AW: Pantheons of Dust IC

[Deadly]

Kiki! Price of Freedom's holed up in her market. Work of many hands went into erecting the sheets of metal and the chicken wire that holds them together, forming a circle around an open forum. She keeps her merchandise below, where the heat will not be cruel to them, in rooms hollowed out beneath the soil. This is where she lives, this is where she works, and this is where one day she will most likely die.

It might even be today, for seven pilgrims are striking the door with a pole they tore up from the ground, a fence-post, and calling for Price of Freedom to come out and submit herself to the new god, who gives drink and favor to all.

One turns to you and offers you a place on the fence-post, asking for your help in knocking the door down. They have black stains on their teeth and their eyes are full of a fake world, and the air shimmers around their head like a halo.

Thoughts?

The one who provides drink? Then it must be Santa

If she had been herself, Kiki would have probably happily crawled atop the fencepost and sat there, bony pale legs swinging on either side as they bashed the thing against the door, like a kid on a ride at an amusement park. But she's in Garnet's body, and Garnet isn't a little girl.

"You worship Santa?" she asks, looking around at all of them. If there's one thing fanatics will do, it's tell you about their god.

[Anarion]

Emerald! There is a hesitancy to the crowd until Artist steps forward, and the haze of the world around you sharpens deadly keen into the angles and edges of his pottery work, all glaze and deep color. Of course Artist would be here. He'd be first in line for Santa's brew, drinking and collecting stories from the pilgrims, offering them claysherds and immortalizing their faith in his work. He looks you in the eye, and then he says to you: "Bruja, I-"

He takes that fatal step, and that's when everything kicks in. Your aim is precise, your hand steady, and Artist goes down with a hole in his lung. He's choking out, and even if there was any saving him, you'd have to get past the crowd, which is throwing stones at you- stones, and shoes, and knives all wrong way around, and engine rods, and whatever else comes to hand.

Take 1-Harm, and be well aware that the number will be going up if you don't escape the throng or by some other method end their frothing fury, which has been raised to feverish pitch by Artist's fatal wound.

I guess I'm stuck with this, then? That's not how a mob is supposed to behave. Even delirious, people have a survival instinct. You never hear, either before or after the Apocalypse, about a crowd that decides to rush a gunman because they figure that only a few of them will die before they take the person down. Mobs around a gunman scatter, hide, and duck for cover because each man and woman wants to live.

So, tell me drummer, why in all the hells and heavens that I am about to rip from the sky and the earth didn't this mob act that way?!
[Reading a situation: 5+6+1=12. And here are my questions. I'll find my own way through, but I want to know what in blazes in happening here.
What should I be on the lookout for?
What’s my enemy’s true position?
Who’s in control here?]

[Raz_Fox]

Oh good. A shield. For Paris. I look forwards to the drummers drumming out the tale of how I brought down the mighty phoenix with grumpy stares and inner angst.

Adopt the battle form of the Warrior Tricolor, and all shall be well.

One does not ask the Naia for passage directly, for they do not grant it - at least not for any price I would willingly pay. One must trick them into surrendering an advantage and then blackmail them with it. A difficult task given their masks - strength and-in occultation - but their dances betray their true names. As any good sisters do, the Naiadauthiim once feuded about to who had the best dance, and decided to settle it by asking a mortal.

The poor stupid bastard gave them a straight answer.

He got one blessing and two curses for his trouble. I saw him once, dancing endlessly the dances of the Naia in one of the slave-cages of the Boy To Whom The Earth Speaks, and took the time to listen to his story. He told me the secret hierarchy of the three and what years of bloody hindsight told him he should have done if he had his chance again.

[Read a Sitch: 12
- Which is the biggest threat?
- Which is most vulnerable to me?
- What is my best way past?]

The biggest threat of this triad is the Glimmering Flame. There is a light in their mane, gleaming like the sun on the river in the first moments of the morning, and their dance is one of high leaping and the lashing of a dragon's tail. They are the most likely to walk you into saying something quite foolish, and they will whip their sisters into a battle-fury when this meeting is ended. You will lose at least one member of your band to their clinging hands unless some safe passage is negotiated, or unless you turn away and never look upon the river again.

The most vulnerable of the triad is the Accuser. Their mask does not turn aside from considering Paris, and their long fingers curl inwards and out again like weeds. Stir them into violence by dredging up old tales of angels, betrayal, and a certain heavenly chorus. Hatred makes their intentions blunt, like a hammer, and clumsy. Do not worry; their sisters will draw them back before you are killed. Probably. Almost certainly.

The best way past is to appeal to the Watcher. They mediate between the coldness of the Glimmering Flame and the heat of the Accuser; they will accept sacrifice and homage, and will even guide you to the Pride if pleased enough. They desire to see a certain ex-angel humiliated and shamed, and will take a show greedily, even over bloated river-marinated flesh. The trouble is getting the Watcher to assert themselves over the Glimmering Flame and the Accuser long enough to say your peace to them.

The one who provides drink? Then it must be Santa

If she had been herself, Kiki would have probably happily crawled atop the fencepost and sat there, bony pale legs swinging on either side as they bashed the thing against the door, like a kid on a ride at an amusement park. But she's in Garnet's body, and Garnet isn't a little girl.

"You worship Santa?" she asks, looking around at all of them. If there's one thing fanatics will do, it's tell you about their god.

