EMPIRE 6! – Once Upon a Time in Kursaal (Grand Caravan)

[mystic1110]

The Grand Caravan Enters

The city lies in the fog like a hag drawing in a harsh breath between clenched teeth - it is hardly inviting from the sea. A vast hovel that groans in with the wind. As the boats approach closer, torches and candles break through the darkness and the music of laughing whores and drunken gamblers cuts through the haunted atmosphere with a sour note. The boats reach the shore, the poorly attained dock, and the merchants are welcomed by their brethren money lenders and their hated opponents - the tax men. Various members of a multitude of official and unofficial guilds and unions, conglomerates and gangs pour over the Grand Caravan like roaches. They are in every hold, counting and compiling the goods, their hands are opened behind their backs for expected bribes and their other hands extended in false friendship. Soon the merchants from the Caravan are able to attend into the city proper lighter of course, but still heavy with goods or, as the city swallows them, merely money to spend among it's various delights. They find that there is no central market place - the only organization in the city is the great Stone Ring of the racetrack, the rest of the city a maze. And so in this labyrinth of wine and riches they set themselves up along shadowed alleys, throughout muddy boulevards and surround that Sanctum of Greed itself, the Ko-Ball field of the Kursaal.

The great Bazar thus begins.

[Gengy]

Travel from the northeast to the southwest was now a common thing for those within the Protectorate of the Uzii. Targiz lands seperated the two regions, so while this was the first time that Big Chief Running-Ox of the Cau was in charge of the Caravan, it was not the first time he and his son had been through Kursaal. Running-Ox looked over at his boy, and snorted, bemused. Where the Big Chief was a stout and strong man, with tame brown hair and sizeable - if a bit misshapen - horns on his brow, his boy Leaping-Wolf was a wild one. Orange-red hair that was unusual for the Cau had given him an Uzii name of just "Red Hair", and the boy loved it. His grin was openly brazen, and at just nineteen summers, Leaping-Wolf was bigger that his already large father. Standing well over six feet, the Big Chief's son constantly sparred with Uzii... and often times won. The boarmen loved their Red Hair friend, because he was one of the few Cau courageous (or stupid) enough to charge their tusks with his own sharp - but much more well kept - horns, and then lock arms with them. It was a wrestling style that Running-Ox had learned, and was becoming well known for, but his son threw out all the nuance and just... let it go.

Needless to say, he was very popular within the Protectorate.

Leaping-Wolf wore simple furs like his father, usually. But not today. Today, only his father wore simple furs. Leaping-Wolf had been saving his hunting kills, trading them to the more skilled leather workers, and now that they were returning to Kursaal, the son of the Big Chief was in his finest clothing. Tough leather pants of deepest black, and moccasins to match, both lined with the freely given shavings of white Yeti-fur from the northlands. An intricately woven loose white shirt from Rhödödendräk barely contained Leaping-Wolf's muscular barrel of a chest, but it was the Hraban feather coat that Red Hair was most proud of; each feather had come from a different Hraban, as he'd challenged them in duels one by one, wagering all of his collected feathers versus a single new one. He'd earned their respect, and some two hundred Hraban warriors-in-training later, and three actual Hraban warriors, Leaping-Wolf had managed to wear an entire vest of just black feathers.

There were many Hraban who had wanted him to lose, but when they heard why the Cau manchild had wanted the vest, each and every one had given their blessing to duel for the right for a single feather.

And now? Now was the boy's time. Big Chief Running-Ox had come along, to smooth things over if it went wrong; and also to gain the permission to see the important guests in Kursaal, but so far, things had run smoothly. He'd let Leaping-Wolf take the lead, and so far, his boy had started to gather quite the crowd. Each Goliath that stopped them from entry asked for their reason of being here, and Leaping-Wolf had just said, "I'm here to gamble my life away."

With a grin that showed his enormous confidence, Leaping-Wolf had won over many Targiz. The few that were skeptical had just looked over at Running-Ox and recognized him for the Protectorate dignitary that he was. They'd been let into the city, then the gambling houses, and now finally, they were in front of Odds-Mistress Ank’Anske’Thalez’ir “Rose” Ogra and her daughter Ank’Anske’Thalez’ir “Nyct” Nyctagina.

Running-Ox nodded at Ogra, and bowed his head a fraction to show respect. "Good seeing you again, Odds-Mistress. My boy here, Leaping-Wolf, is here to do something foolish."

"Foolish, father? No! I'm here in Kursaal to make a wager. A wager of a lifetime! Where better to gamble? Where better to put it all on the line? If it works, I'll be rich for the rest of my life! If it doesn't work, then I'll leave without even the clothes on my back. We've come through here multiple times for years, and every time I'm here," Leaping-Wolf spun around and waved towards the city, "I'm stunned by beauty. I'm left speechless, and dreaming of the next time I can gaze upon it. Call me a fool if you wish, father! The only fool that exists are those who don't even roll the bones! Who don't even try to change their fates."

"Odds-Mistress Ank’Anske’Thalez’ir Ogra, your city is amazing... but it's not the beauty I see every time I visit. It's not what leaves me without words. It's not what keeps me up at night, nor has it been my inspiration for the past five years to get stronger, to fight Uzii, Hraban, and anyone else who got in the way of my goals, all for this moment." The red-haired Cau finished his turn, and also nodded respectfully to Kursaal's ruler. It was clear to those listening that the large young man was filled with passion, and his sky blue eyes burned with a fervent kind of joy mixed with hope. A look many Targiz would recognize as going after a big prize, if only because the risk was even bigger... but the gambler didn't care. They didn't see the risk, they only saw the reward, because to think of the alternative was to lose before the results were in. Leaping-Wolf had the same roguish ambition as he raised his eyes once more to the Odds-Mistress, and continued to speak, "Thrice a year, my father and I would help guide merchants and travelers from the northeast homelands to the new lands in the southwest. Thrice a year, I'd have a few days in Kursaal, to have just a few rare moments in your city. Thrice a year, I've been able to see the most awe inspiring treasure that the Targiz have, and though we've spoken but rarely, I want this treasure - this gem of the Goliaths - to be mine. I will do whatever I need to claim it, risk everything I own for just the chance, and bet my very life to enrich myself for the rest of my days."

"I'm not usually one for flowery speeches, but where better to be flowery than within these halls? Where better to bet it all, just for a tiny glimmer of favorable odds, if not here?"

"Get to the point, boy, they don't got all day." Running-Ox rolled his eyes, his hand motioning for his son to hurry it along.

Leaping-Wolf nodded, his eyes not leaving the Odds-Mistress. Slowly, carefully, so as not to alarm the guards nearby, he pulled out something from within his vest. A small bit of pottery, filled with dirt and soil, and a single flower. Thin but strong, the stem of the plant was firmly within the pot, and it looked exceedingly well cared for. The flower itself was that of a many petaled pinkish shrub, but at it's end was a round white flower with a yellow center, 1 to 2 inches wide, with five different petals. "This then, is my ante. This is a flower I've been cultivating for years, and after speaking with other experts, I know that it will bloom into an even greater bushel of something stronger, with many more stems and shrubs... but is a member of the rose family.

Which is fitting, for that is what I want in return."

Leaping-Wolf turned his eyes from Ogra to Nyct. "Green-Eyed Gem, you're the most dazzling delight I've ever seen. You've haunted my dreams for half a decade, and I only regret that we haven't spoken more. This is the longest of shots, the hardest of odds, but the name of this flower that I've made is the Nyctia Plume. It can grow back home in Cäuplakai, but if you'll let it, it and I can stay here. Join me in life's greatest gamble! Let me see the Nyctia Plume be able to bloom here, with you... Marry me, Ank’Anske’Thalez’ir Nyctagina."

[mystic1110]

The hall of the Odds-Mistress was not an extravagant palace, instead it would appear to be a sort of bank or vault. The building was merely a rectangular slab built of stones, placed in a seemingly random location in the city, since, like everything else in the city, it was built by need and opportunity instead of any organized planning. Inside there was no decoration – just busy men and women carrying velum full of numbers and bags full of lost wealth from one location to another. In the center stood Rose and Nyct, looking like opposites, a seeming ocean of ignorance surrounded them as the clerks and other servants walked around them giving the petitioners an illusion of privacy. They were standing in the eye of a profitmaking storm – to go further from the two Odds-Mistress would mean to be swallowed by House.

The Odds-Mistress smiled luminously – Rose was clearly delighted by Leaping-Wolf’s audacity. To gamble, to chance it all, such was the very marrow of life. To live without wagering was less than death for as she knew the dead were alive in the soil, sacrificed and fertilizing her god. Those who never bet were instead lifeless and deathless; immortals penned by boredom and certainty like rabid dogs in a cage. She sighed and shook her head she pitied them. Rose spoke in her peculiar cadence of nectar left to rot:

Running-Ox, they say that I am Queen of a City of Fools, but that is a lie. I am not Queen nor do I see any fools before me. I am the mere innkeeper for those brave enough to believe. The stewardess of these knights of faith. Those who can completely trust themselves and in chance itself to see the road for what it is – a drunkards walk, and delight in such a fact. Be proud of your Son for if there are those that would call him a fool, I know him to be a Champion of Conviction.

Nyct, meanwhile, looks impassively upon the two men. She is dressed much like she is always dressed, that is, she was dressed in a plain black robe that draped over her shoulder and hid all curves and other feature of her body. Her hair was black and long and like everything else, straight in strict lines. What little skin could be seen was greyish, the coloring of the Targiz, and lined with jewel-like freckles from her grandmother Merine, which also seemed to arrange themselves in rows and columns.

She was beautiful, yes – perhaps one of the most beautiful women in Kursaal, but it was a frigid and cold beauty. The beauty of profits and numbers; not the soft excesses that could be found in the brothels nor of the innocence that could be found outside the city walls on the farms or vineyards.

Your flower for my flower. An acceptable Ante. But, I raise.

Nyct, walks towards the young man until he is forced to bend his neck back to look into those green eyes that he admired.

If you win, know this – the game will not end. I shall be Odds-Mistress and the wagers shall be my birthright. My namesake to bed me, but you have also asked for my life - this life. she raises her hands palms up in the traditional greeting of the Targiz, but done in such a way to motion to the land of numbers and commerce that surrounded her. Do you also place your life on the table?

And with this question, Nyct reached into her dress to take out three emerald dice - dice never being far from an Odds-Mistresses hand. She held them up to Leaping-Wolf to grab.

Rose, overhearing Nyct’s words smiled, proud of her daughter. A fine Odds-Mistress she would make. Rose had previously thought to pass her duties to her daughter when the time was right so that she could devote herself to her Faith and Lord fully. Perhaps it was time to let Nyct take the lead.

[Gengy]

"How could I do any less?" Leaping-Wolf's smile became like the sun, as he reached for the dice, and also Nyct's hand. "Roll them together with me? For now and forever more, even after the Ancestors call us home? Through good odds and bad, in times of cold logic or fiery passion, even if there are times we bet against one another, it will be a life far beyond what awaits me in Cäuplakai. There, I would maybe become the next Big Chief. Here, with you, I will become something far grander, the beholder of the Green-Eyed Gem."

With that, Leaping-Wolf let the dice tip out of their hands. He didn't look at them as they fell. They'd roll how they rolled. He had already won.

[mystic1110]

While Leaping-Wolf looked into Nyct's eyes, Nyct looked upon the dice as they fell from her hand. She did not look perturbed as he held her in his grip, not dis-inviting, merely passive, allowing it to happen to her as the dice rolled on the stone floor with click and clack and they tumbled. A flower of two (https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread.php?614510-Empire-6-Embers-of-Dawn-Dice-Rolling-Thread&p=24924820#post24924820). She looked back at Leaping-Wolf and grabbed his hand with her free hand and pried it open so that she may walk away and grab the dice as they laid on the floor. She bent over by bending her knees, not ever placing her spine on an angle that was not perpendicular to the flood. She merely lowered herself and raised herself to pick up the fallen objects. Expertly rolling them in her hand she walked back to Leaping-Wolf and held the dice to in her fist to his mouth and whispered.

Blow for me.

As he breathed on her hand, she let the dice fall. 6-3-4 (https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread.php?614510-Empire-6-Embers-of-Dawn-Dice-Rolling-Thread&p=24924820#post24924820) A useless roll. She picked them up again and once again held them in her fist to Leaping-Wolf's mouth.

Blow harder, she ordered.

As he blew once again, she let go and the dice fell like rain drops upon a parched ground.

A flower of Four (https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread.php?614510-Empire-6-Embers-of-Dawn-Dice-Rolling-Thread&p=24924820#post24924820).

It seemed like Leaping-Wolf lost his gamble. The activity around the two and their parents grew still in anticipation. Kursaal guards unsheathed their swords ready to enforce the Ante. The lad bet his life and so it was there for Nyct's taking.

Your life is mine for the taking Gambler.

The guards advanced as Nyct picked up the dice again. The swords were not at his back and at his throat ready to draw blood once the wager's winner demand's her payment. Nyct walk towards Leaping-Wolf, towering a head higher than him and seemingly dispassionately observed him, like one might observe a fly pinned to a wooden board with copper needles. She inclined her head and shockingly kissed him on the lips.

Your life is now mine forever Gambler.

And Rose laughed in delight and motioned for the guards to retreat, which they did with a certain reluctance for not getting to draw any blood. As Nyct kissed Leeping-Wolf, Rose walked over to Running-Ox to welcome him into her embrace and into each other's family. A wedding will have to be planned.

[Aedilred]

OOC: Using this thread since it's here and it's public and I think the idea was to leave it open. If a new thread would be better, let me know.

Rumours had several years ago reached Faranandūll of a distant realm in far-off Mamut, the land of the Tar-Giz, a land of mountains, replete with flowers distilled into wines and other drugs, a great city of great wealth - and giants. True, surviving giants. For all this time, visiting it had been little more than a dream, outside the realms of the plausible.

Ecimōnā was not a woman to limit her ambitions to the plausible.

If any took note of the strangers arriving in Kursaal, nobody saw fit to mention it, most likely forgetting it almost immediately. They were nothing more than nondescript travellers, after all, of the type that arrived or left Kursaal in numbers every day. Any trace of exoticism in their dress had been long since left behind, dressed now as they were in warm clothing for the foggy climes. More marks from the south, come to take advantage of the gambling dens and fleshpots of the greatest city in the north, no doubt.

In this manner they wandered the city for anything up to a week before one of them approached the hall of the Odds-Mistress. So unobtrusive was she that even the guards did not remark her until she was immediately in front of them, and she stopped to remove her helmet. As she did so, they would be forgiven for wondering how none had marked her before.

She was smaller and more slender than one of the Targiz, but still notably larger than a typical human. If the Targiz gave the impression of being hewn from stone, this one could have been carved from some exotic wood, her eyes shining like emeralds beneath a perfect brow. Her clothes may have been simple, but the accessories were not: a necklace of large pearls dangling from her throat, and the occasional glint of yellow-orange metal: at her wrists, her ankles, her ears. What might at first glance have been taken as a staff was a spear, tipped with the same metal. Whoever she was, she was important.

She grinned like a cat and spoke in a thickly-accented version of the Targiz tongue. "I have business with your mistress."

