any such proof or deeds of ownership, because nobody used paper back when they first came here and first built the town.
There is one road from Wall, a winding track rising sharply up from the forest, where it is lined with rocks and small stones, only barely wide enough for two cars abreast, and barely maintained to make traveling it a dubious proposition, even if you can make the old technology work or have a horse and carriage. Followed far enough south, out of the forest, the track becomes a real road, paved with asphalt that time has pitted and scarred; followed further the road gets larger. Eventually the road takes you to New London, or what's left of it, but New London is a long way from Wall.
Below Wall on the west is the forest now tangled and wild with nobody to tame it; to the south is a treacherously placid lake served by the streams that drop from the hills behind Wall to the north. There are fields upon the hills, on which sheep graze and the livelihood of the town is stored. To the east is yet more woodland. They have no choice but to be isolationists, what would the alternatives be with no neighbors?
Immediately to the east of Wall is a high grey rock wall, from which the town takes its name. This wall is old, built of rough, square lumps of hewn granite, and it comes from the woods and goes back to the woods once more. It guards against no obvious enemy, marks no boundary anyone can see, and indeed it takes barely ten minutes to walk around it, and could be easily lept over should one take a thought to do so (which nobody ever does). There is only one break in the wall; an opening about six feet in width, a little to the north of the village.
Through the gap in the wall can be seen a large green meadow; beyond the meadow, a stream; and beyond the stream there are trees, trees quite distinct from the woodlands on either side of the town. From time to time indistinct shapes and figures can be seen, amongst the trees and in the distance. Huge shapes and odd shapes and small, glimmering things which flash and glitter and are gone. Although it is perfectly good meadowland, none of the villagers has ever grazed animals on the meadow on the other side of the wall, nor have they used it for growing crops, nor even rested there awhile to stare at the clear skies. Indeed, none ever step foot on it at all.
Instead, for hundreds, or perhaps for thousands of years, they have posted guards on each side of the opening on the wall, and done their best to put it out of their minds. They do not remember the treaty, nor could they articulate exactly why they do this. Most would stare blankly if you mentioned Tuatha Dé Danann, Gwyn ap Nudd or Gronw Pebyr, the old people were as forgotten here as they were everywhere else. Yet something of the treaty men had made with them lingered, when long ago the borders of Faerie were agreed upon in this spot, and even today, two townsmen stand on either side of the opening, night and day, taking eight-hour shifts. They carry hefty wooden cudgels and they flank the opening on the town side, letting nobody pass under any circumstances.
Once every nine years a market had come here, as the fey had made deals and traded contracts and glamors and pretties for those who would deal for them and didn't know that nothing good comes from elvish gold. But the Market had dried up, had stopped coming, and had not been even mentioned in living memory.
And so strangers had stopped coming to wall, they'd grown even more withdrawn, and had missed the collapse of civilization, for there was never very much of it in this place. They were rural, and traditional, and had never much cared for the outside world anyway. So the town had continued on, and the gap was still guarded.
Then one day came a stranger, tall and white as snow flecked with grey, a spear of silver on his shoulder and a cup of gold in his hand. His eyes were golden and wolflike, his pale face was stern and cruel,noble though it might be, and his manner was the calm, unhurried pace of an executioner, graceful in his every movement; like a panther wading into a pool.
A walking contradiction was he, A king, though he wore no crown, and would refuse any if offered. A warrior, though he had no honor, had cast it aside and had no desire to take it back. Free and wild, he had bound himself to obligations that defined him so completely he had nothing else left to give. He raged and hated, but neither motivated him, neither lent him strength. For more then anything, he was a fanatic, who had decided to stop being a person and become a cause, mad and hysterical though it might be.
The two young men had been growing tired, the hour was late and both had wives they'd rather be sharing a warm bed with. When he emerged from the woods, they were paralyzed a moment with indecision, nothing like this had ever happened before. There was a bell, that had never been rung, and a hammer to hit it, but neither even thought of it. They tried to meet his eyes, and fell back, trembling. One could not say if Nuada has been rendered permanently scary-eyed from his time in torment, or if all elves are like this, or if he is simply psychotic even by elf standards. But regardless, when he turns his empty, haunted gaze on you you don't meet his gaze.
He doesn't spare them a word. Moving his slender body he lashes with his spear, killing them both cleanly and painlessly with a single blow, so fast they don't even realized he's killed them before he steps past and they try to follow, and catching a few drops of their blood in the golden cup.
When he came to the town, he slammed the butt of his spear hard enough to crack the stone foundation that held up all the houses, and then brandished it above his head. "The treaty is henceforth revoked, and your charter and protection with it." He said, pleasure slithering amidst the anger. He has waited such a very long time for this. "I come to take our due."
Come morning, nothing stirred in Wall. None awoke to be about tasks and chores, no sheep bleated, no horses stamped restlessly in their stalls, no dogs yelped, no children play, everything, even unto the rats, was dead, their blood in the golden cup that Nuada carried.
The fey were creatures of magic, but what he was attempting was deeper, the deep magic written but seldom used. The magic of sacrifice, and of blood, and of hate, and of love. In the cup he bore was enough blood for the reverse communion he intended. The table had been seized, and she was buried beneath it. Come tonight, the kings would gather, and they would give their gifts, the witches who dwelt in the mortal coil would sense her coming and, taking stones, would leap into the sea and drown themselves rather then face her coming or else, make the long, perilous journey into Faerie to join her coven, and the old things would take notice.
He sniffed. He could smell the blood and death, it clung to him, sinking into his very skin, though he cared not for it. What was one more sin? He was already an oath-breaker and a murderer more times over then he could count. He has slain his own father, and destroyed the things he loved, as all monsters do.
Just one more. Just one more, and the reclamation could begin.