"We worship the one who brings rain and the one who brings food," that one says, in between blows. The door is beginning to shake on the hinges; soon it will come down, and there will be violence. "He will cast down the imperious green devil and lead us to paradise. There, there will be no hunger and no thirst and sex, like, all the time. Crazy monkey sex. Doesn't that sound beautiful?"

I guess I'm stuck with this, then? That's not how a mob is supposed to behave. Even delirious, people have a survival instinct. You never hear, either before or after the Apocalypse, about a crowd that decides to rush a gunman because they figure that only a few of them will die before they take the person down. Mobs around a gunman scatter, hide, and duck for cover because each man and woman wants to live.

So, tell me drummer, why in all the hells and heavens that I am about to rip from the sky and the earth didn't this mob act that way?!
[Reading a situation: 5+6+1=12. And here are my questions. I'll find my own way through, but I want to know what in blazes in happening here.
What should I be on the lookout for?
What’s my enemy’s true position?
Who’s in control here?]

Faith. Always your weakness, gleaming green goddess; you cut the world into what you can control and how you can apply leverage with a sharp word.

Be on the lookout for your gang, roused by the sound of your gun, on the way; they will stir this up into great violence, but they will also die before they see the pilgrims overcome you. It would be better if they had a leader, but Operator is missing, Firestorm is also missing, and Garnet is deathly ill (or is she?). Consider them at your disposal as you make your next move, as they come jumping over fences and knocking down tents, taking up vantage point to provide covering fire.

Your enemy is in the barrels. As long as the pilgrims keep drinking from Santa's brew, they will be driven to the heights of fervor in their new god. Inside those barrels, fungus grows, leaking a madness into those who dip their ladles into the thick-cauked black barrels.

Santa is not in control. He is slumped over on a wicker chair that is also a gleaming golden bullhorn throne, drooling and snoring. As his faithful raise the chair up on their shoulders, his head sways from shoulder to shoulder. Rather, look to Nike, who has a bowl on his head and has declared himself Grand High Priestman of Santa, Who Brings The Rain. Nike is cheering everyone on; a bullet in his lung would have been much better than a bullet in Artist.

[Thanqol]

The biggest threat of this triad is the Glimmering Flame. There is a light in their mane, gleaming like the sun on the river in the first moments of the morning, and their dance is one of high leaping and the lashing of a dragon's tail. They are the most likely to walk you into saying something quite foolish, and they will whip their sisters into a battle-fury when this meeting is ended. You will lose at least one member of your band to their clinging hands unless some safe passage is negotiated, or unless you turn away and never look upon the river again.

The most vulnerable of the triad is the Accuser. Their mask does not turn aside from considering Paris, and their long fingers curl inwards and out again like weeds. Stir them into violence by dredging up old tales of angels, betrayal, and a certain heavenly chorus. Hatred makes their intentions blunt, like a hammer, and clumsy. Do not worry; their sisters will draw them back before you are killed. Probably. Almost certainly.

The best way past is to appeal to the Watcher. They mediate between the coldness of the Glimmering Flame and the heat of the Accuser; they will accept sacrifice and homage, and will even guide you to the Pride if pleased enough. They desire to see a certain ex-angel humiliated and shamed, and will take a show greedily, even over bloated river-marinated flesh. The trouble is getting the Watcher to assert themselves over the Glimmering Flame and the Accuser long enough to say your peace to them.

An easy way through if I am to throw Paris' pride under the wheels? Despite the good reasons to do just so, I hesitate for a moment - but then push onwards. It may be ironic for me of all people to say, but pride is not worth lives. Not any more. Better, too, if I can humiliate Accuser and Flame with the same method; if all here are humbled then the stage shall be clear for Watcher and I to negotiate directly.

Provoke a fight, then - and keep it without dignity. Mediation is complex.

Like a snake, I turn. "Paris, these beautiful spirits have presented us with many questions, not the least of which are directed to you. The laws of the meeting place clear the air so that you alone may speak your grievances in turn."

[Elanorin]

An easy way through if I am to throw Paris' pride under the wheels? Despite the good reasons to do just so, I hesitate for a moment - but then push onwards. It may be ironic for me of all people to say, but pride is not worth lives. Not any more. Better, too, if I can humiliate Accuser and Flame with the same method; if all here are humbled then the stage shall be clear for Watcher and I to negotiate directly.

Provoke a fight, then - and keep it without dignity. Mediation is complex.

Like a snake, I turn. "Paris, these beautiful spirits have presented us with many questions, not the least of which are directed to you. The laws of the meeting place clear the air so that you alone may speak your grievances in turn."

Beautiful spirits?!

Paris stared in stunned disbelief at Jericho's words. When he'd thought the situation could not plummet any further, new depths seemed to reveal themselves beneath his feet mercilessly. Suddenly this unholy summoning was turned at them?! As if they wanted to face these water wraiths!

Who are you?!

"I will not answer a question, demand, or order from a swamp-beast." Paris managed, barely holding on to their calm, unable to refrain from insults. "It's not as if their festering minds could discern Truth even were it to strike them in the dank dark hollows of their would-be hearts."

"This is your counsel, you keep it. Jericho." he snapped in Jericho's face, sorely tempted to abandon the human before him there and then.

[Anarion]

Faith. Always your weakness, gleaming green goddess; you cut the world into what you can control and how you can apply leverage with a sharp word.