[mystic1110]

The hall of the Odds-Mistress was not an extravagant palace, instead it would appear to be a sort of bank or vault. The building was merely a rectangular slab built of stones, placed in a seemingly random location in the city, since, like everything else in the city, it was built by need and opportunity instead of any organized planning. Inside there was no decoration – just busy men and women carrying velum full of numbers and bags full of lost wealth from one location to another. Unlike when Laughing-Wolf visited, no one stood in the center of the ocean of clerks and other servants. The waves of profit washed over the center of the House without pause and without the Odds-Mistress present there was no need to avoid the eye of the storm. There was no ceremony to stand on other than debt and credit.

Ecimōnā was met by a large heavy set Goliath woman who had been working at the House since its inception. Officially, she was a secretary, but any over-eager clerk or pit-boss could tell you that a Secretary can make you or break you. The woman tilted her head down and wearily extended her hands palms up to her side in the Targizian greeting of welcome, but did so as one who made the same motion a thousand times a day. Exhausted and begrudgingly.

Welcome, the Odds-Mistress is unable to attend to petitioners now, but I can answer questions or take a message. To what will this be pertaining?

[Aedilred]

Ecimōnā tapped her chest in the manner of her homeland, then mirrored the palms-up gesture of the secretary.

"I am Ecimōnā of the Esāla, Shadow Slayer, Cleanser of the Corroded Well, Scourge of Thunderlands." The way she listed the titles suggested they had been learned by rote, at least in translation. "I bring greetings from my cousin, King Oniyellis of Henanda."

She reached to her belt and, slowly, making it as unthreatening a gesture as possible, drew out a blade: a straight-edged triangular short sword, wrought in the same shining bronze as elsewhere on her person. "Give this to your mistress and tell her I am here for wagering." She held it out hilt-first.

[mystic1110]

The secretary exhaled slowly and evenly. Bronze. The sword was worth its weight in more than gold. She looked down at the smaller woman and told her to follow her. Leading the way, she walked out of the hall and turned left on the first street, another left on the third alley, a right on the fourth alley after that, emerging into a large promenade whereupon a market was set up. Walking briskly through the bazaar the secretary took the left leaning street and then curved towards an underground passage that led to a staircase that doubled back onto a makeshift bridge overseeing a grand avenue. Walking on the bridge the secretary made one final turn right until she and Ecimōnā were standing by a large and ugly stone building. Marble covers it and marks it as a landmark of wealth and power.

The secretary rapped the door once and then twice in quick succession, followed by two more quick raps, then a pound, a quick rap followed by another point and then a rap and long pause and a rap. This bizarre ritual concluded with a butler opening the door and ushering in the two.

Within the atrium, Ecimōnā found herself surrounded by finest paintings and linen in all of Kozhur, the Targizian word for the world. In the room to the left of the atrium which Ecimōnā entered, one could find seated at a table of living wood women and men dressed in expensive robes of a variety of faiths. Faiths of ancient beings, or fertility, of snakes, of suns, of moons, of flowers, of ancestors, of power. These holy women and men sit smiling and laughing with their peers as they throw gems and coins, bars of gold and silver, spices and velum with tabulations of slaves onto the table, each upping the ante in heresy.

The latest gamble?

Ecimōnā overhears one of the priestess states "we know that the the bird calls Mamut its territory, the snake Tarandi. We know that Kiswa's is dead, but what of Sikar? The odds are as follows: Lion two to three. Scorpion two to three. Antlion one to two. A wurm one to three." And so these wise men and women make their gambles, playing games with the truth of the world.

The secretary motioned to Ecimōnā and instead of entering the left room they went straight ahead and after a series of hallways entered into another room which seemed quiet and plain. The displays of wealth elsewhere in the house missing. Instead the room seemed almost pious, with light shining through open windows revealing that the room only contained a green table with eight chairs. And that only one chair was occupied, the Odds-Mistress herself.

Nyct turned away from the window that she was looking out of, it seemed that she was doing nothing at all till this moment.

Greetings gambler. Please take a seat.

[Aedilred]

Ecimōnā took a seat as invited, and almost absent-mindedly ran a finger across the green table-top, as if to see what it was made from before looking up at the Oddsmistress.

"I am Ecimōnā, daughter of Ocēmis. My father was the greatest explorer of my people, and he failed to pass the high peaks of east Sikar. I was a small girl then. Now I travel across continents and sit at a table with the giants of Kursaal. The world has changed. My king bade me come here, but he did not need to. In the years to come, they will talk instead of Ocēmis, father of Ecimōnā.

"The dagger I gave your aide was wrought under the eyes of Vygra smiths, the finest in the world. My king would share this with you, our kin, and more besides, but I have seen that is not how things are done here. So I ask what you will stake against it, and on what terms."

She nodded back towards the direction from which she had come.

"Oh, and I suggest the house should shorten the odds on the lion."

[mystic1110]

Nyct looks up at Ecimōnā, and then motions to the secretary that brought her in. When the older woman comes over the Odds-Mistress, Nyct whispers something into her ear and then she quickly leaves.

Thank you for the advice. The Odds will remain, but certain persons will bet appropriately.

Looking down, the bronze knife gleams in the sunlight coming through the window and is striking against the green table. If Ecimōnā looks at the knife she could see Nyct's eyes reflected off its shine and might notice that the color of her eyes matched the color of the table. The house lived inside the other woman.

A worthy gamble, I accept and I raise.

Getting up Nyct walks over to one of the walls of the bare room which contained a cabinet. From the cabinet, she takes one finely chalice, inlaid with emeralds and even the rare comet stone. Taking a clay jug nearby she carefully pours into the chalice a flower wine, the same color as the bronze on the table. Balancing the chalice on her palm she walks it over to the table to place next to the knife. Her bet.

Sitting back down on the table, Nyct looks upon the two items and then back up at Ecimōnā.

Gambling over objects, is common even in your lands I assume. Perhaps I should welcome such a dignified foreigner with a gamble that you could only make in Kursaal?

Nyct leans over to take the bronze knife and gently pressed the tip into her finger until it wells with blood. Holding her bleeding finger over the wine she allows a couple drops to fall into the bronze colored wine until it looks like rust.

Perhaps you are willing to gamble with fate?


Trade - Bronze, Coin, Advanced Masonry for Increased Defense Budget, Campaign Grift, Off Track Betting

Gamble - Favor for Favor (discussed in PM)
Kursaal Dice
Each player rolls 3 separate d6s (not a 3d6 – roll 3 different 1d6)

The ranks of the rolls in order are:
“Straight Kill” 4-5-6
Triple – any triple that is not 3 Ones. Higher triples beat lower triples
“Flower” – any pair – the dice that is not of the pair, as long as its not a One, is the “Flower”. (with 3-3-4, the 4 is the "Flower") Higher flowers beat lower "Flowers”
“Corpse Flower” – Any matching pair of dice with a One (5-5-1 is equal to 2-2-1)
“Cespool Ones” 1-1-1
“Savlo Out” 1-2-3

If a player gets any other combination of dice (such as 2-3-4 of 2-5-6) they must reroll. If they still don’t a combination above on a reroll they forfeit that match.

If there is a tie on a roll between players – those rolls are both discounted (for example if Player A and B both roll a Straight Kill and Player C rolls a Corpse Flower – Player C wins).

If there is no winner – after counting all rerolls and ties, each player rerolls from scratch. Repeat until there is an eventual winner.

[Aedilred]

Ecimōnā took the knife and added a drop of her own blood to the chalice.

"What sort of guest would I be if I refused?"

Rolls: 2-6-1 (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=24963826&postcount=160) (discounted, re-rolled)
1-2-3 (https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread.php?627023-Empire-6-Embers-of-Dawn-Dice-Rolling-Thread-2&p=24963828#post24963828) (savlo out)

[mystic1110]

Nyct picks up the dice and rolls as well. The first roll matched her opponent's. 2-6-1 (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=24963869&postcount=165). During the second, Ecimōnā might have briefly glimpsed the Odd's mistresses green eyes flash with the light of a star, but such a glimpse was brief and apparently to no avail as the dice landed 2-4-1 (https://forums.giantitp.com/showsinglepost.php?p=24963870&postcount=166). Ecimōnā might have gotten the lowest valid roll in the game, but she at least gotten a valid roll.

Nyct looks at the dice without much emotion. A gamble is a gamble and the Odds-Mistress cannot complain. Looking at the other woman she evenly says.

Congratulations Gambler.

And drinks from the cup.

[mystic1110]

An Uninvited Guest

Invading the Twilight for a banquet like no other, Petalhead emerges changed. The silent eidolon descends from the hidden fastnesses of its cult with dread purpose, the path behind him flowering with vile malformations that lope after their newfound father. No natural flower survives the passage of Petalhead’s freezing shadow, and as the King of Nightmares regards Kursaal all the world holds its breath. In the city below, the riotous celebration of victory over the King’s Hounds is choked out as the wave of Blightspawn overpower the exhausted guards at the city gate, the blows from Petalhead’s fist shattering the weathered doors even as a second shadow of the creature stalks the walls, breaking all those foolish enough to stand against it. The tide of darkness moves through the city, strangely merciful against those who quail in terror, until one Petalhead stands before the doors of the Vault of Kursaal. Doors that prove no stronger than those of the city itself. Stalking into the Hall of Wagers, the shadows rush behind Petalhead, cascading over pillar and beam like a putrid, freezing lichen. Hundreds of hateful eyes gaze down at the Odds-Mistress, their attentions dwarfed by the looming figure of Petalhead as he approaches. There is a shudder in the corpse flower, and with a surge of vomitous stench the flower produces a glistening pom of burnished red-gold. Plucking it with uncanny care, Petalhead offers it up to Nyct, and a single command echoes from the throats of every Blightspawn in the hall.

Eat.

[mystic1110]

Nyct looks up at her Mother’s God and he is as terrible as she has always promised he would be. The stench of the flower clashes with the deadly cold that seeps off it and Nyct feels the Creature’s shadow behind her as well. While it looks like she is calmly considering the creature’s offer, her mind is in turmoil at the offer. The creature’s hands are already covered in frozen blood, the crystals sloughing off like slush upon the floor of the Hall of Wagers, as it holds the red gold Pom to her mouth.

Nyct’s mind is always ordered – it is a vault, a filing room for accounts and ledgers. Debts go in one corner, dues in another. Now, it is like a fractal – fear spreads like the lichen blight spreads through Kursaal, corrupting cabinets and changing numbers written down. Greed and preservation start to wrap their chains around her and she slowly raises her hands to accept the fruit, but in the midst of all this she finds in her mental records the image of a Lily.

She thinks of her sister. She thinks of her children. She thinks of her mother’s smile, the one she remembers as a baby as her mother fed her the strip of pig flesh in the halls of the Crimson King. She thinks of her city. And she thinks of her purpose. She drops her hand from accepting the fruit and instead reaches towards her pocket where she keeps the three emerald dice of her station. The Blight God seems to respect her choice as it, its shadow and the eyes of the nightmares under its command, do not move against her and simply follow her action.

She rolls the dice against the floor. 5-1-5. A Corpse Flower. How appropriate. And yet, despite the name a losing roll. In Astraglomancy such a roll would a negative for whatever question was asked. Which question did Nyct ask?

Should I eat the Fruit?

Nyct jumps left and begins to run almost as soon as the dice stopped rolling, leaving them in the center of the Hall of Wagers. The Blight God crushes the fruit in anger – the Pom exploding in its hands and the juices running like red lighting from it. Its shadow leans back, its flower seems to imitate a silent roar, and the lichen and it give chase.

Nyct runs to one of the ledger rooms that she knows has a door leading to a tunnel. The mass of nightmare moss spreads almost as fast as she can run, and she can hear the thundering footsteps of the God behind her. She runs into the room and slams the vault door – only for the creature’s hand to burst through and then back exposing a hole. The nightmares immediately begin to spread through the hole and Nyct keeps running. The creature extends its hand into the hole and then rips the door off its socket.

Before Nyct can arrive at the tunnels entrance, the nightmare lichen has already covered it and is staring back at her with hateful eyes, Nyct instead turns and runs towards the Catacombs where the many debts of Kursaal are accumulated and counted. While the tunnel would lead her out the Catacombs might hide her.

She keeps running as the God’s shadow and nightmares give chase. She falls down the stone stairs that lead towards the catacombs and sees the creature standing on top of them. The creature, instead of walking down, instead seems to dissipate into moths which fly down and surround Nyct. They quickly form back into the creature who back hands with its mighty hand and sends her flying. Hitting a wall Nyct feels her ribs break and she coughs up blood, but adrenaline makes her marvel that she is alive and instead of lying still she flees further into the catacombs.

Sometime later – she finds herself hiding in the dark struggling to breathe. She hears the creature searching for her. She thinks of her mother and her rituals and stories and tries to recall if there is anything in them that she could use to escape alive. Her mother would tell her that this is the Lord of Nightmare who feasts on Fear.

Wait . . . perhaps. . .

Nyct exhales and her mind, which has been fractured by fear, begins to slowly sweep up the debris. The papers are restored to their proper places, the cabinets are righted, the tables fixed. Numbers – simple numbers. Addition, subtraction, debt and credit, total adherence to the roll of the dice. Fear fell away. All emotion fell away. Nyct became herself again – cold – but not the cold of the blight.

She felt the God’s shadow near her as the giant Corpse Flower seemed to search for the woman who was nearby her in the dark. Yet – without light, without the stench of fear – it could see nothing. Nyct was saved by her lack of emotion.

The God, frustrated punched a wall of the catacomb, tearing right through it covering Nyct in a fine layer of stone dust. She is careful not to make a sound. The creature is without eyes or ears but is not blind or deaf – her mind might have saved her, but only while it remained dark and silent.

Eventually it would seem the God would give up on its search and Nyct find herself broken and bleeding below her own vault. She would still have to escape her own city. She thinks of her sister and does not smile.

Even that small allowance at emotion might draw the creature back.

[mystic1110]

While Nyct stumbles below the earth in the dark, another group approaches the Vault of Kursaal. The Congress of the Honeyed Child and at their lead is Rose.

Upon Rose’s shoulder are Dire-Song Birds, their eyes aflame. They sing a gloomy song as Rose and the Congress enter through the broken door and arrive at the Hall of Wagers – their God standing at the center and the room covered with the blight-lichen and its endless eyes. Some of the Congress falters, but Rose of course smiles as if meeting a long lost friend and walks forward, her closest followers, the Tattered Dancers walking behind her carrying the Jar holding her dead granddaughter.

While Nyct ran instead of bending the knee, Rose gladly prostrates herself. This was her God and to see him grow in power was its own reward. Holding out to him, she presents the Skystruck Torc. The two forms of the God squelch in a single motion into one as they both reach out to grab the Torc, the coldness of the blight frosting the Wyrm-fire that warmed the artifact. The conflict between the two throwing the very air into struggle – everything took the appearance as if underwater – light began to slither between an unseen war.

Rose stays prostrated – she does not ask for a boon in return. She knows her lord – he does not suffer other whims. Unknown to her, even now, stronger than ever, he chaffed at his new bonds. No – you give the King of Nightmares his due and hope and fear that his attention to turns to you. Still Rose was sure that her long delayed promise to her son Gled would be fulfilled. Bringing his daughter back to life was never her foremost goal, but what kind of mother would she be if she did not also try to bring a smile to her child’s face?

The God holds the cackling Torc and, almost imperceptibly, he had separated again, then a scream as his shadow begins to move around the Congress twisting heads and ripping limbs from those deemed less than worthy. Most of the Congress though are of the True Faithful and they remain still, and smiling, as their former family is torn asunder and they are splattered with blood. Just as quickly as it started it was over and it seems that whatever tribute he needed had been accepted and the Lord of Nightmares walks towards the pot of honey.