The Table

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Faerie (which is a place, though not one land, principality or domain so much as many at once, and more then any of these, an attitude, one bigger then the world), which like all places is inhabited by people (children of clean earth and starlight, not salted water and wind as humans are), governed only by rules of etiquette, formality and modes of behavior, social norms, in short, by custom and mutual agreement.
Customs have power, they define the people rather then the other way around, and only the truly brave, mad, or the truly dangerous will defy them with deed as well as word. But the Fey are creatures of anarchy and madness, they are the wild. When set loose, they are terrible as the worst of demons.
The Faerie are of the Wild Magic. They are not creatures of spells and grimoires, of rituals and other tools. They are spells, they written of in grimoires and spoken to through rituals.
There are glamours that they all control, to some degree or another. They can stand in a crowd and never be noticed, they can make mortals love them until their hearts give out, and all the other mirror games that delight them so. They are creatures of glamor and dream, afterall.
Then there are the darker currents that run beneath the surface, like the wild wind storming across the heathland or the flash of lightning on a clear summers night, and those were not predictable things, like the fey themselves.
The land of Faerie is as chaotic as it's inhabitants. We talk of kings and queens of Faerie as we would talk of kings and queens of England, but Faerie is bigger then England, bigger then Europe, and contains all a manner of landscape and terrain. Here there truly be dragons, and serpents, and every imaginable monster.
Within Faerie, the center from which all extended endlessly from, is a stone table, which in ancient times was raised a huge mound around it, hollowed out and full of galleries and caves. It was certainly an awesome place, a round green hill on top of another hill long since grown over with trees, and one little, low doorway leading into it.
The tunnels were a maze, lined and roofed with perfect smoothed stones carved with strange characters and snaky patterns. It was a cold, black musty place, and the table was a grim slab of grey stone supported on four upright stones. It was as old as faerie, and was the the foundation of much of what they did. It was stained with blood, a minor lordling named Cluracan who had been a victim of his own reluctance, one of many.
Talos Lankin did not doubt. He feared, but if Nuada asked he would do whatever was asked of him. He had come too far not to. With the tip of his bronze sword he carved a circle into the stone, the edge undamaged. And as he did, he thought.
He did not believe he would live for much longer. But he was content. He had lost his honor, but regained his pride, he had achieved what he had dreamed, and he was free now to do as he'd always wished.
There were only so many he could kill, but he intended to make it count.
He turned. Black Annis sat on the table, leading a score of her sister hags in chanting. He did not know the words. The language was ancient, though not so old as him, but t was not a tongue intended for men, and thus beyond his gift of tongues. The smallfolk had fled now, though they had brought what was coming, none of them wanted to be here when it happened.
Ice began to form, rime coated every surface, until the walls were coated in it. For a moment, he looked into the frozen depths.
Then he blinked. For a second, just a second, he had glimpsed something half-remembered, a woman in white, cold and imperious, but beautiful, crowned in ice and dressed in regal finery. For a moment he had seen the queen that was promised, Jadis, Once Empress of Charn.