Be on the lookout for your gang, roused by the sound of your gun, on the way; they will stir this up into great violence, but they will also die before they see the pilgrims overcome you. It would be better if they had a leader, but Operator is missing, Firestorm is also missing, and Garnet is deathly ill (or is she?). Consider them at your disposal as you make your next move, as they come jumping over fences and knocking down tents, taking up vantage point to provide covering fire.

Your enemy is in the barrels. As long as the pilgrims keep drinking from Santa's brew, they will be driven to the heights of fervor in their new god. Inside those barrels, fungus grows, leaking a madness into those who dip their ladles into the thick-cauked black barrels.

Santa is not in control. He is slumped over on a wicker chair that is also a gleaming golden bullhorn throne, drooling and snoring. As his faithful raise the chair up on their shoulders, his head sways from shoulder to shoulder. Rather, look to Nike, who has a bowl on his head and has declared himself Grand High Priestman of Santa, Who Brings The Rain. Nike is cheering everyone on; a bullet in his lung would have been much better than a bullet in Artist.

Great, wonderful. This is just splendid. Alright, let me make this incredibly simple, then. "Shoot the barrels, not the people!" I yell out to anyone who's following my orders. For the record, that's all the gang members because they are disciplined and follow my orders.

Then I run right into the crowd underneath all the crap they're throwing. Now, let me tell you something about crowds. I don't care how goddamn fanatic they are, they are still individual people in a mass and they a) do not react quickly and b) always expect that they have an advantage and never expect someone to come right at them. That is how crowds work.

So, as I was saying, I run right into the damn crowd, right up to Nike's smug idiot bowl head, and I pistol whip him. I pistol whip him very, very hard, right in his jaw. Now, I'm not going to make a prediction about what that does to a guy. I think it ought to knock him out, but hitting somebody in the head is dangerous business, and I'll shed no tears if I snapped his neck in the process.

Now, you tell me what I gotta do to make that happen.

[Deadly]

"We worship the one who brings rain and the one who brings food," that one says, in between blows. The door is beginning to shake on the hinges; soon it will come down, and there will be violence. "He will cast down the imperious green devil and lead us to paradise. There, there will be no hunger and no thirst and sex, like, all the time. Crazy monkey sex. Doesn't that sound beautiful?"

Kiki looked at them, silent, like they were strange cockroaches. Then she stepped forward in Garnet's ravaged body, hollowed out by hunger and thirst, snakes coiled up inside.

"Without hunger, none will eat.
"Without thirst, none will drink.
"They who do not fill themselves,
"Cannot fill others.

"Embrace hunger; Embrace thirst.
"Feast eternally, drain the deepest wells.
"I will show you how to fill yourselves,
"Like you never dreamed."

Sniffing the air: 1+4+2 = 7

Which enemy is most vulnerable to me/my words?
How close are the wolves?

[Thanqol]

Beautiful spirits?!

Paris stared in stunned disbelief at Jericho's words. When he'd thought the situation could not plummet any further, new depths seemed to reveal themselves beneath his feet mercilessly. Suddenly this unholy summoning was turned at them?! As if they wanted to face these water wraiths!

Who are you?!

"I will not answer a question, demand, or order from a swamp-beast." Paris managed, barely holding on to their calm, unable to refrain from insults. "It's not as if their festering minds could discern Truth even were it to strike them in the dank dark hollows of their would-be hearts."

"This is your counsel, you keep it. Jericho." he snapped in Jericho's face, sorely tempted to abandon the human before him there and then.

"Ah, I beg your forgiveness, great Naia," I say, bowing low and touching my forehead to the ground. "It seems that Paris' time in the human world has made him forget loyalty, duty and responsibility - if she ever knew such? For in agreeing to take him with me, I imagined he would understand that a Quest was a valuable and important thing, upon which lives rested, and to which all members of the expedition held a sacred duty. I did not expect Paris to be unwilling - or unable - to play their part in this great drama, and now my party has given you offense, and I must beg for your mercy."

Thank you for making this easy for me, Paris. Hopefully the Naia are enjoying the show.

[Raz_Fox]

Emerald! You are the Hardholder, emphasis on the hard. On the steel, on the stone that is your flesh.

Roll +Hard. Hit, and you have control of the situation. Hit high, and you get to decide whether or not Nike is dead.

Kiki! Oh, my girl. They are all vulnerable; they have a crushing need to worship now. Make some grand gesture here, and they are yours, a howling pack of the faithful (until the sickness runs from them, unless you turn it to crystal and glass in their blood and head). As vulnerable as an aching cut.

The wolves are all outside the walls. (The dragons aren't wolves, but they are cousins, I think.) They have gone out to hunt lions. You can maybe put up walls? Keep them out. They will ruin this good place, I think.

Jericho and Paris! The Naiadauthiim are, for the moment, keeping their own counsel, or at the very least waiting to see the expression on Paris's face as Jericho prostrates himself before the river-angels. They sway- now within a hand's breadth of Jericho's head, now drawing back, almost as a cobra. The reeds entwined in their manes tremble. Their masks reveal nothing.

[Elanorin]

"Ah, I beg your forgiveness, great Naia," I say, bowing low and touching my forehead to the ground. "It seems that Paris' time in the human world has made him forget loyalty, duty and responsibility - if she ever knew such? For in agreeing to take him with me, I imagined he would understand that a Quest was a valuable and important thing, upon which lives rested, and to which all members of the expedition held a sacred duty. I did not expect Paris to be unwilling - or unable - to play their part in this great drama, and now my party has given you offense, and I must beg for your mercy."