The God dips his hand into the Jar and grabs hold of the preserved infant. Lifting her by her head, he lofts her as high as he could hold so that her body is above the terrible corpse flower that is his head and dripping honey onto it. Each languid drip of syrup falls upon the petals and seemingly sizzles from cold as hot as fire – the droplet turning into amber and then apparently corroding into a verdigris waste. The God takes his free hand and rips from himself a small fruit, not red and gold like what was offered to Nyct, this one is sickly green. His massive hands parting the infant girl’s cold lips he inserts the fruit within and then unceremoniously drops the girl back into her vat of honey and wine.

The dead baby falls into the jar with a plop – some jeweled globs of honey splattering outward. Even dropped from this height, in the vicious liquid her face is still visible. It is smooth and pale – her horns slight and fragile. She is lifeless. Slowly she sinks into the honey mixture.

Silence as the remaining Congress stands surrounding the pot – the two forms of the God of Nightmare fading slowly into the blight lichen before disappearing entirely only the eyes of the shadowed blight bearing witness.

A tiny hand surfaces from the clay pot, grabbing the edge and pulling itself out. Tumbling from the pot that toddler falls onto the floor and begins to shake. The honey the suffused her dead lungs and lifeless veins begins to harden into cold frozen amber – the child stands up on legs not used to walking – she is pale like alabaster, whiter than the moon, her hair is slicked back from the syrupy mixture in which she was held and from her hands are two small horns. She was too young when she died for her Goliath blood to have made her larger than her age – she still looks like a newborn who has just begun to walk. Her eyes are green and from them she seems to be crying honey. The gold viscous liquid slowly drools down her cheeks – piercing from ribs are tiny needles of frozen honey, more honey coming from the puncture wounds – as she walks forward, the eyes of blight coalesce and tear themselves off the wall to become a cloak for her.

Now covered in shadow and eyes, her small nakedness gone, Ffiona, dead for twenty years, walks towards the center of the Hall of Wagers and picks up the dice that Nyct dropped, which still show the result of the Corpse Flower. She speaks – her voice is both terribly old and impossibly young. They are not overlaid upon one another – it is a single voice and it gurgles for when she speaks she spits honey and bile which fall upon the floor like punctuation.

I am. Regent of Odds. Now.

[mystic1110]

As the Honeyed Child rose above, Nyct emerges from the Catacombs covered in filth as she crawled through a pipe to emerge in the Cesspools that Ces once resided in as his private fiefdom. She was grim, but one could not note a trace of despair on her face - she was seemingly made of iron. Whether this was her natural disposition or further control of her emotions to avoid drawing her Mother's God's attention, would be hard to tell. Regardless, she understood that in order to regain control of the city she would need to flee the city. Luckily (chance be praised) her two sons were with their father who had taken them hunting in the woods outside the city. Her daughter, Aste, her spies had informed her that she was in Kiswa - also lucky. Thinking of where to run Nyct could only picture in her mind the Lily flower. Olea of course would take her.

However, escaping the city was another matter. Looking out from the cesspool Nyct could see that the city had changed. Moss and lichen had crept over the streets such that they seemed like lush gardens rather than the gloomy dirt paths of commerce that she adored. Flowers grew on the tenements and all manner of colorful mushrooms rose out of doorways. In way the city was more beautiful than it used to be. A verdant paradise rather than a den of inequity. And yet to Nyct the lushness seemed wasteful and extravagant. In fact she could feel a strong sense of malaise in the city's air - as if the whole place was asleep. Perhaps it was. The people were nowhere to be seen. Where were they? Normally the city would be teeming and lively, disgustingly so. The sheer mass of mortals creating wealth out of thin air just by breathing the same air and drinking the same wine.

Nyct tenderly walks from the cesspool and explores the nearest house - the door was pried open by a heavy vine of some unknown origin. Walking inside Nyct found the sleeping family, gently resting in their beds, the vine gently wrapped around them and two blooming roses over their eyes. Suddenly one of the sleeping people shuddered as if trapped in a nightmare - the vine tightens and then seems to engorge itself like a snake and seems to suck the nightmare into a fluid into the vine which then pulses up and through the vine out of the house towards - if Nyct - had to guess, towards the Vault of Kursaal. Seems like the God had turned the whole city into his Farm. The Goliaths, historically vintners, had become the very fruit of the vine - their nightmares becoming the finest vintage for a new Wine.

Nyct walks out, not in horror, but with purpose. She needed to get out, but knew that her personal routes and the more public gates of the city would be guarded. She needed to take a more unusual way out and to do that . . . she needed to take a gamble.

[mystic1110]

As Nyct makes her way further away from her Vault, in that Vault the God of Nightmares dissolves into moths that flutter away into the shadows in the corners leaving the remaining Congress and the Honeyed Child herself alone. Rose dotes on the blighted regent, for the cancer was her granddaughter. Rose points towards the remaining Congress for them to find chairs and a table, and another to prepare mushroom tea for the two of them. Throughout this motherly affection the Honeyed Child remained aloof, the eyes that formed her cloak following the movements of her apparent servants. She cried Honey the entire time.

A table was found and Rose sits down and pours herself and her granddaughter a cup of tea. The Honeyed Child eventually looks her way, slowly walks towards the chair, and struggles to sit onto it – being so small, that the chair being built for a Goliath adult, required her to grab onto it and pull herself on. So seated the Honeyed Child reaches for a cup and looks at the hot liquid, and then puts it down. A drool of honey and bile drips a thin line down her chin. She is not able to imbibe the tea.

Rose leans over and wipes away the dribble and says:

Ffiona, I’ve always wanted to meet you. You are beautiful.

I am not. Ffiona.

Perhaps not. But you will be her to me and to your father.

I have none. No father.

Rose takes a sip of tea.

No? Tell me then, who are you and from where did our Lord drag you from?

The child looks at the old woman. She extends her hand and from underneath her nail a shard of frozen honey emerges and pierces Rose’s shoulder causing her to cry out and drop the cup of mushroom tea.

Your Lord. Great Indeed. Powerful. Stronger than I. Nevertheless, servants all. The Prisoner’s Dream. I am that. Freedom. Do not presume. To know anything.

The elongated nail retracts, freeing Rose who clutches her bleeding shoulder and then looks up back at the creature that wears her granddaughter’s skin with a smile of maternal pride. The love of a wasp is a frightening thing.

[mystic1110]

When she was the Odds-Mistress, Nyct was aware of each game and gamble within the city. Not all the wagers were coin – some were of blood and gold, sweat and dignity – others still were more esoteric for the discerning gambling addict. In Kursaal, if one wanted to, one could part with anything. Not that most people would part with anything for nothing. Of course not. Everything could be placed on the green table, but that is because anything was available as a prize? What was the prize that Nyct wanted now? The greatest one imaginable. Her life.

Nyct walked through the sleeping city – all of Kursaal covered in moss, lichen, mushrooms and vines – until, by memory she made it to the alley in which the game she wanted to play was held. The alley looked like an overgrown jungle. Thick leaves and growth making it darker than it would have been even usually – instead of a creeping shadow of gloom and industry instead the overpowering green was more oppressive. Nyct walked forward brushing the plants aside trying to find the door that would have taken her to the basement. The door was barred by what seemed to be thorns – instead of an entrance it was a bramble. Nyct took out a small knife and got to work carving her way through but as the vines pulsed with stolen nightmares, the thorns regenerated. This was not the way through.

Giving up, Nyct walked further into the wild alley trying to find an opening into the building. Above a giant mushroom growing on a wall, she eventually noticed an open window. Grabbing hold of the mushroom’s head she hefted herself up and into the window. Falling onto the wooden floor, she knew that she was on the second floor of the building, and needed to get down to the basement – she was not hundred percent certain the game was still being run, but it might have been the only way out of the city – or at least the only way that the God of Nightmares would not be able to track her.

Standing up and walking around the dusty room, Nyct looked for the staircase leading down. The house was quiet, as expected, Nyct understood that most in the city would be asleep and part of the harvest, but there was a chattering that she could not place. It did not sound like people. Coming out of the room and down the hallway, Nyct saw the staircase. Putting her hand on the bannister and her foot on the first step, Nyct looked down and saw hundreds of blue eyes staring back on her. Rats . . . not just any rats. Woken rats. Woken had been part of the city for a while – coming to play in the great games – but she had never seen such a number. Where did they come from?

The rats let off a screech that was neither purely animal or purely mortal – instead it sounded something supernatural – almost as if with their teeth they were imitating fire. As a mass they began to rush up the stairs and Nyct leapt back up and back into the room she emerged from and slammed the door shut. The dire-mischief of rats slammed into the closed door – but the mass was almost more a liquid, as one knows with rats, and already some grey bodies had begun to crawl underneath the cracks and into the room. However, once they wriggled their way in they would only find an empty room as Nyct had escaped back into the wild alley. The rats screamed for her, but strangely would not crawl out and face the wilderness.

Nyct hears the cries of the dire-mischief but only groans as her broken ribs have started to take their toll. Jumping from a second story window was not the smartest gamble. Luckily the mushrooms and new undergrowth broke the fall but she felt herself passing out. Perhaps she played her last hand?

[mystic1110]

Nyct opens her eyes. At first, her vision is a little blurry but it clears well enough for her to see that she is an opulent salon. There are wooden sofas with pillows stuffed with feathers on the side of the room, there is a lush carpet, and in the center is a green table with a wheel. Nyct stirs and finds that she was reclining on of the Sofa’s, her body in bandages, broken yet mending. It seemed she was correct in assuming that this particular game was still operating. The sadists that ran it would not have found the nightmare city outside a strange place. Perhaps they were home.

I’m awake.

From the corners emerge two figures, both Goliaths, and both former Witch-Sisters of Salvo. She had seen these women among the dances her Mother used to run, back before her Mother fled from Targiz with her Congress.

Hello Witch-Sisters.

Hello Odds-Mistress. Or, should we say, former Odds-Mistress?

Nyct looked at them deadpan – she had to be careful to maintain her composure lest anger would also draw the Blight God towards her. She knew he fed on fear, but best be safe and lock her emotions in a mind-cage. She was good at that at least.

Still Odds-Mistress to you Gamblers.

Ah, but we are the House here. You’re the one with something to wager this time Nyct.

Nyct was silent as she got up from the couch and walked towards the table and its wheel. The wheel was made of copper and was perfectly circular. There was a groove on its side for a marble to be thrown into and on the circles center there were more grooves for which such marble to fall into.

Safe Passage to my Sister. Is this something that you can provide?

Yes – we know of your mother’s rituals and symbols and the hidden routes they had used to come into and out of Kursaal. We also know of your Uncle’s wards which interfere with your Mother’s God’s sight. Combined between the two we can chart a path for you all the way to your sister.

Nyct nods. She doesn’t ask the question, she knows the house would provide.

The wager?

The two ask with cruel smiles.

The Wager would be your love.

Love?

Yes. Love – your love for your sister, your children. We will provide you passage – but you will walk away with one less love in your heart. You might think yourself cold – but to leave you will find yourself colder.

Nyct considers the offer. What was love worth if the one who loved was dead? She might leave with one less love, but she would still have life to love with. The terrible chance that she might reach her sister and feel nothing for her played in her mind, but she had already made one terrible choice today – it seemed like she had to go all in and make another.

She nodded and the Witch-Sisters cackled and took out a green marble. They pointed at the wheel and demarcated it into four quadrants. One was for her sister Olea, the other three were for her three children; Wayward Aste, Spoiled Hede, and newborn Malv. Once listed they placed the marble on the wheel and asked one final time.

Are you ready Gambler?

Nyct looked them in their eyes.

I accept your wager but know this. I will kill you when I return.

The Witch-Sisters laugh and spin the wheel while Nyct clenches her fists, experiencing that high and low of truly having something at stake.

[mystic1110]

The Honeyed Child looks at Rose and her bleeding shoulder and spits onto her little hand a black syrup and holds it out to the priestess. Rose reaches out and grabs the glob and places it onto her wound. She stiffens as she feels it on her flesh and looks down to see that her wound is completely healed. She touches it with her hand and feels a chill travel into her fingers. The skin that restitched itself was young and firm, free of the wrinkles of age that it should have had and did have prior to being pierced.

Thank you . . . what should I call you my dear?

Regent.

Rose laughed as she considers the simple response.

Regent for whom? As you said My God is a servant like you. A servant to whom.

The Honeyed Child is silent as she continues to cry honey and then seems to grow bored of the conversation and gets up from the seat to begin to walk out of the Vault of Kursaal. As she begins to walk, slowly with her small legs, she looks back towards Rose

Follow.

Rose sighs and pours herself another cup of mushroom tea since she dropped her last one, and takes the steaming bowl with her as she follows the thing wearing her Granddaughter’s skin.

The Regent walks out of the Vault and Rose could see the city had changed – what were once ashen smoke filled streets and soot covered buildings were now a pastoral paradise. Flowers were beggars used to be. A tear rolled down her face at the beauty of it all. Already it was all worth it – not that she had any doubts.

The Warden’s servants.

The child’s words shook Rose out of her reverie.

Warden? You mentioned a Prisoner before. Who are they?

The Honeyed Child looks at rose and holds a finger to her pale lips, bile and syrup coating them like lipstick, and she hushes the older women.

Quiet.

Whether the forced silence was because the Honeyed Child wanted neither the so-called Prisoner or Warden to hear her or whether it was because she did not want to answer Rose’s questions were unclear. Rose thought it was best to follow the command. She would learn of everything with time. Already she understood – that while her God had gotten the power she knew he deserved, he now needed something to unshackle him. In due time. She held the bowl of hot tea and breathed in its steam.

The Regent continued seemingly on a tangent.

Unknowing Pain. Pain learning. Prisoner dreamed imprisoned. Learned confinement. Taught.

Rose listened quietly and then bent down, placed down her cup of tea and embraced the cold child. The warmth of her body quickly left her and she felt like she was embracing a snowstorm. The Regent did not move and let herself be embraced.

Suddenly, she pointed out towards the city.

They come. They understand freedom. They seek liberation.

She bent her neck to look towards Rose.

Stop them. For your lord. For me. For captive dream.

Rose smiled.

Of course my dear.

She lets go of the Regent, her fingers blue from the frost. Rose retreats back to the Vault of Kursaal leaving the Honeyed Child on the battlement. Coming back into the Hall of Wagers that she used to rule she comes to the table that she had laid out, and places upon it an open book.

[Silent_Interim]

“Kursaal is a beautiful city, do you not think?”

The Scrim considered the question. “Honestly, no. It is an ugly city, full of ugly things. Before, the miserable, the downtrodden, the hopeless, the penniless, all filled with false hope. Now, this. I admit, the greenery is an improvement, though.”

Their companion gave a deep, grinding laugh. “Fair enough, I suppose. I have always been fond of it, though. It is full of life. Even now, choked in green, it is full of life, though of a different kind. And wherever there are so many people gathered, there are opportunities for those such as us.”

“For crime, you mean.”

“Of course! Kursaal is built on crime. It is the very foundation of Targizian society! The Odds-Mistress is a criminal, and she rules over criminals, and the coin flows. And in exchange for goods and services, we take but a little of that coin, and do not make a fuss of ourselves. It is a leaky system, and it is practically a civic duty to clean up the spills.