Winter

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At and the very edge of faerie, which most of these tales concern, in the land of Always Winter, is a small, pleasant cottage, built of stone with loving care. Weary travellers will find this an unusually pleasant retreat amongst the ancient and often foreboding forest and the mist-shrouded downs beyond. Behind it a steep shoulder of the land lay grey and bare, that gave way to a dark shore and a river choked with ice. It was a simple stone house adorned with beautiful flowers and lush gardens.
Queen Mab was not herself. Her servants had not betrayed her exactly, they had simply withdrawn and were watching to see what would happen enxt. If she triumphed they would have supported her all along, if not then they would not die for a lost cause. Of course, even with their support she was in trouble. She was outnumbered four to one at best, and the warriors had all gone to join their king.
Nuada was younger then her, but he was a peerless warrior, and his obsession had spread amongst the disposed who had no purpose in the long peace. Indeed, when she had called her servants only two had come, the rest having fallen silent or having joined the wyld fae already.
The Witch-Queen Leanansidhe, last of the Lilim, stood at her right shoulder, tall and imperious though not quite as beautiful or dignified as the White Lady herself, her heart-shaped face framed by curly copper and scarlet hair, her almond slanted amber eyes, slitted like a cats focused on the one they stood before. She wore skeleton leaves and the juices that flow from trees, a tunic of jay feathers and a skirt of maple leaves, and carried a spear of elm.
Her other companion Gwyn ap Nudd stood by her, ten feet tall, clad in little more then a loincloth woven of grass and twigs and a heavy cloak of tawny feathers. He was lean and slender, his limbs long and powerful, and hair the colour of sand hung past his waist, tied in intricate braids, plaits and knots. Dozens of bracelets, torcs and necklaces encircled his neck and arms, and a huge hunting horn hung across his back. His bronze skin was covered in swirling tatoos and war paint. He and Mab had been lovers long ago, before she'd been wed to Oberon and had to wait until summer to take lovers while he slept, but despite that he was loyal still.
Neither of them said a word. It was a touching display of loyalty that they had accompanied her here at all, particularly now.
The figure who she had petitioned stood at the door to the cottage, staring balefully down. He was was a figure of myth and legend, his origin lost in the dawn of time, but he was a patron of hunters and warriors, a protector of the wild and a guardian of the lost.
He was easily ten feet tall, dressed in green robes. His mouth was too large for his long face, blooming in the snow of a luxuriant white beard, long enough to tuck in his belt, and wild, braided fiercely with finger-bones and bronze disks. His angular cheeks and forehead marked with deep lines and creases were age had ravaged by passions too great and too strong for any single mind.
He was remorseless, disillusioned predatory, fierce, proud and pitiless, and his great jewels of eyes were not human at all. The were huge and golden, bitter and emotionless, like that of an anglerfish that lives in the depths of the ocean and knows no light. Fog seeped up from the ground and billowed around the grim specter like a cloak.
He was the hunter, and his prey were whatever he chose, gods, Outsiders, Fallen, Angels, all fled at the coming of the great hunter. He was not on Mab's side, anymore then he was on Nuada's, or even the fey as a whole. There was only one being in all the multiverse he had ever cared about, and someone had murdered him. His rage was terrible to behold, but this, this deathly, creeping quiet was worse. Were Nodens to get his grasp on the one who had killed his brother, the vengeance he would take was too terrible to contemplate.
"YOU SAY HE CAN DO IT." The lord of the void asked, lowering his great, shaggy head. "THIS MORTAL CAN FIND WHAT I SEEK." There was an eagerness in his tone that one would hate to be directed on them.
"He is resourceful." Mab replied, matching his gaze. She wasn't afraid. The worst had already happened. "Enough to avenge me and you."
"THAT IS WELL." Nodens said, then inclined his head. "HE WILL NOT SAVE YOU."
"I will not be diminished." Mab replied, proudly. "I shall never be less then I am, Mab, Queen of Air and Darkness. If this is to be my end, then I shall gather those of us who will follow, and meet him in battle. Perhaps his advice is not so poor, for I shall not skulk and hope his gaze passes over me. Better to meet it on my own terms. I can forsee the end as easily you, but the wizard had best avenge me. What would it serve me, to skulk and hide and pray the storm passes me by? I am already caught in it's jaws, better to choose my own end then leave it in the domain of those who hate me."
Nodens did not reply. His mouth opened, horrible and vast, the skin stretching ravenously from bone to bone and tooth to tooth. Inside there seemed to be nothing but sharp teeth like thorns in ridges everywhere. It seemed to stretch forever, and big enough to swallow a world and deep as forever, then he roared. The sound echoed across Faerie, making the whole place shudder beneath the pressure of his demand, then he closed his mouth abruptly, cutting off the sound. It's echo remained for almost a minute. "I HAVE DRAWN HIM. THE REST IS UP TO THIS WIZARD YOU SAY SO MUCH ABOUT."

So, the second to last of my tales of the fai, before they appear in another game (Industrious' domain). The last one will feature the resurrection of Dresden, and what being the Winter Knight now entails. Nothing good, needless to say.
If anyone else wants to write that, then power to them. Avenge Santa Claus' murder (or get Nodens pissed, which won't go down well at all), and find a way to avenge Mab's inevitable death, given that her own people want to anoint themselves in her blood and launch a crusade. And cope with the curse of The Winter Knight, which incidentally is why none have ever lasted ten years (they become... difficult after ten years).

Also, Yawgmoth.

[Colesign]

Cracklord...


Kick. Ass.

[Cracklord]

Thank you. Glad you like it.

[Terry576]

I'm unsure of whether I control Salem or dark does, cause he's the one running the HGW anyways. I mean, he runs Mickey and Alex right, but Draxx runs Archer and Shirou.

Also I'd like to interact with Salem, and not just dictate 'okay you do this'. I'm weird like that.

[Draxx]

Well I'm sure Darkblade will be happy with whatever you go with.

[industrious]

Awesome, someone else who's on DLP. The Denarian series was great.

New computer is coming by the end of this week, supposedly. I should be able to post IC once that happens.

Nicodemus and the Yozis is hitting the same roadblock as my IC posting-lack of a steady computer. And it's nothing like you think, Draxx. Nothing at all.

[Terry576]

I have the Denarian series on my Nook so I can forever reread it.

IT'S SO GOOD WHAT THE HELL SHEZZA

[Cracklord]

Not stepping on our toes with the fey at all, am I Industrious?

[industrious]

Nope. Not at all.

[darkblade]

Sorry for the lack of IC updates. I've been at a convention this weekend and been too tired at 1 am when I get in to post anything.