Thank you for making this easy for me, Paris. Hopefully the Naia are enjoying the show.

Jericho and Paris! The Naiadauthiim are, for the moment, keeping their own counsel, or at the very least waiting to see the expression on Paris's face as Jericho prostrates himself before the river-angels. They sway- now within a hand's breadth of Jericho's head, now drawing back, almost as a cobra. The reeds entwined in their manes tremble. Their masks reveal nothing.

Paris glared with fury at the grovelling shape of Jericho at the feet of the goddamn Naiadauthiim. A fire lit in his eyes that had not been there for many years.

"You know nothing of what you speak. Get back on your feet, mortal," he sneered, "or so help me I will lift you by your neck until you hang."

[Rolling to Manipulate Jericho to stand back up with the empty threat of violence: 6+4+0=10 If you do it mark experience, if you refuse I will erase one of your stat highlights for the remainder of the session.]

Paris' blazing eyes turned up to the Naia, "Free passage now and back for the full convoy. Name your price, water-wraiths."

[Anarion]

Emerald! You are the Hardholder, emphasis on the hard. On the steel, on the stone that is your flesh.

Roll +Hard. Hit, and you have control of the situation. Hit high, and you get to decide whether or not Nike is dead.

The old custom move. Done and done. [4+1+3=8]. It seems that getting control of this situation required more force on Nike than I could judge carefully. Oh well, I guess it's your call, drummer, as to whether Nike is dead or not, but I'm going to be gathering up Santa, getting those diseased barrels well and truly shot, and getting this mob dispersed. With no further casualties if I can manage it. What a waste.

[Deadly]

Kiki! Oh, my girl. They are all vulnerable; they have a crushing need to worship now. Make some grand gesture here, and they are yours, a howling pack of the faithful (until the sickness runs from them, unless you turn it to crystal and glass in their blood and head). As vulnerable as an aching cut.

The wolves are all outside the walls. (The dragons aren't wolves, but they are cousins, I think.) They have gone out to hunt lions. You can maybe put up walls? Keep them out. They will ruin this good place, I think.

This was all rather spontaneous, and in all honesty Kiki had not realized the path before she was firmly walking it. And now she was, and it was all opened up before her in its clarity.

She decided to take Garnet as the first of her disciples. And these seven would be the first of her flock.

"A prophet and a God do not eat but She is eaten, like the Mother who feeds her children," she proclaimed, and then Garnet bent over, violently convulsing as she retched up first a hand - outstretched in offering - and then the rest of Kiki's face and shoulder, wearing the hollow suit of Garnet like a rain coat. "Eat of my hand," she said to them. "Take my flesh, my blood, my bone inside you, as has my disciple here before you, and together we shall make the world our silver platter."

[Thanqol]

Paris glared with fury at the grovelling shape of Jericho at the feet of the goddamn Naiadauthiim. A fire lit in his eyes that had not been there for many years.

"You know nothing of what you speak. Get back on your feet, mortal," he sneered, "or so help me I will lift you by your neck until you hang."

[Rolling to Manipulate Jericho to stand back up with the empty threat of violence: 6+4+0=10 If you do it mark experience, if you refuse I will erase one of your stat highlights for the remainder of the session.]

Paris' blazing eyes turned up to the Naia, "Free passage now and back for the full convoy. Name your price, water-wraiths."

I am on my feet. Damn it. I didn't think about it or make the decision, it just happened.

Paris is going to f*ck up these negotiations. You can't negotiate with the three at once and I don't care about how they do things in Heaven - when gods negotiate nations war and mortals die. I still need to discredit the Accuser. Disoriented, off my plan, my approach is clumsy - I try to turn my sudden rise into a display of submission and awe, trying to imply that Paris is truly more impressive than the Naia. It is a bad plan, even if it works.

[Manipulate: 6]

[Raz_Fox]

Emerald! Barrels made with care (or, more often, scavenged at risk) burst like fruit full of flies being born, spilling out the brew which leaks out in disappointingly normal colors, light frothy brown all over. You've got control of this situation locked down, and your gang's knocking down hotheads and scattering the crowd.

One- let's call him Padre- he's got both hands under Artist and is trying to pull him out to a safe distance, knowing that he's a dead body still trying to breathe with a hole in his lung, like trying to fill a bath with a sieve.

Nike's sprawled out at your feet with a massive blackening bruise covering one side of his face and a twisted neck.

On the wind, you hear the howl of Black Shuck's cousins. Best throw out the trash and find some new place for these screaming, shivering pilgrims, not to mention figure out what to do with Santa's snoring form.

Your move as ever, ma'am.

Kiki! I want to be clear: are you offering your quite literal blood and bone? Is it going to come back? What sort of stomach movements might your strange flesh cause?

Paris! Ah, dear. Ah, me. That's the fatal error when dealing with your kind, emphasis on fatal.

"this one offers the simplest price," says the Glimmering Flame.
"this one will take you down to our table," says the Accuser.
"this one will smooth the bull's road straight and true," says the Watcher.

"this one reminds you that every quest meets sacrifice," says the Glimmering Flame.
"this one reminds you that the fallen one owes us a blood price from old wars," says the Accuser.
"this one invites you to go find Horus should you want a second price," says the Watcher.