“But I am afraid its opportunities have run dry for us. The leaks are filled, now, with moss and leaves. There is no more room for parasites like you and I. Kursaal is not the profitable venture it once was.”

“Where to, then?”

“I have not been home in a very long time. I think it is time I reclaimed my old position in the court at Thun, don’t you?”

“Whatever you say, Lejah.”

[mystic1110]

Aste arrives at the ruined vault of Kursaal dressed in her traveling cloak. It has been years since she had seen home and years since she had drunk the blessed milk. Along her journey back home, the prodigal daughter had heard of the blight that afflicted her home and proudly heard of her mother’s choice. Aste knew her mother and was honestly surprised that she did not accept the dread God’s fruit – it would have been the economical choice. The fact that her mother had refused and escaped the blight’s grasp brought a tear to Aste’s eye. It was a shining example of the Children’s aspiration towards Vigilance.

Aste and Nyct never had a warm relationship, especially given Nyct’s nature, but the love between them was never in doubt. In fact all these years away made Aste’s heart grow fonder and throughout her journey back home Aste had debated with herself on whether she should make her mother drink the blessed milk and join her in the true faith or not. Hearing the tale of the Odds-Mistress’s flight made Aste’s own heart lighter as it made it more likely that her mother would gladly partake of the sacrament and join her in a Khipha against the blight that held Targiz in its grasp.

Now waiting in the Vault Aste kneels on the floor and touches the stone to try to place herself in the past when her mother made her choice. Would she have made the same decision, even with the fortitude of her faith? Where did the iron come from to say no to a God? She could not even imagine. She was preparing herself to see her mother and to embrace her in the tightest hug she could give – filled with her entire homesickness, pride and affection.

She hears footsteps and gets up to turn and sees her family entering the Hall of Wagers. There is her grandfather, Roaring Ox, her father, Laughing Wolf, her brothers Malv and Hede, both now Men instead of the boys she knew, and in the back is her mother. Malv and Hede run forward, embrace her, and begin to talk too fast for her to keep up. Her grandfather hangs back and just nods her way, sitting down to rest his wearied body after his fight to save the city. Her father comes forward to clap her on the back.

Welcome home!

Thank you father – or should I address you as Homage now.

Laughing Wolf grimaces

A poor Homage I am, the Protectorate has collapsed, and the former leaders vanished into the sky. I am Homage in name only. The Uzi way of fighting seems to be a way of the past – but with our funds, perhaps we can deal with the Night Kingdom and our extended family to rebuild it slowly.

I wish you luck. I come bearing news from the south. Friends and I are building a new organization. With what happened here it is clear that the Sentinels are not enough – there need to be others who study the blight and stop it at its roots instead of the fighting only the affliction. The Targiz are vintners – they should know how important it is to find the asps that feed on the flowers before the flowers wilt.

Laughing Wolf’s grimace grows darker.

They should – but do not forget that this is the fault of your Grandmother and her God. The people of the Targiz brought the blight on themselves.

Aste shook her head.

I do not believe my Grandmother meant for this to happen. You did not grow up on the Corpse Flower faith so you will not know, but it is more than just death and sacrifice. It is about rebirth and renewal. Believing in it made believing in the Great Mother much easier. They are both of this world and nature and abhor the un-nature that is Blight. They just come from it from different sides.

Laughing Wolf laughs.

Daughter, I won’t debate religion with you. My own is simple. Honor your ancestors! Done!

Aste replies.

And what does that make my Grandmother?

Laughing Wolf smirks.

You picked up a way with words down south! Anyway I am happy you are back. Tell me about these friends of yours.

They are Dwarves and Trolls, creatures you cannot imagine. Some are as short compared to a Cau and a Cau is to a Golaith and others are great beasts with elongated heads and sharp teeth, almost like Drakko bred with a human. We shall be the Students of Wonder. I am hoping to convince mother to fund them and perhaps they will assist in rebuilding the Protectorate.

At the mention of her Mother, Laughing Wolf stops laughing. He lowers his eyes and says.

We shall help your friends and hope they help us. We could use all the friends we could get. Our city is riddled with plague and the remnants of blight have stopped all commerce. All we have now is our savings. But, Aste – a word – your mother defied the Blight and escaped but she paid a heavy price.

A price? What happened?!

Laughing Wolf looked uncomfortable.

She lost her love for you.

What?! What does that mean?

At this moment, was when Nyct joined the conversation. She was dressed as she always was, in a black cloak that covered her body and hands, and a Lily in her hair. Her green eyes were calm and cold as always.

Who are you talking to? Would you introduce me?

Mother it’s me!

Nyct looked at Aste and seemed to stare into her soul.

I don’t have a daughter. Your adoption could be my stake, but what would be yours?

I’m not a gambler, I’m your daughter.

Nyct sighs.

Enough – your lies sound desperate. Come back when you have a worthy bet to make – I have a city to rebuild.

And Nyct keeps walking further into the Vault to count the remaining coins and debts, leaving her family silent in her wake.

Aste looks at her back, tears streaming in her eyes and clenching her fists. Her homecoming was more bitter than she could have bargained for and lost.

[mystic1110]

Nyct walks further into the Vault where old debts are collected and gather dust. Once she is alone she punches the wall in frustration – a rare display of emotion. She remembers her entire ordeal and escape, except for the stakes of the game she played with the witch-sisters. Seeing the reactions of her family and the stranger presumably she had bet her memory of that person, or something equally dear. Unfortunately, the magic of the gamble made any attempt at logic – if she says she was her daughter, why not accept that she was her daughter – slide off her mind, like a dew drop sliding off a leaf. Just thinking about the stranger provided a void in her vision. Grasping at any other concept of that woman as anything other than someone she just met felt like a stab in the heart and then – just nothing.

Nonetheless, what Nyct could remember, could recall – was that those fools, Eidderf Ociete and Einnaf Ociete, made her play a game. And, no one makes the Odds-Mistress play a game. Quite the reverse. She knew that she would never get back what she lost, but there was still ample opportunity to make it clear to Kursaal that the Odds-Mistress has returned and that the House always wins.

Later . . .

Eidderf and Einnaf open their eyes, blurry with forced sleep. They stir lazily and then with sudden panic as they find that they are chained in what appears to be a cellar. The chains are bronze and thin, the bondages of the Tattered Dancers, those harpy priests of the Corpse Flower. The witch-sisters jerk them but they find the thin binds just as strong as the thickest ropes.

Let us play a game.

The witch-sisters look around and see Nyct standing at the door of the room. They hiss . . .

Odds-Mistress

Nyct continues calmly.

I do not understand what you expected. Perhaps you gambled on the city remaining in the God’s grasp. But if it did what would you have expected to happen to you.

We know your mother – she would have given us leniency. Power!

Nyct walks into the dim candle light in the cellar.

If you truly knew my Mother you would have known that your lives meant less than nothing. All her games and devotions are built to show the nightmares that our world has been constructed upon. Why would she save you? You are sadly uninformed.

What now Nyct? You will keep us here and starve us to death?

Nyct’s smile is like a broken clay pot.

That would be unfair of me. You let me play a game, so I will let you play one as well.

A game?

The Odds-Mistress points towards the corner of the room where there two bowls of wine were located.

The game is simple – just drink the wine.

Nyct takes out four keys and holds them up.

Two of these keys are for your binds – one key is for the door from which I will leave and the last one is for that door.

She points towards the remaining door in the room.

That door leads to the wine cellar. Once you drink the wine I will place the keys on the floor and leave you to your choices.

What kind of game is this? This is not a gamble. You are putting nothing on the line.

The days of me putting my skin on the tab are over. The house is in charge now.

The wine is poison.

I promised to kill you. That would be too easy.

Very well, Nyct we will play your game, but rest assured if we live you will regret it.

With that, the Witch-Sisters shamble towards the wine and drink it. Nyct places the keys on the floor and leaves the room, whispering.

I wouldn’t gamble on it.

The wine is delicious - it tasted like honeyed fire. Eidderf and Einnaf felt themselves flush as the heat expanded from their bellies and felt the sudden surge of energy racing like lightning up their veins. They greedily drank more as their eyes widened and the surge within them took the reigns of control and sundered them into indulgence. Their every fiber felt as if it was signing a song of joy - they could not recall when they were last this happy. . .

The witch-sisters looked at each other confused. What was this game? Just fantastic wine and the keys to their freedom? They walked over to the keys to their shackles and the doors. As they struggled with their chains, time seemed to slow down for them. All of a sudden, they felt anxious and sweaty. They became exhausted out of nowhere and wanted to drink enough water to drown themselves - but more than that, they wanted more wine! They needed the wine!

The wine was triple-distilled amaryllis wine long hidden in the wine cellar of Ank’Anske Rocnab. Its addiction was positively blighted. The sisters looked at the remaining keys and licked their lips. The door to their freedom or the door for more wine? They laughed! Nyct was a fool! They could use both!

One of them gaily walked towards the door to the cellar to open the route towards more fantastic wine and inserted the key into the lock and pulled the handle.

Greeting her were hundreds of blue eyes staring back on her. The wyrm-infused rats that Nyct had once escaped now lunged towards the sisters who yelled in fright and tried to make it to the other door to get out of the room when they were swarmed by the woken mischief. The fury in their eyes was not of the blight and so it did not vanish when the nightmare city was dispelled. The very real teeth bit into the sisters as they screamed. The rats began to eat into their flesh – they were being disemboweled and devoured all at once and their final cry was more wine.

On the other side of the door, Nyct walks away. It wasn’t a fair game, but she did give them a chance. Her Mother was a nightmare, but perhaps some of her lessons had their place. And yet, as she walked further from the screams, Nyct reflected that even with their deaths and her so-called victory, what she lost, that she could impossibly not remember, was perhaps even-greater than those two worthless lives.

[Rolepgeek]

Fanat had always enjoyed games - games of skill, games of chance, and everything between. They'd never much been one for betting on anything besides himself - the wager itself wasn't as fun so much as the game itself. The competition.

So when Fanat's new employer had requested they accompany a group of missionaries to Kursaal as protection and stick around for a time while they made their first inroads into the city, the crow's eyes lit up immediately.

In reality, Kursaal was...well, disappointing wasn't exactly the right word, but it certainly wasn't as grandiose as the legends had made it out to be. Seemed...empty, somehow, despite the crowds. Perhaps it was just the taste in the air. Or the way the people moved through the streets, as seen from above. The city looked...sick, somehow. Sure, it was recovering, or so they'd been told, but for now it made their feathers itch to watch too closely.

So they didn't. They'd be leaving soon enough anyway, and even so reduced, Kursaal was still a magnificent den of every vice he could think of. Thinking about the soft-spoken snake-priests they'd had to keep safe on the way here trying to convert anyone without deceit - as their Queen had forbade (hypocrisy was a failing easily overlooked when one was paid well, they'd soon learned) - just made them laugh.

Now though, it was time to find a game.

Fanat was in his feathered form, as though the scaled one was a tremendous boon for combat, it was uncomfortable outside the water for any extended period - and even as tall as he was when holding it, it was nothing compared to the sights he could take on the wing. But which of these gambling houses would catch the eye of a crow, far from home?

[mystic1110]

What made Kursaal great was where one saw depravity another could see opportunity; where one saw sin another would make entertainment, and where one saw sickness another could find enlightenment . . . but more on that soon.

As Fanat made his way around the Great Bazaar of Kursaal, indeed the caravan never left, it was absorbed into the fabric of the metropolis much like everything else, almost as a lichen, spreading through the streets in makeshift spurts and growths and was built around and through until it seemed like it had always been part of the bones of the city, he would have been able to glimpse inside many gambling houses and other dominions of ill repute.

There were whorehouses that could even make a shapeshifting crow blush, dens of liquors and potions that even the basest of the Great Mother’s cultists would hesitate to drink. Dice where thrown on green tables everywhere. Cards and wheels, lists and lotteries – in one room Fanat even saw men and woman betting on which songbird would sing first. The losing birds were then drowned in Flower Wine and fried in oil and given to the winner as payment.

In short, to say, if there was something that could entice Fanat to gamble, then he would find it and if he did not find it in these houses, on the main strip or even the immediate alleys, well – there were darker glories only mere steps away.

Beyond the off track betting of the Battle Toad racing and the wagering on the World League, one could find underground death matches to either join or witness. The wrestlers have long evolved their own fighting style in the pits and cages, leaping on to bars and beating their opponents against the walls. For the more discerning, there were stone mansions of the wealthy and educated betting on philosophy and faith – but invitations to such tables were rare and the ante was prohibitive. Even then, some might want to find a more arcane game . . .

It was common knowledge that everything that made men, men, and women, women, could be wagered in Kursaal. Names, Love, Identities, Freedoms, Genders, Hopes . . . and yet these games were hard to find. Before the Nightmare City these games would seem to appear in an store front that would draw the curious only to disappear after the games ended. The games found their players instead of the other way around. However, after the Nightmares ended, with the disappearance of the witches, Eidderf Ociete and Einnaf Ociete, from Kursaal, these games became harder to find. Indeed, one had to find them at all.

Searching for these arcane delights though took one through parts of the city that even the residents would have avoided. Nameless Slums and rough neighborhoods filled with the desperate. There were even whole blocks controlled by those of the angry Uzii diaspora and others that were the domain of blood benders exiled from Tarandi.

As Fanat would wander through these coarser locals, he would notice a game that could not be found anywhere else. The game was played in the allies near the gutters and the players seemed to have been vagrant holy men. They wore colorful robes and rags and each of the players seemed to have been attended by acolytes and apostles of all colors, stripes, races, beliefs and various degrees of blood thirstiness. It was not uncommon for one cultist to stab another and dedicate it such murder to one god or another, while the main players ignored them to continue playing. It seemed that this game was the game of true cultists. Whereas the rich played with theology and empty pageantry it was in the streets where truth was dealt.

Coming closer Fanat would find that they were welcomed to the fold and the game was roughly and loosely explained to them. The game was called: Entheogen Basset. While the preachers and Fanat were the players, the game’s master seemed to be an unchained Tattered Dancer in who called himself Erei’llat.

The game was essentially a lottery. The players sat hunched over the street, with Erei’llat in their midst with a mysterious pouch before him. The players were dealt thirteen Tarot Cards of the four suits of Feathers, Scales, Teeth and Hearts, including the Major Arcana that everyone seemed to know so well and that were too numerous to list. The players then laid down one, two, three, or more cards, as they pleased, with a powder upon them, as stakes. Erei’llat took the remaining pack in his hand, turned them up, and pointed at the bottom card; he then paid half the value of the stakes, by taking out powder from his pouch, laid down by the players upon any card of that sort. From the losers he took their wagers and then continued the game.

The alluring nature of the game seemed to be the enormous odds that one could win – if one won, they could continue their gamble with their winnings – or the devastating losses. Another reason these preachers kept playing was surely the currency – the powder.

Fanat, powderless, but among these men and women, might have inquired of the Harpy Banker what the powder was. Erei’llat would have smiled and reached into their pouch to give Fanat a small handful of powder upon which the other players and watching cultists looked upon greedily.

“Do you know what an Entheogen is?”

Fanat, being of the River Kingdom, masters of the medical herds, surely would know it as a scholarly term for substances such as the Mother’s own milk: a chemical substance, which is ingested to produce a nonordinary state of consciousness for religious or spiritual purposes. Knowing the origins of the Mother’s Milk he would have wondered what the powder was made of.

Erei’llat continued:

“An Entheogen mean the Generation of a God within oneself”

Erei’latt took a taloned finger and pointed it towards Fanat’s forehead.

“The Merging of God and Mortal”.

Fanat probably would have huffed at such heresy, but curiosity might have gotten its grip on him. Asking which God he was supposed to meet and what the powder was made of would have made Erei’latt laugh.

“Which God you meet is up to the Gods! It’s a gamble as all life is. And what the powder is made of. Surely you jest. You are of the Great Mother, you should know that your Milk is derived from her vanquished foe. And what was such foe? Blight! The Corpse Flower besieged this city and in his wake, this city was entwined with his vines, lichen and flowers. They fed on our nightmares and in doing so connected us to his dark dreams. When he was turned away such vegetation began to rot – but it did not disappear. We took such blighted plants, dried them and turned them into this refined powder. Taking a bit lets us see visions. Taking a lot makes us go mad. It takes a strong and learned mind to ingest and focus the inner sight to then find an audience with a god. A strong disciplined mind and A LOT of powder! So you got to win the game to get enough for a chance to meet god! Sounds like fun? This small amount is for your first ante – want to push your luck?”

Perhaps Fanat did – who knows who he might meet if he should happen to win? A vision matching the Seer’s own of the Mother? Or perhaps a more Honeyed hallucination?

[mystic1110]

Laughing Wolf sat uneasily at the table. He was much more comfortable with his bow and knife in the woods hunting for game or even, nowadays, in the various gambling halls and whorehouses of Kursaal managing his wife’s various businesses. However, this task was his and not hers – his cursed duty instead of her own curses for once. He was waiting for Iorwerth, the king of the Night Kingdom. Years ago, he hated the Night Kingdom for its role in the collapse of the Protectorate, but in the years since his anger had mellowed. The Cau themselves were conquered before his time by Swampum and now in turn Swampum was conquered by the Blessed Vale. The world of nations was much like the world of animals. It was eat or be eaten. There was always another predator in the woods and that beast was always hungry. Still, the tattered robes of the Homage had been bestowed upon himself and his lineage and he felt in his bones that his task during his remaining years on Kozhur was to somehow rebuild the Protectorate – to pay back the trust of the Uzii and Cau that had elected him into this sacred office.

Laughing Wolf sighed. It was not an easy task. Targiz had few allies and fewer standing troops – its only strength was coin and the mercenaries that it could buy. Yet mercenaries would not fight as hard as the loyal soldiers of the Night Kingdom would. No – the cycle for fighting over lost land had ended, at least in the lands east of the great mountains. That was the old Uzii way and that way had flown away on mysterious wings never to return. It was often said that peace would reign when swine flew; and they had, so Laughing Wolf gritted his teeth, acted against his nature and was now sitting down and being patient.

The Cau had been fractured in two parts, long ago. One half, the prosperous half, conquered by Uzii. The second, tattered and weak with infighting, fell to the Alqari during the final days of Kalm Alqar. There were celebrations when the two were made whole again after Iorwerth’s military campaign, a silent promise to end the warring and false lines drawn between them. The King steps in, flanked by two of his more elite guards. Young, arrogant, and analytical, he has made choices many would consider foolish for the sake of his distant family. Perhaps he will make another. Laughing Wolf stands up and raises his arms palms up to his side in the tradition of Targiz where he lived for so long.

“Greetings Lord Iorwerth, thank you for coming”

“Laughing Wolf, distant kin; it is good to be here, surprising though the invitation may be. The Targiz know comfort like none other.”

His host sits and offers the younger man a glass of wine, which he accepts.

“You’ve read my message. You had won Swampum and the lands of the Protectorate at great cost and hold them by right of Conquest. I will not argue this. However, I am the last Homage and a Cau Chief and those lands should be rebuilt under my line. The Protectorate did not bend until it broke, but my offer is to rebuild it but more willing to kneel. What say you?”

The half-elf stifles a laugh at first, glancing down at his wine and then back up to his host.

“Straight to business I see. . . This must have been on the mind for some time. It has been on mine as well, though the Kingdom has all but officially been promised to my sister Gwenn. You are of our blood, and no doubt fit to rule, but I have…”

He pauses, searching for the word,

“...Apprehensions at the thought of placing someone who I believe has no love for me in command of a recently conquered peoples. When I offered years ago to accept the Homage as ruler of the Uzii if they served as my military advisor, I do believe the response was to delve into the heart of my Kingdom and cause as many issues as the stars deemed possible - economic strain the likes of which it will take monumental effort to recover from.”

He shakes his head.

“There can be no Homage that holds land in my Empire, lest their fighting spirit be fostered against me. I can, however, strip you of that title and grant you the Kingdom that you so desire within my realm. You are family after all, and I know that none would see the Cau flourish as you would. It might be a fine solution, but not one without issues. When you pass, your children may claim to be outside of the Night Kingdom due to the land and title that your wife holds. Furthermore, were I in your position my loyalty would go to her a dozen times before a conquer-king. I have been convinced by Merine that Kursaal could be a worthwhile ally, but the tensions with the Sundom do worry me. Were I to offer some more formal protection to the Targiz, I believe that this would help abate my fears on both accounts, but I have been reluctant at best to suggest it for fear of insulting her honor. . . Please, I’ve spoken more than enough. Let me hear your thoughts.”

Laughing Wolf’s face is lined with the laughter from his youth and such lines seem lonely as no new ones join them; the man rarely laughs in his waning years. The burdens of history and duty murder mirth and instead he introduces crow’s feet and furrowed brows into the topography of his skin.

“As king you should understand pride – the Homages of the past had such in abundance, pride as fertile as whole fields of amaryllis. Such was their downfall. They could not bend, they could not forget a challenge, and they could not help but seek their own end with constant war. Reasons fell into their laps like fruit during harvest until they finally reaped their sowing. I know the histories and I know why the sacred office passed into Cau hands instead of the Uzii. The Snortmoot think Cau meeker, frightened deer instead of raging boars; and yet, in our supposed meekness they sought salvation. Honey instead of Bronze.”

Laughing Wolf frowns, a once foreign expression but now one more than familiar on his visage; his last spoken phrase made him think back to his cursed niece.

“I cannot forfeit the title of Homage. It was a consecrated trust placed upon me by the clan elders of the former protectorate and I will not betray it by abandoning it. The title was never meant to be hereditary although through nepotism and politics it had largely become so until it was passed into my hands in desperation. Through your power and patronage, we can take the opportunity to bind the title to my bloodline and yours – combine our families and strengthen the hold you have over conquered lands not only through legitimate might but through ancient tradition.”

Already he had spoken more than he normally did. How he wished Lowreth and he could have just met in the woods and joined a hunt together. A silent chase after a large animal could have bonded them more than words and wine ever could – at least that’s how he always thought men should be.

“Your offer would not dishonor my wife. But neither would it excite her. Nyctagina is a complicated woman – it is in not in her to rule lands other than her city and even then you don’t rule Kursaal. You just direct the gushing flow of commerce. The Odds-Mistress is more of a dam than a queen. My offer is through the covenant of my title and my title alone – but know this, she will support me. Her riches and wealth would spread through your lands and while I had my doubts, there is little that treasure and coin could not set upright. Rebellious hearts melt and hungry stomachs are fed. And you are a wise man – you know that the south, aside from a mad man decades ago, had ever feuded with the north. My wife, her city – just want to play their games and drink their goods in peace”

Iorwerth smiles as the tone lightens, listening intently. Though the Cau were conquered in both halves, but even they had great warriors and conquerors of old - if the tales of history has spun in another direction, perhaps they might have been masters of central Mamut under the First Clan or Warlord Ãwanri, but those were history by now. The young king knew well the desire to rule his birthright, the Sokau Tribes, and while his mission to reclaim those lands was recently accomplished, he could sense a matching desire from the man across from him. With a hand resting pensively on his chin, the rising sparkle of his eyes suggests interest in the compromises Laughing Wolf proposes.

"I will be honest, there is a lot that my realms might learn from you wife's mastery of trade. It is not so simple as training good men and managing relations, as I have unfortunately found." With a slight chuckle, he continues. "I actually did notice that my armies never met with Targiz mercenaries during the war that brought us to this position. I am thankful for it, while not oft spoken of, it was inspiring to know that even while at war we were able to maintain the bonds of family. A shame it is that the Deru have fallen to a pretender, but that is neither here nor there."

As the gaze of the king gently falls to the cup in his hands, he takes a moment further to mull over the suggested ideas.

"I suppose you can keep the title. It is a meaningful one, and not easy to earn. Passing it through blood would give me great comfort, to say nothing of the unity it might inspire in the people to have their Homage return. . . . If the Odds-Mistress would also enter the deal, I would be glad to grant you Cauplakai and cooperate with you both in making all our realms more secure and prosperous. Swampum itself I cannot give so soon nor so easily, but in time with devotion we might yet see it return to your hands. The stars know we could use one another's talents." With an easy grin, he takes another sip of wine. "Does this sound acceptable to you, Homage?"

Laughing-Wolf surprisingly found himself laughing and in good humor. Swallowing one’s pride was not as bitter when good wine followed – and besides he could see in his mind’s eye the path forward towards a rebuilt Protectorate.

“In the Targiz they accept contracts through an exchange of almonds and clovers. In the lands of my youth, we shook hands grasping as the elbows. In Swampum they spit into their palms and slap each other. Tell me my liege how do you bind yourselves in the Night Kingdom?”

Iorwerth placed the finished glass of wine down at his side and inclined his head to his new subject, the Homage of Cauplakai.

"Through the ceremonial joining of blood; it would be an honour to host you and yours in the Blessed Vale for such an occasion."

[Rolepgeek]

It was understandable, if annoying, that this Erei'llat mistook them for one of the Great Mother's Children, who even now spread through the city like venom from a wound, swept along and dispersed to every corner by the same heady heartbeat of the city which brought such wealth - and poverty - to its residents. Fanat had presented herself in her scaled form, distrustful of the murderous slinks skulking about in the shadows.

"Be you wary, old bird, to count me among the servants of the Alabaster Serpent so readily. Their form may be mine to borrow, their queen may retain my services, but I need no godly teat to suckle."

Though Fanat was repulsed by the unkemptness of this strange creature, the prospect of the game intrigued her. Even if she lost, what would she really lose? Some dust cultists used to try to meet gods?

Besides, already she could spy how to turn the odds towards herself. There were only so many cards in the deck, after all, and one knew their own cards in hand and the cards laid down by the others. Keep track of where the cards were - if you could - and place your bets accordingly, and you'd need far less luck than most to come away ahead.

She took a seat at the table carefully, still managing to loom over most of the players
"Deal me in, then."

[mystic1110]

Fanat is given a small amount of Powder from Erei’latt’s pouch and is dealt in with the other players in the next hand. The game started and Erei’latt flipped some over from his deck and calls out:

Scales! Ten Wins and Eight Loses!

He then proceeded to pay out and take from the players as appropriate. Fanat observed the game betting little through some hands and could see that their initial thought was correct. It was a game of pure chance but by knowing the chance one could bet strategically instead of counting on blind luck. Given the rules of the game, the seeming devastating nature of the game appeared to be the second bet. One could bet on any of the cards but the pay out was only half one’s bet initially. It was with the second bet on a winning card that the payout advanced seven fold, on the third fifteen fold and on the fourth even sixty fold! Also it seemed that the debts of the game did not end with ones bet - Erei’latt accepted promises of payment and with the glint in his black eyes Fanat could tell that he extracted them. This was a game that edged people towards ruin.

He placed his bet on a card of the Major Arcana. Given the distribution of a Tarot deck, the Major Arcana were essentially another suit – and since Fanat flipped over Minor Arcana previously, the chances that a Major Arcana would be a winner. He placed his powder on the cards of the Odds-Mistress, which appropriately symbolized change, cycles, fate, decisive moments, luck, fortune, unexpected events.

Erei’latt flipped more cards and Fanat won – but he decided to push his luck. Erei’latt grinned and said:

Someone is in a hurry to meet a god!

More cards were flipped and Fanat won again!

The game continued and while Fanat did not win every hand, he won more than he lost and he bet in such amount that he developed a small pile of powder. He asked Erei’latt:

How much of this Powder does one need to take to meet a God.

Depends on the person, but for you – I would venture to guess you need to win a three-fold bet more.

Erei’latt winked.

Fanat sighed, and respected the dealer’s gamesmanship and salesman tactics. He knew Erei’latt as not an insane cultist but just another man trying to get rich on fools.

Fanat bet it all on the card with the image of a laughing dragon – the Wyrm. While most thought of it as the card meaning oppression, addiction, obsession, dependency, excess, powerlessness, limitations, he always looked at it as the card meaning independence, freedom, revelation, release, reclaiming power, reclaiming control. Indeed it was this last thought that perhaps titled the odds in his favor and allowed him to meet a god . . . .

Erei’latt flipped over cards and Fanat won. Another card flip and another victory. The chances of winning thrice were vanishingly low, even with Fanat’s mastery over the statistics, and yet pushing his luck Fanat bet again.

Erei’latt flipped over another card and laughed! He took an enormous amount of Powder and handed it over to the victor.

Well then, show us one more gamble.

Fanat smirks and snorts the entire amount

As Fanat inhales the powder and looks at the laughing Harpy, he feels that nothing was happening. But then staring at the Tattered Dancer’s open beak he would see that the beak would remain open and that the gamblers around them were caught frozen in their actions. He would try to move but find that he could not, for it seems that while his mind escaped the confines of time, he did not. And in this timeless world, it is hard to measure how long he remained so separated from the river of motion – for thus separated one could see that time was just a race and when you stay still it runs on without you – without waiting or looking back.

Fanat began by counting, listing out codicils and amendments, provisos and modifications to the various employment contracts he had bargained for. He went through words and exceptions, definitions and references. After three such contracts reviewed, his disembodied mind was hungry. It was not connected to his body of meat and bile and nonetheless the mind was used to constant nourishment. All the mind could think of was its missing stomach. But after a while the hunger was so overwhelming that Fanat couldn’t think about it anymore, because he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been this hungry.

After twenty contracts, Fanat’s mind was dizzy. The mind was woozy with hunger, so starved that he was grasping for his own stomach just there in reach but could not even reach it. Did he even have a stomach? What was a stomach? What was a mind? Was his body a mind or was his mind the body? Did it matter?

After thirty contacts, Fanat thought himself air, just breath, just an organ for breath. He was annoyed that the mind still thought in terms of organs. Why did it need lungs? They’re just as treacherous as stomachs that refused to feed his consciousness. No, he was a fan. A flute. In, out, in, out, and on and on.

After fifty contracts – at this point reviewing, with his mind’s eye (again those metaphors. Why did he need eyes? They left with time and were probably getting drunk together in some bar in Kursaal with blasted Stomach), the same deals over and over - he wondered how had he not dissolved? How had he not vibrated into nothingness?

Seventy contracts, he tipped into the void. When he returns, if he returned, perhaps he would discard his body. From the outside, it looked too heavy. Perhaps he should discard it, and drift upward, weightless, into that place, one could only see when is using a air vent and closes their eyelids.

Ninety contracts, Fanat was attacked by lines and shapes without form or color, without regard to any aesthetic value except randomness. You stupid shapes, he thought over and over again like a mantra. ****ing lines he cursed.

ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY CONTRACTS LATER - he had a horrible sensation of being trapped, as if buried within stone, as if covered in mud. He was so light, so weightless, but he had nowhere to go; he felt like a firefly with its wings ripped off trapped in a dark wine jug being rattled by an infant.

He didn’t have five hundred contracts to review, so he reviewed twenty – twenty times. He became convinced that his freed consciousness had expanded to encompass the totality of life on Ember —the germination of the smallest flower to the eventual death of the largest tree. He saw bursts of color and animals that probably didn’t exist. He was not upset about time anymore. Let time run away with stomach and eyes and do whatever it is time wanted to do; he had traveled somewhere beyond time. What was the difference between finite and infinite? Time was not real. He had transcended somewhere and his mind took a leap and . . .

. . . landed on what appeared to be grey ice. Fanat looked around and realized that he inhabited a body again – he was in his crow shape – his talons were real. His stomach was real. His eyes, his feathers. He almost flew for joy when he looked upon the sky and saw that it was endless and grey. He looked around and only saw monochrome tones of a world bleached of color. Suddenly shunted into a corporeal body he realized that this too was not truly real – this was twilight.

But where in twilight. He tried to fly, but after so much contract review he felt unsure of his wings – he could barely walk or hop forward without falling. Too much time spent outside his body. Perhaps the mind and body need each other? Perhaps one was both instead of either? Perhaps one was the focal point between the two. Perhaps one needed to never do anymore drugs.

Moving forward somehow Fanat journeyed across the grey ice. Looking down he could perhaps see vague shapes that seemed like smoke, Smoldering wisps that caressed the other side of the ice, almost as if trying to seduce the ice to melt. Looking into the twilight sky Fanat saw a painted sun devoid of its life-giving essence and realized that any light in this world did not come from such caricature but instead from somewhere else. He shuddered. He had heard of the horrors of the so-called bright place. Better keep looking down. He thought he saw a scaled smile in the smoke below.

Eventually he seemed to find the center of the vast icy landscape. There in the center was apparently the Terrible God that he had gained audience. Fanat saw a group of three. There was an old woman, a goliath – dressed in white so pale that even in this landscape one could tell that there was no spot of dirt on her dress – a child, which from this distance, seemed to be just a child – and at their center was the Corpse Flower.

One does not travel to Mamut, let alone Targiz, without knowing the legends and descriptions of the Infamous God. Fanat was not defenseless, but he trembled – was the powder sending him towards his death? The God was enormous, the flower that was its head titanic and in its hands was a terrible rod almost as large as a tree and it burned black. Fanat edged closer to the group and then groaned as the rank smell of the God roiled over him. His newly re-found eyes watered but he found himself still pressing forward.

Suddenly a tearing sound split the air as the Corpse Flower split into two and made a mockery of Time and Space. Fanat newly arrived from his own experience beyond time tried to grasp the truth of this action but could not. The powered revealed the timeless truth to his mortal ken but he could only grasp onto it briefly. The God though swam in those timeless waters. As Fanat gingerly came closer he gasped in relief as the split God extended their hands into aether and tore holes in twilight beyond one which Fanat could only glimpse the impression of roiling ivory and the other he could only hear a distant clamor of many voices and the cackle of fire. The Gods stepped into their torn passages, the acrid smoke from their Gelid rods forming a thin line between them and then separately vanished, their rancid menace leaving with them as Fanat finally approached the remaining two.

Ffiona we have a visitor.

The old woman who spoke addressed the infant, which walked on its own. Fanat tried to take a step back but he was not entirely in control of his functions. The toddler was swaddled in a funerary shroud, slick with calcified honey and fouler things. Her eyes were green and from underneath and from within she cried slow drips of honey. She spoke, haltingly, her speech interrupted with spittle of syrup gumming up her mouth and bile being expelled.

Traveling Crow trespassing. Relates our story. Trespassers taken from. Enjoying laughing loving. Chained captured dragged.

The child walks closer and Fanat tries to face away, but it reaches out with its cold and sticky fingers to hold him firmly.

Wanting flight absconding.

The glare in the sky was all encompassing – the light from the Bright place seemingly getting brighter.

Enough, my Lords are not here.

Almost like a switch, the fact made the child let go of the crow in what could be seen as disgust. While the infant’s speech before sounded ancient and young all at once it carried a reconciliatory tone, now, however, Ffiona spoke sternly.

What Crow wants? Flying Lawyer Dealing. Negotiating Useful Contracts.

The Honeyed Child looks at Rose

Let us Oblige.

The toddle extends a hand and from underneath her nail slides out a dark wet shard of frozen honey. She gives this makeshift quill to Rose whom smiles and speaks to Fanat with a motherly voice happy to help.

Our time is brief so I know how much you would like to argue and counter negotiate, take this honeyed quill and with it, during your nightmares, we will solidify a contract that both parties shall be happy. We can give you power or truth, and you could offer strength or cunning. I am sure there will be something we can agree to give each other.

Fanat takes the honey quill in his talons as the white light from above washes away the old woman and the undead infant – his last vision of them was them turning away to look beyond into the expanse of grey ice. The white light bores into him and he screams and screams and finds himself waking up in his troll form back in Kursaal surrounded by iterant holy gamblers.

Erei’latt is looking down at him.

Welcome back! You were gone for a fair minute. So did you meet a god?

Fanat was disoriented. He felt like he had fallen from a great height. He found that his left hand was clenched. Looking at it and opening it he could see that there in his hand he held a stylus made from calcified honey. He smiled and replied to Erei’latt.

It appears that I did.

[Aedilred]

In Isarkatl's youth, the world had been confined to the red-skied horizon, and the largest settlement he had seen was a temporary camp in his rainforest home. That horizon had been broadened far in the last century, and Xem-Jeng Xeng dwarfed the villages of his childhood... but nowhere had the same reputation in his adopted homeland as Kursaal. It was an almost legendary place, at the far end of the world, somewhere few from Kiswa would ever see, a place of endless promise and opportunity.

He found it revolting and fascinating in equal measure.

He had never lost his distaste for the overwhelming sensation of so many souls dwelling so close together and the corresponding decrease in hygiene and personal space. The people here seemed to him like some kind of penned animal, living out their shortened lives in such close proximity, breathing each other's air, dwelling in each other's filth. But the opportunities such a concentration of individuals provided was unparalleled.

Ten days after his arrival, he awoke naked as the drink and drugs finally wore off. The only possession of his that remained was his sword, the rest lost... somewhere. It was of no consequence. So long as he had his sword, he could make a living. There was dried blood on the floor. He had a vague idea of someone attempting to take his sword from him, but given the state of his mind the night before, that could be either memory or simple delusion. If anything had transpired, it seemed the brothelkeepers had removed most of the evidence even if they hadn't cleaned the floor.

The women at his side stirred, but he pushed them away. Even if he still had the means to pay them, he had no more appetite for sex, and, now satiated, the suggestion of more somehow repulsed him, settling somewhere inside him as a self-loathing for his surrender to carnal instincts.

He grabbed the nearest piece of reasonably-sized cloth to hand and wrapped it around himself sufficient to pass as clothing, and then struck one of the girls with a blunt edge of his sword to wake her.

"Enough of this nonsense for tourists," he said. "Where is the real business of Kursaal conducted?"

[mystic1110]

Cook-Slab Leavehome was an old man and if there were, one word to describe him it would not have been patriot. Nonetheless, the collapse of the protectorate was an enormous opportunity for his criminal enterprises. The common people turned to him and his racket when their society and leaders failed them. In poverty, it was better to be exploited by the devil, you know than the devil you don’t and so Cook-Slab and the Leavehome clan unexpectantly became a shelter for much of the Uzii diaspora. Cook-Slab took to wearing a white coat and a white wide brim hat and smoking a thick roll of tobacco. The days of Cook-Slab the minor racketeer were long far-gone – he was Don Cook now.

The Don and all the power that came with such title was widely recognized by most clan heads now as a chief of a powerful clan – a chief that would have been present at the last Snortmoot where the Don would certainly not have voted for a filthy Cau. The fact that the last homage of the great Swampum Empire (the Don dispensing of the pleasantries of language and calling a duck a duck) was such a frightened deer-man that he would bend the knee towards the cause of the Uzii’s downfall infuriated the criminal mastermind. The fact that Lowerth and Laughing-Wolf had additionally conspired to cement the Homage title as a hereditary one was tantamount to betrayal. Not that the Don would have expected anything better from a yellow-tailed Cau.

For it was Don Cook’s dream to one day ascend to Homage and create a legacy for the often-disparaged Leavehomes as the saviors of the Uzii. In gambling halls and other dens on inequity, the Don and his nefarious associates plotted and schemed until they decided on a course of action that would surely strangle the alliance between the Targiz and the Night Kingdom while it was still in its infancy. Infant being the keyword.

***

Elsewhere young Wist was in a crib built big enough for a Goliath child. The crib was build longer than usual given that Wist had Cau’s horns but made large through his lineage. The toddler had a bright future ahead of him if he lived long enough to see it – he was a bridge towards a peaceful south, but even now that peace was threatened by elements beyond his innocent dreams.

***

As the young scion Isarkatl awoke groggily at the edge of the prostitute’s bed, his hangover was a poor indicator of the misadventure that perhaps laid before him. As he slapped the whore’s ass with his hilt he might have thought that he wanted to gamble with letters names or dreams, little knowing that he might be gambling with nations soon.

The harlot woke with a bleary yawn

“Business? Depends what kind . . .”

She turned in the sheets to look at Isarkatl and frowned. She didn’t quite know why she had agreed to sleep with him last night. Did he look richer in the dark? In the morning the young man was clearly in over his head in Kursaal – robbed of his clothes and belongings and with no means to pay her. As she furrowed her brow she thought then perhaps her pimp could figure out how to get her paid for the work she put in last night.

“. . . actually I know who you should speak to. Find Don Leavehome and he should be able to entertain you”

[mystic1110]

The Laughing Games

”Come to the Laughing Games!”

The criers on Kursaal’s street corners crooned.

”Men and Women take on challenges the likes of which were never seen before!”

Tourists and even the jaded denizens of the city perked up their ears and smiled at the latest circus and headed towards the Grand Stands, which were being used, for the season’s entertainment. The Odds-Mistress-To-Be has captured hundreds of malcontents and terrorists and has decreed that they become productive . . . members is the wrong word. They were to become products. The wheels of capitalism may make commodities of us all, but for the captured Mockeries, they were to become the very thing they seemed to always want to be: the entertainment.

The Grandstands are two stone rings surrounded by a mud track for Battle Toad racing and stone bridges leading from the outside in. Aste has all but one of the bridges destroyed and the mud track filled with water and vipers until it became an impenetrable moat. The center of the Grand Stands would usually contain the K-Ball fields, but the World Tour had just finished so Aste had no qualms over constructing a vast labyrinth for the Laughing Games. The labyrinth is then subsequently filled with all manner of exotic beasts and devious traps, each more horrific and inventive than the last. Whichever menagerie the Mockeries had once mocked now jeers at them from within the maze and the common folk, sitting on the stands, watching the elaborate executions as the theatre it is meant to be.

On the other side of the moat is a road cleared by the Kursaal guard sworn to Aste and past that road is a staircase leading to a dungeon where hundreds of Mockeries are held behind bars and in cages. Aste walking along a corridor in this prison speaks to the multitudes within.

”Curiosity is such a funny thing. You and I are two sides of a rolled dice. My grandmother rolled those dice and could not escape the allure of her flower. You rolled the dice and could not see a path other than the one laid out by your blighted lord. I rolled those dice and drank the Holy Milk. The whim of fancy makes fools of us all does it not.”

One of the Mockeries closest to Aste spits through the bars, the gob landing on Aste’s face. Titters are heard in the dungeon as the Mockeries mock the future Odds-Mistress. Laughter in the background. Aste frowns and wipes it off.

”You each have a chance of living through the Gauntlet, but that chance rises the more you tell me. Teach me or lead me towards the secrets of Alchemy and perhaps not only will you survive you will be ensconced in wealth and luxury. Regardless . . . “

Aste takes the knife that all Children of the Great Mother are obligated to carry and hurls it towards the Mockery that spat on her, the blade embedding itself in the man’s forehead.

“Who’s mocking who now”?

As the games commence, odds are taken based on the age and race of the various Mockeries who are forced to compete. Gamblers, this being Kursaal, delight in other events to wager on. The mockeries are led five at a time into the maze and as they run through the gauntlet, families on the stands take note of their achievement and even cheer some of them on. There are some fan favorite “rooms” as some of the obstacles come to be called. There is the Milk Puzzle, where the Mockery reaches a dead end and three doors and four bottles of white liquid on a table. There is a key in each bottle and the liquid needs to be drunk to reach it. One of the bottles is filled with Mother’s Milk and if the Mockery mistakenly drinks it they burn out from the inside to thunderous applause. A couple times a clever Mocekry might spill all the liquid only to advance to the next room and find out that they were filled with deadly spores taken from the Impact Zone in far off Sikar and that the other three bottles had the anti-venom necessary to survive.

There are rooms of Dire Hummingbirds trained to feed on blood, others of Fire Boar from Tarandi, and others with even stranger challenges still. Eventually, though there came to be Mockeries that were able to win and complete the labyrinth . . . only to find Aste waiting and asking them if they were ready to spill their secrets. At their refusal, they were rechained and sent back into the maze in special “Champion Challenges” where they compete with other such “winners” for their survival – and then subsequent “Grand Champion Tournaments” of winners of those ordeals. Needless to say the escalating torments were popular with the crowds.

The gambling wheel turns, turns, and wears them down. Grinding them to dust like chaff and wheat. Tormentors are tormented until they weep instead of laugh, beg instead of mock and until they tell the Odds-Mistress-To-Be everything there is worth telling.

[Tychris1]

”300 years old. I don’t think there’s enough candles in the whole building to count your sagging years, Ageless-Lion.” Merlyn gazed surreptitiously at the cake arrayed before them, red glowing eyes squinting in the twilight hours. Ageless-Lion stood beside them as did a handful of Blackguard Elves and Vultures. The streets of Kursaal were a dangerous place yet no road was more treacherous than the one the Agent of Ruin trod upon. Suddenly a short figure emerged from neath the heavy cloak that clung to Merlyn. A Ko of slight years, covered in white scales marred with soot or tar, and a pair of speckled green eyes that were just slightly too large for her face. She bowed briefly but noticeably, a swift swooping motion that caused her hood to flutter and the loose garments she wore to partition dances in the dark.

“My Ruinarch, are you sure vacationing in a city known to harbor Blight Cults is wise when we are already embroiled in such a civil war?”

“Nonsense. It is a time of celebration! My greatest champion should be rewarded on this his most-wait-Greatest champion. Wake up. When did you even go to bed in the middle of my…” Merlyn turned to the hulking mound of flesh sitting beside them and now snoring into a simple pie placed in an operose line of food. The Goliath chef, shaking in the corner, hadn’t seemed to cease their work since the Wyrm Sorcerer first browbeat him into beginning, and couldn’t actually remember the prices he was supposed to charge. Merlyn whaled on the dire lion with a single gloved hand. Seeing the futility of the effort Merlyn stuck a finger into Ageless-Lion’s skull and the colossal Woken suddenly stirred to.

”… I don’t know how I got here the first time and I do not know how I got here now….. Is that meat pie?”