The triad entwine for a moment, heads peering over each other's shoulders, and the Watcher opens their hand in a gesture of welcoming to you, Paris.

And there it is. A price named, and it's doubtful they intend to adjust those terms- though you might let get out of here with your life, missing some skin and suchlike.

So let's look back a moment. You've fought the Naiadauthiim before. Your choirs likely fought, both of you mere soldiers serving the cause. What sort of war in heaven was it, and why do these angels hate you so?

I ask only if you can remember, of course. If there is only a blaze of light and the memory of certain purpose and meaning- well, I apologize. Keep your mind on what lies ahead, then.

[Deadly]

Kiki! I want to be clear: are you offering your quite literal blood and bone? Is it going to come back? What sort of stomach movements might your strange flesh cause?

I am offering my quite literal blood-and-bone hand to them, and my arm should more than these seven follow. I expect Mother shall nurse it back for me, as she has nursed me back from terrible harm before. If I am wrong, my followers' potential for growth shall soon run dry. Strange as I am, two hands are all I've got, and one I need to keep with me.

As to what it might do, in their stomachs ... I don't know. But do you know how some birds swallow small stones or bits of sand, to help them crush and digest the food they eat, since they do not have teeth? Perhaps my flesh will turn to glass and diamond in their guts, like sharpened teeth to rend and tear and crush all that passes through. It will give them new hunger, I think, and a new taste and appreciation. They shall become a little like myself.

But I do know this: there is power in eating your God. It is an ancient rite - perhaps the oldest - and sacrament, a covenant of prosperity and in return for what I offer with my outstretched hand I ask of them to swear allegiance.

[Raz_Fox]

Kiki! This sounds to me like you are taking 2-Harm, as the worshippers of whatever god will have them fall to their knees before you. First among them, you recognize, is Fan. Odd to see her without Nike.

Anyhow. Garnet's drooling and passed out behind you, someone's throwing up behind the barricades of the slaver's den, and with small knives they take your hand apart and open it to the wrist, breaking bones and drinking the marrow, and you feel a glory descend upon you.

Your father would be proud.

Once the ceremony is complete, what now?

[Anarion]

Emerald! Barrels made with care (or, more often, scavenged at risk) burst like fruit full of flies being born, spilling out the brew which leaks out in disappointingly normal colors, light frothy brown all over. You've got control of this situation locked down, and your gang's knocking down hotheads and scattering the crowd.

One- let's call him Padre- he's got both hands under Artist and is trying to pull him out to a safe distance, knowing that he's a dead body still trying to breathe with a hole in his lung, like trying to fill a bath with a sieve.

Nike's sprawled out at your feet with a massive blackening bruise covering one side of his face and a twisted neck.

On the wind, you hear the howl of Black Shuck's cousins. Best throw out the trash and find some new place for these screaming, shivering pilgrims, not to mention figure out what to do with Santa's snoring form.

Your move as ever, ma'am.

Good dead gods, my entire hold and gang does not consist of two year olds! Have you heard, drummer, of something called delegating? Yes? People know how to dispose of dead bodies in the hold, Black Shuck is not some new problem. I'll grant you, all the folks under hallucination may not get it right, but the main gang is here and the barrels shot up. So the gang will get the bodies out of the walls and to a safe burial ground, and they'll round up all the folks left sitting out and get them to their homes. If they want to pray, they can go into the source, whether or not Jericho is around it's still open. Might help cleanse them to boot.

I'm going to haul Santa's fat sleeping ass into his home, which isn't far from here, empty out any of the stills that have the same beer in them and let it run into the dirt, and then leave him be and take a breather. If god damn well nothing else explodes, I'm going to start asking around to see if anybody's seen Operator. He should have shown up with the gang and now I'm worried.

[Elanorin]

Paris! Ah, dear. Ah, me. That's the fatal error when dealing with your kind, emphasis on fatal.

"this one offers the simplest price," says the Glimmering Flame.
"this one will take you down to our table," says the Accuser.
"this one will smooth the bull's road straight and true," says the Watcher.

"this one reminds you that every quest meets sacrifice," says the Glimmering Flame.
"this one reminds you that the fallen one owes us a blood price from old wars," says the Accuser.
"this one invites you to go find Horus should you want a second price," says the Watcher.

The triad entwine for a moment, heads peering over each other's shoulders, and the Watcher opens their hand in a gesture of welcoming to you, Paris.

And there it is. A price named, and it's doubtful they intend to adjust those terms- though you might let get out of here with your life, missing some skin and suchlike.

So let's look back a moment. You've fought the Naiadauthiim before. Your choirs likely fought, both of you mere soldiers serving the cause. What sort of war in heaven was it, and why do these angels hate you so?

I ask only if you can remember, of course. If there is only a blaze of light and the memory of certain purpose and meaning- well, I apologize. Keep your mind on what lies ahead, then.

It's the seething burning hatred that can only come from the betrayal of one that was once close. Allied. Trusted. Loved. The Naia are the choir of the Water Witch, a goddess that was once the beautiful Lady of Seas, the sister-wife of my own patron and glorious God. Back when pictures wrote words, she, and they, suddenly turned on us, in a totally unexpected betrayal, and we were thrown in to a brutal battle we were utterly unprepared to fight. We lost, of course. They had laid their plans too well. We retreated, rescuing a brutally wounded Horus, but regrouped and returned as certain as The Dawn. What followed is the longest wars I have fought in. Even now it's not over. Not really. It was interrupted by other battles, other alliances and pledges and priorities began to take stage, as the Wold's End approached, and ultimately the Apocalypse derailed all Heavenly Campaigns. Ours included.

Like their Lady, these Naiadauthiim were once beautiful, The Angels of The Deep, and they were admired. A far cry from the feared mutated gargoyles before us. Though as beastly as the Naia are, you should see her. We, of course, had a hand in that. Myself more than most. I don't know if they know this. It was not a curse meant to taint them all, only her. But they took the brunt of it on themselves, the entire choir, to lessen her punishment as far as they could. In that, I guess, I must admit they acted with honour.

*

Paris didn't flinch. While he had hoped this would go down a different route this was not a surprising one. Regardless whether or not they knew of his personal crimes against them, the above or any other, (in a war they fetched a number he'd long ago lost track of).

He nodded to himself once or twice as he acknowledged the situation and his understanding of their demand. Then, his eyes went to Jericho.

Here we are.

"Well?" he said sternly, eyes accusing, as he passed the decision to Jericho.

[Spending my Read hold (unsure which of the Naia it was on, I said The Middle one back before they had names): How can I get you to ensure my survival while honouring this deal?]

[Thanqol]

I am lost in this moment; schemes drifting broken like hair in the fire. There is too much unity and I am not Saint to crack it with a smile.

I'll crack it with stupidity instead.

I go to punch the Accuser in the face. I telegraph my blow enough for her to see it coming, but not so much that the others notice what has happened until the exchange is done. It is a stupid plan but it will make the Accuser look and sound like she is not in control of herself for just long enough to break the unity of the Naia.

[Sucker Someone: 10

Either punch Jericho in the face pre-emptively, or else, suck it up and get punched in the face.]

[Deadly]

Kiki! This sounds to me like you are taking 2-Harm, as the worshippers of whatever god will have them fall to their knees before you. First among them, you recognize, is Fan. Odd to see her without Nike.

Anyhow. Garnet's drooling and passed out behind you, someone's throwing up behind the barricades of the slaver's den, and with small knives they take your hand apart and open it to the wrist, breaking bones and drinking the marrow, and you feel a glory descend upon you.

Your father would be proud.

Once the ceremony is complete, what now?

Having your hand cut off is unpleasant, I'm told. Having it picked apart piece by piece and strip by strip with knives must surely be horrifying, excruciating, beyond words or imagination. No wonder anyone watching would feel a little ill. But glory and power can deaden even the most gruesome experience, and Kiki weathered it with inhuman indifference.

While they cut and ate and wrapped the stump, she was thinking. She had wanted to go on a wolf hunt ... she couldn't keep running, at some point she had to hunt the hunters or become their meal. But if the wolves of the Maelstrom were all off elsewhere, that meant no hunting until they returned. But that didn't mean they had to sit idle. They could prepare, and maybe there were other things to hunt.

"Who can lay traps?" she asked, as she slipped back inside Garnet.

[Raz_Fox]

Kiki! You know where secret and hidden things are, I'd wager: go ahead and tell Emerald where Operator has hidden himself to work without ceasing.

"I can lay trips and traps like the shit," Fan says, grinning through a mouthful of finger. "No problem. Me and Nike, we'll catch whatever you want. Bulls? Bam, done, out for the count. Glass Men? Kachachacha. Birds? We'll punch 'em. No problem, any of it. Whatcha want, god? We'll catch it good."

Paris! To answer your question, the answer is the same, always. Hunger is hunger is hunger. You saw Emerald bare herself upon the pole, yes? Hunger is hunger is hunger. You saw her devoured and reborn, sexual apotheosis, passing through the underworld of the bowels and returning whole. Hunger is hunger is hunger. We eat each other, one way or another.

If you seduce these sirens, if you fuck them beneath the river's bank atop their broad table, if you steal breath from their lips and satisfy three at once- well, that would do it. Hunger is hunger is hunger. They would bite you and tear your skin beneath their teeth, and you would rise reborn and renewed, and perhaps not entirely unchanged. Weeds in your hair and water dripping from your fingers. When we sleep with gods, both of us are contaminated, made to undergo metamorphoses.

The trick is getting them all to agree to share you, and to even accept your flesh in lieu of your blood.

Also, the Accuser is trying to tear Jericho's face off. So there's that.

Jericho! The Accuser doesn't so much go in for punches, rolling the knuckles against your skin, as they go in for the kill. Their nails are long and terrible, and their bulk is a sudden heavy thing, water in your throat and sloughing from your skin, sweat seeking to suffocate you. Those angel-killing weapons dig under your bandages and tear both skin and wrapping alike.

So far, so good.

Somewhere very far away, Deimos is leveling a bull-killing rifle against the side of Yudasbull, intending to add an angel to the list of things she's killed. So one way or another, I doubt you'll die here. But before harm is leveled properly: do you have a plan to avoid dying here? Certainly, the shame of this broken peace will allow your fellowship to level great concessions from the Naiadauthiim, but that might be a little late for you.

[Thanqol]

But before harm is leveled properly: do you have a plan to avoid dying here?

My plan is that I am standing five feet from an Angel and her healing touch.

It is elegant in its simplicity - or perhaps it is just I who am simple.