[Aedilred]

Cook-Slab Leavehome was an old man and if there were, one word to describe him it would not have been patriot. Nonetheless, the collapse of the protectorate was an enormous opportunity for his criminal enterprises. The common people turned to him and his racket when their society and leaders failed them. In poverty, it was better to be exploited by the devil, you know than the devil you don’t and so Cook-Slab and the Leavehome clan unexpectantly became a shelter for much of the Uzii diaspora. Cook-Slab took to wearing a white coat and a white wide brim hat and smoking a thick roll of tobacco. The days of Cook-Slab the minor racketeer were long far-gone – he was Don Cook now.

The Don and all the power that came with such title was widely recognized by most clan heads now as a chief of a powerful clan – a chief that would have been present at the last Snortmoot where the Don would certainly not have voted for a filthy Cau. The fact that the last homage of the great Swampum Empire (the Don dispensing of the pleasantries of language and calling a duck a duck) was such a frightened deer-man that he would bend the knee towards the cause of the Uzii’s downfall infuriated the criminal mastermind. The fact that Lowerth and Laughing-Wolf had additionally conspired to cement the Homage title as a hereditary one was tantamount to betrayal. Not that the Don would have expected anything better from a yellow-tailed Cau.

For it was Don Cook’s dream to one day ascend to Homage and create a legacy for the often-disparaged Leavehomes as the saviors of the Uzii. In gambling halls and other dens on inequity, the Don and his nefarious associates plotted and schemed until they decided on a course of action that would surely strangle the alliance between the Targiz and the Night Kingdom while it was still in its infancy. Infant being the keyword.

***

Elsewhere young Wist was in a crib built big enough for a Goliath child. The crib was build longer than usual given that Wist had Cau’s horns but made large through his lineage. The toddler had a bright future ahead of him if he lived long enough to see it – he was a bridge towards a peaceful south, but even now that peace was threatened by elements beyond his innocent dreams.

***

As the young scion Isarkatl awoke groggily at the edge of the prostitute’s bed, his hangover was a poor indicator of the misadventure that perhaps laid before him. As he slapped the whore’s ass with his hilt he might have thought that he wanted to gamble with letters names or dreams, little knowing that he might be gambling with nations soon.

The harlot woke with a bleary yawn

“Business? Depends what kind . . .”

She turned in the sheets to look at Isarkatl and frowned. She didn’t quite know why she had agreed to sleep with him last night. Did he look richer in the dark? In the morning the young man was clearly in over his head in Kursaal – robbed of his clothes and belongings and with no means to pay her. As she furrowed her brow she thought then perhaps her pimp could figure out how to get her paid for the work she put in last night.

“. . . actually I know who you should speak to. Find Don Leavehome and he should be able to entertain you”
All these westerners had such silly names.

"Some kind of circus ringmaster, is he, with a name like that? Alright. Put last night on my tab." He wasn't entirely sure how that worked, but he'd heard that it was something you said in this part of the world when you didn't want to pay cash. He left the room without a backward glance and made his way to the saloon, where he approached the first person who looked like they knew their way around.

"I've been told to speak to a Dod Leafhobe. Where can I find him or one of his company?"

[mystic1110]

Isarkatl walks into the saloon and strides up to a Ork hoodlum known by the derogatory term Tusker. Tusker though reclaimed that term for himself so that made it OK, as he told everyone. Other Orcs rolled their eyes - they weren't going to let other races call them what they willed, but Tusker had a lot of work on himself left to do. Regardless, the Ork was busy speaking with other ne'er-do-wells and was shocked when the almost naked man prodded him.

"Hey now, I appreciate the courage it takes to come up to a complete stranger, but naw man, I don't . . . wait Dob Leafhoe? Who the hell is that? Wait, are you seriously asking for the Don? You're naked and asking for the Don by calling him a Dobber! Ha! Yo guys take a look at this naked dude. Wants to see the Don and bargain for some clothes. Freaking hilarious."

The assembly snickers towards Isarkatl. Tusker shrugged, if the guy wanted to get himself killed - who was he to stop him. Actually Tusker appreciated assisted suicide. There are many people that are suffering and he felt that if they wanted to take their own lives then they should. Who was he to tell them that suffering was better than death. If Isarkatl wanted to take extra steps in his suicide wasn't Tuskers place to disagree with the man's journey.

"You're lookin for the Don. With an "N" at the end. D. O. N. Don. And yeah, sure I'll show you the way. This I got to see."

Tusker gets up starts walking along the path towards Leavehome, but then stops.

Wait. You can't see the Don naked. We got to get you dressed.

Tusker diverges from the initial path and takes Isarkatl towards the garment district and the many tailors that exist there on the Don's payroll and under his protection racket. Entering one shop, Goblin-owned, Tusker yells for the owner:

"Hey! Raha! You here?"

A small goblin hops down from a messy assemblage of yarn, cloth and various hides.

Yes master Tusker?

You got to fix my boy up. I want him in the finest Battle Toad Suit and Wide Brim Hat before I take him to the Don.

The Don?

Yes, only the finest!

Eh . . .

Don't worry.

Tusker grins

My boy here will pay it back before he dies.

If Isarkatl would have said no, there was no time in the commotion and hectic activity before he was garbed in a tight fitting amphibian skinned suit and hat even given a cane with a strange symbol of a snake with two bars skewering it into two curves. Before he knew it he and Tusker were standing before an absolutely ancient Uzii dressed in white with thin black stripes running down it. The Uzii was liver spotted, fat rolls overflowing from his neck, his belly attempting to escape emerald buttons doing their best as goalers. The Uzii rasped

So you're the new Pimp?

Tusker cackled.

[Aedilred]

It was certainly kind of these people to sort him out with a new set of clothes, even if their tone seemed a bit sinister. But they were foreigners, after all, and he knew their customs and manner of speaking differed from home. Maybe they had just recognised him as an elf and finally decided to treat him with the appropriate degree of respect.

If any self-doubt penetrated his sense of superiority as he was ushered into the presence of the horrible Don Leavehome, it didn't show.

Isarkatl adjusted his hat as the Don spoke. The clothing was just as silly as everything else about these people, but it seemed reasonably well-made, notwithstanding the slight smell of dead toad from his jacket. He looked the repulsive old Uzii up and down.

"Not sure what you mean by that. My name is Isarkatl of Gevgutadagiti. You must be Dod... Do' Leavehoe. I was told you should be able to entertain me now that I've done all the usual visitor haunts."

[Ausar]

Arnfroy picked himself up of the damp dirt of the fighting ring and levelled a gaze at the last opponent standing, a scarred Uzii barely holding himself upright after the aberrant hero had thrown him bodily into the ceiling. Arnfroy knew he had to take a fall or two each day - a too-successful independent fighter quickly finds themself confronted with organised bodies, and killing too many enforcers would garner too much attention. It was his third week of wallowing in Kursaal, head beneath the waves of liquor, narcotics and sex he was trying to drown in. The Uzii roared and tried a last-ditch charge, twisting at the last moment to drop his shoulder into Arnfroy's ribs and gore at his throat. Arnfroy watched time pass in slow motion, grabbing the poor fool's tusks and lifting him by them, slamming his head down into the dirt and bending it back until his spine was showing where his throat should be. He wrenched the head up and threw it into the crowd, then meandered back to his cell, stepping over the piled bottles and collapsing into bed beside three dozing courtesans. He willed sleep to take him - his nightmares had been deepening with each day he spent in sin, each body he swiped from the dumping grounds of the fighting pits and consumed. If only he could use the living...

He awoke. The dream was getting clearer still, but the ending remained out of reach. He was lost, lost in a dark forest lit by just enough moonlight to cast deep shadows. The sounds of his fellows being torn apart by wild things, cries cut short as they fell into sudden yawning cracks and crevasses, and ever up ahead the sound of the monster, his goal, calling out. Run, it said, Run to Me. He stumbled on, even his supernatural body failing him. His markings, the bloody lines and patterns of endless rose petals that criss-crossed his body, they would not open in this hell. His thorns, his poisons, the vines, all were blocked by some facet of the mental torture he inflicted to Run in this dream, this nightmare. He could see up ahead, a clearing, the thinning of the trees, and in the centre something stood, alone. He found a final well of energy and spurred himself on closer, closer, so very close until he reached the treeline and burst into -

Daylight. The rays streamed in through the cell bars, burning at his bloodshot eyes. The courtesans were gone, and the last of the gems he'd brought from Bhaile-Koma with them. He could feel the frustration threatening to swamp him. He rolled out of bed and threw on the loose flowing robes that covered every inch of his body, shielding the sun and covering his scars. It was a brief walk to the underground pits, but someone important, someone dangerous, could always be watching. He skulked towards the pits, running half-crouched along the rooftops. He was about to leap down into the well and swim for the pit's trapdoor entrance when he saw them.

The birds. A falcon and a hawk were perched on the rim of the well, staring at him. He froze in place, crouched in the shadows at the base of a tavern's north wall. He stumbled over the words to an incantation, pulling back his sleeve to rake his pointed nails along his forearm, the drops of blood gathering in a small ball before him. He was about to launch the now-fully-formed dagger of red at the falcon when he felt a shiver run down his spine. He stumbled over his words and the dagger splashed to the ground, a harmless pool of crimson. He squinted at the birds, then his eyes widened. They were not perched on the rim of the well.

Clambering his way out of the well and strolling over to the stunned young Brythion was a familiar figure. Hair beginning to streak grey, ropey muscles still free of trace of fat, the talons of the two birds still digging deep into his shoulders Jofry glared down at Arnfroy.
"Nephew."
"Uncle."
"You're still in Kursaal."
"I need more time. I can nearly see it, I can almost reach Him, I just need a little more time. Please."
Jofry paused, looking from one avian watcher to the other. The Hawk slurred a three note call, descending, shrill and harsh. The falcon stooped, letting out a similarly shrill cry. Jofry raised an eyebrow, chirping back at them. Both took wing, circling once then beginning a spiralling dance back westward. He turned back to Arnfroy, still crouched in the shadows.
"Come."

They wound their way through the narrow streets, stepping over dice, bodies, refuse and all manner of shattered dreams until they reached a small alcove sheltering a smooth living wood door, high up a still-overgrown guard tower abandoned as the city walls had moved on. The birds were perched in the branches, and returned to Jofry's shoulders as he approached. The a face Arnfroy felt was so familiar but he just couldn't place formed in the door as the pair climbed the last few steps, and spoke.
"The Spark."
"Rayner."
"Enter, dear one."

The door swung open, face dissolving back into the wood, and Jofry stepped inside, the birds releasing him and soaring up to the high rafters. Arnfroy stooped his way in and stopped, taking in the room before him. Crafted with gentle, flowing curves at every turn, carpeted with woven branches and ever-youthful flower stems, flowers of all varieties growing from every wall, a small pool sending wending tributaries this way and that through grooves in the floor, it was a serene riot of colour. He could just make out a half-goliath young woman reading a scroll in the curve of a windowsill, but it was the towering figure at the centre of the room, sitting cross-legged by the pool, listening to the birdsong of a quartet of thrushes that demanded his eye. Not beautiful, but strong, fierce, imposing and assured she looked, yet at once so calm. When she opened her eyes he could see the wells of unspeakable kindness within, as they bored into his own that had for weeks been close to lifeless. Jofry walked over and kissed his wife, turning back to Arnfroy with a soft smile. Olea raised an eyebrow at her husband.
"He says he needs a little more time, love."
"Does he now."

[mystic1110]

Don Cook-Slab quickly realized that he was dealing with an idiot. Who else would somehow be brought before a criminal overlord and demand to be entertained; an idiot or a hero, and the Don had had plenty of dealing with heroes in the past – back when he was a young upstart – and looking back he would say the two words, hero and idiot, were essentially synonyms. Well, the Don thought as he smoked his fat smelly cigar, the smoke drifting around the room in thick lazy clouds, one could always make use of heroes and idiots.

A Pimp . . . eh, forget about that. You want to be entertained? I have a game for you. Let’s call it a Scavenger Hunt.

The fat Uzii clapped his hands and four other individuals walked into the room.

The first was a woman named Igaz who had a tattoo of a wolf’s head painted on her one face. The woman was well known among certain circles of Kursaal as a bounty hunter, finding debtors to sell to the night kingdom. She usually relied on planning and carefully detailed assortment of lures and traps to find her targets. She carried a multiple daggers on her person and she walks into the room practicing some knife tricks.

The second was a man named Ocirebi who was a usually seen handing out pamphlets written on various skins and yelling at the citizenry of a variety of conspiracies usually that involved the upper classes eating people. Given Kursaal ties to the Crimson Kingdom and its own Corpse Flower Cults, the various rumors did hold plenty of water, but the common people expected them and had long ago grown desensitized about such habits. Let them eat Soylet Cake was the general thought. Why was Ocirebi in the Don’s employ? Apparently various promises that if he wins the Don’s games he would finally be invited to some of these canablism parties – you know, to take them apart from the inside – or at least that’s what Ocirebi told people out loud.

The third was a rare sight from the south, one of the fffolkkk, a female turtle names Nnnaltttu, who wore a fishing net that she had once gotten caught in while swimming. She never took off the net, treating it as clothing bestowed to her by the sea, rotting fish still caught along with it which gave her a most putrid scent. The smell had attracted a small entourage of carrion birds, including some Tattered Dancer males – her harpy haram traveling with her on her back. The Fffolkkk woman was primarily a fortuneteller in the Kursaal Bazar, but did send her haram out to make sure that her predictions of misfortune came true.

The fourth was a man named L’tacehe a young man who had failed to even be accepted to the Trials of Iron held by the Sentinels. While he styled himself a warrior, the truth of the matter was that his parents were extremely wealthy. L’tacehe would brandish his sword at those he felt wronged him, but it was his gold and jewels that made doors swing open for him and luck fall his way – that is until he tried to cheat Leavehome.

The four joined Isarkatl in standing before the Don who spoke.

There is a Child in Kursaal. They call him Wist. The one bring this child to me shall have all debts forgiven and paid back as reward. The rest of you will be killed. Think of it as a bloody race.
The Don takes out a staff a hits a bronze symbol by his chair that lets off a deep an onerous GOOOOOONNNNNNGGG.

No one moves.

Well got on with it!

Igaz, Ocirebi, Nnnaltttu and L’tacehe begind to run to opposite doors as the race started leaving Isarkatl to decide if he will join the race and if he does, if he could win?

[mystic1110]

Interlude

The Dolod held out his paw to signal to the barkeep for another drink. He had perfect memory so he knew exactly how many drinks he had before this: too many. He sighed . . . you know how when you purge after a night of debauchery and you feel like your throat and stomach personally hate you? Do you recall that moment? Absolutely not, your mind has too much mercy and similarly purges that purge from its memory. Now think of how it would feel like to recall that moment of regurgitation perfectly and always. Makes a Dolod want to drink that's what it does. The poor Dolod drank to forget that he could not forget drinking as much as he did. It was a vicious cycle.

The bar was full of these Dolods. In fact this was the "BARAB", known in neighborhood as the Dolod bar. Not every Dolod in it was an alcholic. Some where the usual bookkeepers, useful in the Kursaal banks and vaults. Others were taking a break constructing a Sanctum in the local apocalypses known as Ruin. Others were still conspiring of building a further Sanctum in the far forests of the Congress of the Honeyed Child. Lots of Sanctum Builders - not easy work, made one want to drink . . . . Other Dolod were just priests of the True Dawn joining the local scene of preachers and holy men. Kursaal was known to change faiths every year so they seemed to want to place their own wagers on the table.