[Elanorin]

I am lost in this moment; schemes drifting broken like hair in the fire. There is too much unity and I am not Saint to crack it with a smile.

I'll crack it with stupidity instead.

I go to punch the Accuser in the face. I telegraph my blow enough for her to see it coming, but not so much that the others notice what has happened until the exchange is done. It is a stupid plan but it will make the Accuser look and sound like she is not in control of herself for just long enough to break the unity of the Naia.

[Sucker Someone: 10

Either punch Jericho in the face pre-emptively, or else, suck it up and get punched in the face.]

Jericho! The Accuser doesn't so much go in for punches, rolling the knuckles against your skin, as they go in for the kill. Their nails are long and terrible, and their bulk is a sudden heavy thing, water in your throat and sloughing from your skin, sweat seeking to suffocate you. Those angel-killing weapons dig under your bandages and tear both skin and wrapping alike.

So far, so good.

Somewhere very far away, Deimos is leveling a bull-killing rifle against the side of Yudasbull, intending to add an angel to the list of things she's killed. So one way or another, I doubt you'll die here. But before harm is leveled properly: do you have a plan to avoid dying here? Certainly, the shame of this broken peace will allow your fellowship to level great concessions from the Naiadauthiim, but that might be a little late for you.

And just like that the Naiadauthiim showed their true colours, breaking the sanctity of the negotiations and suddenly attacked Jericho who had all but kissed their wretched feet. Unprovoked. Unjustified. Naiadauthiim.

While Paris had expected this kind of turn of events ever since they got here they were still unable to stop it when it suddenly happened. They saw it unfold as if in slow motion but managed little more than a sudden call of Jericho's name. Anger rose quickly inside the angel, not least with themselves, they had fully expected this but aimed at themselves, not Jericho who had pandered to the Naia's egos in the most infuriating and mortifying manner.

I should know better than to expect any shred of honour or decency from the Naia!

The era-old battle-heat returned to his veins and Paris clenched his fists. The fire and urgency of ancient wrongs, battles and hatreds quickly boiled up to the surface from somewhere so deeply hidden he'd all but forgotten they were still there. It's true, he had no wings to brandish in splendour, but the light that came to his eyes as he directed his glare to the remaining two Naia was one that he'd thought long since lost. They'd do well to recognise it.

[Rolling Dangerous & angelic: 5+5+2=12, 2 hold]

Paris! To answer your question, the answer is the same, always. Hunger is hunger is hunger. You saw Emerald bare herself upon the pole, yes? Hunger is hunger is hunger. You saw her devoured and reborn, sexual apotheosis, passing through the underworld of the bowels and returning whole. Hunger is hunger is hunger. We eat each other, one way or another.

If you seduce these sirens, if you fuck them beneath the river's bank atop their broad table, if you steal breath from their lips and satisfy three at once- well, that would do it. Hunger is hunger is hunger. They would bite you and tear your skin beneath their teeth, and you would rise reborn and renewed, and perhaps not entirely unchanged. Weeds in your hair and water dripping from your fingers. When we sleep with gods, both of us are contaminated, made to undergo metamorphoses.

The trick is getting them all to agree to share you, and to even accept your flesh in lieu of your blood.

Also, the Accuser is trying to tear Jericho's face off. So there's that.

These are mental images, ideas, notions and situations that will haunt Paris. As much as he will come to wish it I doubt he'll ever be able to purge from his mind what he saw in the Naia's depraved hungers today. This would surely be a price dearer than death.

I beg The Fates spare him ever having to decide if it is a price he'd pay for Jericho's sake.

[Deadly]

Kiki! You know where secret and hidden things are, I'd wager: go ahead and tell Emerald where Operator has hidden himself to work without ceasing.

There is an old hole in a wall where the piles of garbage and debris have accumulated through the ages of people living here, constantly restructuring the land and buildings to suit their changing needs. If you squeeze through the hole you'll find old concrete stairs leading down into the spaces and subspaces left over from some primeval building. There, old heating and cooling systems go on for miles in abandoned tunnels. Most of them don't work, but some still occasionally flicker into brief life, gurgling with ancient water or the ghostly pressures lingering in rusty pipes. I don't know who made them, I don't know what purpose they once served, but there are places along those pipes and dead radiators where it is cool and quiet, except for the dripping of rust-red water and the occasional whisperings of ghosts among the crust and slowly forming crystals. This water is cold and rich in minerals, and there is enough to keep a mind afire from burning itself up, and perhaps in time to replace every cell with crust and minerals as the mind burns away the body.

"I can lay trips and traps like the shit," Fan says, grinning through a mouthful of finger. "No problem. Me and Nike, we'll catch whatever you want. Bulls? Bam, done, out for the count. Glass Men? Kachachacha. Birds? We'll punch 'em. No problem, any of it. Whatcha want, god? We'll catch it good."

"Wolves," said Kiki, looking to see in their eyes if they understood.

[Anarion]

There is an old hole in a wall where the piles of garbage and debris have accumulated through the ages of people living here, constantly restructuring the land and buildings to suit their changing needs. If you squeeze through the hole you'll find old concrete stairs leading down into the spaces and subspaces left over from some primeval building. There, old heating and cooling systems go on for miles in abandoned tunnels. Most of them don't work, but some still occasionally flicker into brief life, gurgling with ancient water or the ghostly pressures lingering in rusty pipes. I don't know who made them, I don't know what purpose they once served, but there are places along those pipes and dead radiators where it is cool and quiet, except for the dripping of rust-red water and the occasional whisperings of ghosts among the crust and slowly forming crystals. This water is cold and rich in minerals, and there is enough to keep a mind afire from burning itself up, and perhaps in time to replace every cell with crust and minerals as the mind burns away the body.

That's far, distant, and a long way down. A very long way. I take it then, that somebody at least saw him go in there. I'm going to go find him. Just me. A gang in there would just get lost or sucked away in a vent fan. I could send somebody in, but we all know they'd just get lost on their own too. No, this is one where everyone competent being busy means I'll need to go and get Operator myself. He's important enough.

Before I go down though, I instruct one of the gang runners to go find Paris. I know I promised him that I wouldn't be making treatment demands, but losing Operator is important enough that I'd even go back on my word here.

That done, I'm heading down into the cold, dark tunnels, with their small bits of remaining water and heavy cement that never sees the light of the sun.

[Raz_Fox]

Paris! You've got your finger on the beating pulse of the situation, and the scalpel of opportunity up your sleeve. Your eyes are hot thunderbolts from the blue and your rage is justified. Go ahead and tell us all what you do.

Kiki! They nod, though it's hard to tell whether they truly understand. Go ahead and tell us all where you intend to hold church when the time comes.

Emerald! That's a bad, cold place. Not even the glass-runners would go down there without an intention in mind or something to ward away the thoughts that come in the cold, wet crystallization of age. Roll +Weird to see whether your feet can keep the path down there.

[Anarion]

But I suuuuck at weird. [5+5-2=8]

[Elanorin]

Paris! You've got your finger on the beating pulse of the situation, and the scalpel of opportunity up your sleeve. Your eyes are hot thunderbolts from the blue and your rage is justified. Go ahead and tell us all what you do.

While it's too late to prevent the Naia's sudden assault, Paris will certainly stop it in its tracks. Hopefully before too much damage is done (though a bruise or two on Jericho would really be deserved, they better hurt too).

"Cease!" they command with a voice that seemed to come from a being much greater than Paris. The eyes of the angel are locked in blazing fury at The Accuser as they reach to tear them away from Jericho and claim their full attention. "Stand down, Naiadauthiim, in dishonour and shame!"

[Spending 1 hold on claiming eye contact with Accuser and put the fear of Heaven back in to them]

[Deadly]

Kiki! They nod, though it's hard to tell whether they truly understand. Go ahead and tell us all where you intend to hold church when the time comes.

Kiki has always been an itinerant. Settling down in one place isn't in her nature, and her church and following is going to reflect that. She's not going to have a church on top of a mountain, or a secret sanctuary in a deep cave, or anything like that. Her church will move around, from camp to camp as the harsh and howling winds blow.

Which means they're going to need bikes. Or something like bikes ... something to ride on.

[Raz_Fox]

Emerald! This is a cold place. I think of the valley as warm, a canyon of scrub grass and carefully tended crops and red dust, a place of color that is a jagged gash against the colorless ash and the brilliant white glass of the highlands. This place? This is a cold place. It could take you all the way into the ash and the ruins of once-and-ago cities, if it weren't so-

Well, to put it blunt, dangerous.

You catch whispers in the corners of your ears as you go, always rising to the interrogative at the end as they fade out. Pipes shudder into life as you pass, always making a racket as if to wake the dead, and the chill races up your neck, and then it chokes out and dies as you leave it behind you. Your light- I assume you've a light, being on top of everything as you are- it's always leaving the impression that it's just a moment too late to catch something in its beam. Crystals delicately lace themselves into your lashes.

Shells of long-dead roaches crunch under your feet. Down a side corridor, you see yourself, all glorious skin and stoic expression; the you that is there waves, two fingers in a loose V, and then keeps moving, now out of sight. Unless-? A second sweep of the light shows nothing disturbed, dust still settled. A generator of some sort roars into life right above your head, coughing and making the whole damn place shudder.

You find Operator in what might have once been a garage, underground. You step over shards of glass that once were a door. Your breath is misting and lingering around your hair. To your left, a concrete slope descends into still black water. To your right, electric lights and a purring generator, and Operator, rimed in dewy frost, dutifully engraving sigils onto the machine he's working on.

He has stripped himself down to his whites and his glasses, and still the rime steams against his skin. There is a fire alight inside him. Small wonder he came to this place.

Paris! The Accuser pulls away, leaving long strips of red undone across Jericho's bound face. It does not retreat, and neither does it press forward; the mask is unchanging, but you know you have it by the heartstrings. You were so glorious, once; they remember.

"this one sees that little change has yet come upon you, Spear of Heaven," says the Glimmering Flame.
"this one advises you to take your priest and leave," says the Watcher.
The Accuser says nothing. Their claws are shuddering redwet knives. Break eye contact and they will kill you, Paris, or die in the trying. So what if the daughters of the river change from three to two? Better to die than live still in shame, in memory of this moment.

Kiki! That's good, that's good. Lots of important delegating to do! You should tell people what to do and how to do it. You know, all bossy. Like Emerald. Garnet would probably recognize that, wouldn't she?

(Oh, hey. Between you and me. Something uncoiled underneath the earth. Something down in the cold passages. A shudder all the way up from your toes to your tips. Just thought you'd like to know.)