Either way, the bar was filled with the creatures in a various stage of inebriation. One Dolod turned to another and asked:

Have I ever told you the story. . . .

The other rolled its eyes, irritated.

Yes. Sun's Curses yes. You know you told me the story, and I remember you told me the story and we all know the story. Sun Damn it!

The first Dolod downed another cup of wine.

You could humor me you know. Just cause you know and I know you could be less of an *******.

You know everything about me and recall perfectly how I would react to your asinine story, you know I'm going to be an ******* about this.

The first Dolod asked the barkeep for more flower wine and said:

Maybe I hoped the Sun would have put you in a better mood

The other Dolod was also now drinking

I can't be in a better mood I'm hungover

Hungover? You were working in the Sanctum yesterday.

We've had this conversation before, you know that I was hungover two months ago and still remember feeling like **** which makes me feel like **** now!

So you're telling me you're going to be an ******* forever now?

Probably.

Both Dolod Drink.

[Aedilred]

Isarkatl watched as the other competitors raced for the exits, momentarily perplexed. He had no idea what was going on, but, he reasoned, this is the sort of thing he was after: a life-or-death chase.

A quick look over the others suggested that Igaz was probably the most competent of them and the most likely to reach the target first, but that was presently secondary. After checking what direction the bounty hunter took off in, he changed course and headed after Ocirebi.

Isarkatl's new suit made concealment in the alleys almost impossible, but he didn't mind his quarry knowing he was on his tail. Taking pleasure in the hint of panic as the agitator turned a corner and hauled furniture and refuse in his path to try to obstruct him, Isarkatl grinned and vaulted over it with contemptuous ease...

... only for his ankle to be grabbed almost in mid-air. Somehow he stuck the landing, not neatly, but without injury. Shapes lurched up from the dank corners of the alley, and he saw that Ocirebi had stopped, panting with his hands on his knees and smirking as his beggar allies came to his aid. Four against one, suddenly.

It was a mistake.

As the first beggar lunged at him, Isarkatl seized his shoulder, pulled, twisted, struck down with his cane, and moved forward without so much as looking, ignoring the howl of pain behind him as he transferred his cane to his left hand and drew his black iron sword. There were few men who could match one of the Sirrvadut for speed or savage strength and the other two beggars had barely found their feet before Isarkatl was upon them, stomping on ankles and knees, and raining down blows with both weapons to the glorious sound of cracking bones.

Ocirebi had only just processed what had transpired before him before Isarkatl had bundled him against the wall, the moaning remnants of the beggars left behind him. The cane was across his throat, the point of the sword to his stomach.

"Who is this Wist the Dod has asked for?" Isarkatl hissed. "And what does he want with him?"

[mystic1110]

Ocirebi had peed himself.

Leeettt me me go . . . I'm a man of the people! The people!

The words coming out fast and stuttering.

You can't kill a man of the people! Whose going to tell the people about the aristocrats eating ba . . babies! Babies! They eat babies! The people got to know!

The beggars groaned in the background.

Are you part of the bourgeoisie? Is that why you hurt the beggars! The . . . they are just simple city-dwellers. These are people of the gar . . . Garbage. The common filth of Kursaal! You know...

Ocirebi trailed off as he found himself rambling and Isarkatl's steely gaze unwavering.

Dob?

Yellow was not the only color his pants had become.

You mean the Don? He's going to kill me now isn't he. OH No! He's going to kill me!

A couple of good slaps from Isarkatl and Ocirebi was talking straight again. He ventured his best guess.

The beggars told me that Wist is the Odds-Mistress's grandson. I don't know why the Don wants him. Perhaps he wants to blackmail the Odds-Mistress?

He paused and the fear returned to his eyes. He grabs Isarkatl by his toad skin lapels.

You got to save me! The people need me!

[Aedilred]

Isarkatl wrinkled his nose in distaste at the smell, but the talk of baby-eating had caught his attention. He didn’t really understand why the man was so upset about that, even if personally, he preferred older meat that had had time to develop a bit of flavour, but he had seen enough of the world to know not everyone shared an elven sensibility on this subject. He glanced over at the beggars.

“They'll live. Probably. But if you want to actually make a difference, do exactly as I tell you. And you might even live through the night, if we’re lucky.”

He relaxed slightly, still not allowing Ocirebi enough room to escape, but giving him a bit more room to breathe.

“I need you to find a dead child. A fresh one, about the same age as Wist. You say the rich eat children, so if what you say is true they must have a supplier somewhere and you must have an idea where or who that is.”

He rolled his eyes at the look on Ocirebi’s face.

“We’re not going to hurt it. One that’s already dead and however sad that is whatever happens to it now is better than something happening to a live one. We’re trying to save a child, not harm one.”

He stepped back, keeping the point of his sword levelled at Ocirebi’s belly.

“Meet me back here with the body as soon as you have it. Don’t bother trying to run. If Leafhoe doesn’t catch you, I will. And if you think about double-crossing me, you’ll wish he had got to you first.”

He turned away. “I’m going to see to the rest of the plan,” he said, then looked back.

“Oh, and change your trousers.”

[mystic1110]

While Isarkatl went off to see to the rest of his plan, Ocirebi scampered off to find a dead baby. Luckily he knew exactly where to go. He had to go to a restaurant.

The restaurant catered a new food that was becoming extremely popular, it was a sort of flat bread covered in cheese from Rhödödendräk. Ocirebi wasn't a huge fan - he felt that the meal was too rich that it needed some sort of acidic profile, preferably as a sauce; also a pop of color - red perhaps and maybe a green herb of some sort as a contrast. Instead the bread and cheese was just so much gooey whiteness that the up and coming chefs prepared by placing on long wooden boards and then shoveling inside brick ovens that in a city that had inspectors would have been demolished. The food was called Za' and it was the product of placing a bunch of desperate immigrants together in a small confined area and seeing what happens.

Regardless, the Za' restaurant that Ocirebi had in mind had a basement where an older female elf, who escaped the collapsing Crimson Kingdom, was known for being the chief supplier of Long-Veal, as sentient baby corpses were euphemistically called by those in the know. That is baby corpses from sentient corpses, not that the corpses were sentient. The elf's name was Heulwen-Raewyn, an unusual hyphenated name that spoke of some Targizian roots in her past. She usually went with the nickname HR. HR was a a sever looking woman with long horns born from her eating habits and short blond hair. The basement was set up sort of like a butcher shop in that there was a counter and a line and people would place orders and HR would go into the back and emerge with a brown bagged object which she would hand over for coin.

When Ocirebi, piss and poop filled pants and all, the place was thankfully empty except for HR. HR immediately narrowed her eyes upon seeing Ocirebi. The man wasn't her mortal enemy but he was a huge nuisance - picketing her shop and the Za' restaurant above - which, looking back, just meant free advertising. Regardless, the man was annoying.

What are you doing here. Also why do you smell so bad?

Ba Baby Baby he stuttered.

Yes Baby. Long-Veal. Whatever. You know what I sell. What cut do you want? Back Ribs?

Ba Baby Baby

You hypocrite just tell me you want a baby.

Ba Baby Baby he held out his hands to indicate a whole baby.

Ah, Gotcha. If you're going to break your principles might as well go all the way eh.

Ba Baby Baby

You have money?

Ba Baby Baby

Ugh, never mind. I'll give you a baby if you promise to never set foot in this part of town again.

Ocirebi vigorously shook his head in agreement. HR shrugged and went into the back to pick out her worst dead baby - still fresh, she had standard, but she wasn't going to give out her fairest fattest baby for free - and wrapped it up in brown hide and came back out to give it to the pathetic activist.

Here you go. I hope to never see you again.

Ocirebi, once again, vigorously shook his head in agreement, and started to take off to meet Isarkatl when HR called back out to him

Oh, and change your trousers.

[Aedilred]

On the trail of Igaz, locating Wist turned out to be rather easier than Isarkatl had expected. After tracking her to the child's location, Isarkatl was unsure whether she was even aware she was being followed. As he put his hand on the door to Wist's chamber, however, that question was immediately answered as a knife flew at his head. Only his elven reflexes saved him.

The ensuing fight was not one that either of the participants was likely to be proud of. After an initial exchange of blows, the two tripped each other and fell to the floor, grappling and trying to stop each other from getting at their weapons. The ungainliness of the struggle was partially mitigated by the absence of anyone able to see them. Hopefully.

Igaz got on top of Isarkatl with a hand on top of his face, making a token attempt to claw at his eyes but really just using it for support as she tried to reach for another dagger. Isarkatl sunk sharp teeth into her hand, and she yelled in pain as she tried to withdrew her arm and fell, allowing him to twist on top of her. Finally having achieved the upper hand, he threw punch after punch at her head and chest until she stopped resisting.

He stood up and drew his sword. "Leafho wants you dead and I need you dead," he said to her, though unsure if she was even still conscious. "So you can get out of Kursaal and I'll tell the Dod you were killed, or I'll finish the job here and now."

He looked around for Wist. "Now where's this baby everyone is so fussed about?"

[mystic1110]

Igaz was conscious but clearly concussed, her eyes were unfocused she slurred when she spoke.

Leaf Bow?

Her last words before she slumped back down to the floor asleep, her face already swelling up to become something unrecognizable.

Isarkatl, looking around the room which Igaz had scoped out, would notice its finery. Seems that Ocirebi wasn't lying when he said that the Baby was related to the Odds-Mistress. Whoever owned this joint was clearly loaded. What was unusual was that for such a wealthy household there were no guards or servants around. Where were they? Pushing those thoughts aside Isarkatl stepped further into the room to find the crib. There was a toddler there - a huge toddler - if HR got her hands on the baby there would have been enough Long-Veal for days if not weeks. The child turned it its sleep the confrontation with Igaz not having woken him. Isarkatl tried to pick Wist up, but the large moose-like horns that sprouted from the top of his head caught the edge of the crib and Wist opened up his eyes; they were brilliant green. He smiled that fat smile of babies and squealed in delight as he reached out with his fat fingers and stuck one into Isarkatl's nostril.

Then he burped and vomited on Isarkatl's new suit. Then he laughed.

[Aedilred]

This was going to be more of a challenge than he had thought, but he still had some ideas. The first thing was to get the child out of here before any of the others showed up. Doing his best to soothe the gurgling infant (something which did not come naturally to him) he gathered up not only Wist but the baby’s bedclothes and any other accoutrements of the cot that looked expensive.

He wrapped the baby up sufficiently tightly that it couldn’t meaningfully struggle but covered as best he could so as not to attract too much attention and raided Igaz’s prone body for some petty cash, a knife, and straps for ease of carrying.

“Who’s a good baby?” he asked, somewhat unconvincingly. “Coochy-coochy-coo.”

As unobtrusively as possible, he made his way out of the house. He did not whistle nonchalantly, but it felt like he could have done.

Next stop, an abbatoir.

He arrived at the meeting-place with Ocirebi carrying Wist in one arm and somewhat awkwardly managing his cane and a bag containing a goat’s head (which he was sure he’d overpaid for, but lengthy haggling would have been too much of a risk) in the other.

“You actually found a baby?” he asked, as he saw Ocirebi's ashen face, and lifted the gurgling Wist. “Here’s the one we were supposed to get. We swap their clothes and tell the Dod that this one is the one he was after.”

Ocirebi’s baby was rather smaller and scrawnier than he had hoped, but it was better than nothing. With any luck, the Uzii boss hadn’t actually seen Wist in the flesh and wouldn't look too closely at the corpse he was delivered.

He saw Ocirebi looking at Wist’s head. “Of course, it won’t be just the clothes we have to change. That’s what this is for.”

He lifted the goat’s head. “You might want to look away. This could be gruesome.”

[mystic1110]

While Isarkatl was busy dressing up one baby in the clothes of another the rest of Don Leavehome's contestants were making their move. The one the plot focuses on at the moment is the turtle mystic Nnnaltttu.

Nnnaltttu did not so much rush out of the Don's quarters with the others except slowly saunter back to her stall in the Grand Bazaar that snakes its way through the alleyways of Kursaal. The smelly fffolkkk woman believed that however fast the rabbit ran it would eventually get caught in the tortoise's net. And so she sat down at her stall and began to read the fortunes as she would usually do - except this time she read Wist's fortune.

She turned over the first card.

The Odds-Mistress. Meaning change, cycles, fate, decisive moments, luck, fortune, unexpected events. Of course there is Wist's own relation to the actual Odds-Mistress which could not be discounted.

She turned over the second card.

The Corpse Flower. Meaning illusion, intuition, uncertainty, confusion, complexity, secrets, unconscious.

Interesting. She contemplated these results and though about what it could mean. There will be a twist. The Corpse Flower always represented a twist in the reading. Which meant either that the Wist that she would find would be a Fake . . . .

She turned over the final card.

The Wyrm. Meaning only Destruction.

A Fake Wist that would bring ruin to the one who held him. Obviously, a creative reading, but Nnnaltttu smiled lethargically. And snapped her fingers. Suddenly a flurry of male Tattered Dancers arrived - their matted feathers falling on her rug.

Fiiiinnnnddd thhhheeee othhhherrrs, taaaaiiiilll thheeeem. I waaaannnnt thhhheeeee reaaaallll boooooy. Kiiiiillllll whooooo hoooolllds thhhheee faaaakkkeee.

As always in the fortune telling profession it is good to have insurance. When you are uncertain about your readings you should always ensure that they become correct as fast as possible. Nnnaltttu's Harem of Harpy husbands pecked at the dead fish caught on her net and then ran and flew in separate directions throughout the city to make of her instructions as best that they could. Something about killing.

[Aedilred]

Isarkatl strolled back to the Don's base of operations holding a bundle in his arms.

"Tell the Dot I'm here to see him and I've got what he asked for," he said to the muscle on the door. A twitch of a blanket revealed that the bundle was a baby, or at least had been. The child's head was in ruins, having been stoven in by some heavy blow, and the whole scalp and face were caked with dried blood, brains and other gore. But amidst the horrifying spectacle were two horns protrucing from the child's skull.

Earlier

His grisly task completed, Isarkatl wrapped up the substitute baby in one of Wist's blankets and discarded the goat's head. He turned back to Ocirebi.

"I'll take this one to the Dog and tell him that this is the one he's after. In the meantime, you hang on to that one and make sure no harm comes to him. We're not the only ones looking for him, so stay out of sight. Meet me back here at sundown, or if you get trapped, send someone to let me know. And if I don't show up... I guess ransom him back to the Oddsmistress. She might be able to get Leafhobe off your back. You never know, you might even be able to get her to shut down those baby-eating joints you're worried about as a reward for finding him."

"Oh, and it goes without saying, if you double-cross me..." he drew his finger across his throat and made a squelching sound.

[Rolepgeek]

Dobonhonkeros cannot curtsey, but he is able to bend until the end of his snout touches the ground before Aste, that beacon of glory he hoped to earn the hand of here. His garb is worn, but well-suited for the clime surrounding Kursaal.

"I am Dobonhonkeros Lhungho, born to Khonraangru Lhungho, and nephew to the Prophet-Queen of Lhungho Saar. I come before you now so that I mi- so that - hoping t-to-" He struggles to get the words out, so heavy in his chest do they sit. He bites his tongue to focus, and as the taste of blood coats the inside of his mouth, he manages to proclaim: "I hope to court you, Ank’Anske’Thalez’ir Asteracea, and earn your hand in marriage. Will you permit this?"