She always knows where to look to find you. Youâve holed up under the canal bridge where you usually go to read, sheltered from the ever-present rain by the sturdy smooth-hewn stone above and the palms surrounding the base. Today, though, you donât have any books, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain and twisting your dark reddish-brown hair into and out of a braid.
Thereâs a rustle, and her hand separates the fronds that block you from view. **** looks up, brushing damp mahogany hair out of her face, and seems momentarily relieved to have found you before her face turns uncharacteristically serious again.
â*******,â she says, softly. âI need to tell you something.â
You bite the inside of your lower lip, bracing yourself, and look up at her, not quite meeting her eyes.
**** looks like sheâs waiting for you to say something, but then gives an almost-imperceptible shake of her head, and sighs. âFatherâs worried about me,â she says, âwith war so close. He says itâs high time I entertained suitors, anyway. Weâre leaving for Greyfalls.â
You should say something, but what is there to say? You knew was comingâthat there was no future for the two of you. It was just a matter of when the axe would fall.
After a moment, **** walks over, to flop down next to you on the riverbank. âYour mother will lose her mind if you ruin that dress,â you say, finally.
**** rolls her eyes. âReally? Thatâs all you can say about it?â
You shrug, folding your hands in your lap. âI just⊠What can we do?â
âOne thing,â says ****, covering your tanned hands with her fair ones. âRun away with me.â
âWhat?â You jerk back involuntarily, almost banging your head on the bridge above. âWhat, no. We canât.â
âYou and meâbetween the two of us, weâve always been good at taking care of each other,â **** goes on, breathlessly. âWe can make it. Go to some other country where no one knows us, or to Chiaroscuro. Or the Blessed Isle! But I canât protect you here anymore.â
It feels like your heart is going to beat out of your chest, like youâre standing watching pebbles peel off from beneath your feet at the edge of a cliff. It almost feels like someone will catch you.
But then your motherâs face flashes before her eyesâstern, steely, disappointedâand it feels like youâre already falling. All her hopes she pinned on you, her disappointing firstborn, everything sheâs given you to help you fill the shoes of the family legacy. Your brother, who would have much rather been in your place, watching you carefully from the high windows of the temple.
All your ancestors, for generations and generations, serving dutifully, and then youâall it takes is one word to sever that long unbroken line. Just one.
You canât say it.
She cries and she screams and you feel like youâre going to throw up, caught between the immovable object of your family and the unstoppable force of the person most important to you. You canât even come up with a good argument; itâs just that, when it comes down to it, youâve never resented your family for the pressure theyâve put on you. Itâs yourself you resent.
In the end, **** storms off, long braid whipping behind her as she elbows her way back through the palms and into the now-pouring rain. You make a half-hearted attempt to follow, near-slipping and scraping your head on the bridge as you go, but what can you say that will change anything? What can you offer?
Her family leaves the next week. You donât say goodbye.
Notable:
Shrike is from a rainy, tropical country that seems to have a canal system.
She looks like she might be in her late teens or early twenties in this memory.
In this memory, she has no scars and is less weathered, her hair is a dark reddish-brown, and her skin is tanned like she spends a lot of time outside.
This isn't your homeâyou'll never go there againâbut the climate is familiar, the hot summer air thick with moisture. It's a stale sort of humidity, though, the kind that brings with it mildew and rot. Just enough to cover up the metallic smell of blood.
You could almost call it peaceful here, next to the clouded, still waters of the lake. A calm after a storm, perhaps. When you hear the intermittent screams of the dying, they're distant and quickly over. The overcast, smoke-choked sky casts everything in a soft greyish light. It'll rain soon; your scars always twinge when it's on its way.
Here in the quiet is where you like it bestâno eyes on you, no crushing pressure squeezing at your heart. All thought slips away into the gentle undertow of Oblivion, your presence like a transparent shadow passing through the world.
Duty remains, though; you can't stay here forever. With a sigh, you pull your sword from the soft ground next to you that you planted it in, shaking off the dirt and blood still clinging. The blade is long and keen, and the dark surface glints with a shifting, oily sheen; it feels comfortable in your hand despite its heft. You're about to sheathe it when a sound catches your attention.
In the reeds, movement. You tilt your head, and step lightly across the ground; in your heavy armor, there's little need to be worried about surprises. Gently, you part the tall stalks along your path toward the source of the noise.
The man isn't much older than you, and he never will be; one leg is twisted at an awkward angle, and you know well enough what it sounds like when breath won't quite take. Curled in his arms is a small boy; his black hair is stuck with sweat to his face, but he doesn't stir at all.
"Youâ" the man bites out, his voice a wheeze. His eyes can't quite focus on you. "Please, whoever you are, have mercy... my brother..."
Gently, you smile, and nodâand then in one quick movement you drive the sword directly through his chest. He gives one last gasp of surprise, and then the light in his eyes fades as he joins his brother.
You sheathe your sword and bend to close his eyes just as the first drops of rain begin to fall.
Notable:
Shrike looks a little younger, but closer to her current appearanceâher hair is stark white, and her skin is pale.
"Hereâyou don't have to worry about me. I know you won't hurt me, but I want to learn."
**** puts up her fists in an approximation of a fighting stance, brow furrowed in complete seriousness. She's tied her long dark hair back in a simple braid, every inch the warrior except for the stiff, expensive fabrics her parents dress her in.
You inspect her stanceâher delicate wrists, the lines of her arms. "Erâhere," you say, and gingerly push her arms up until her fists stay in front of her eyes. "I'm not going to be as good as a real teacher, but they're always saying to keep your hands up, protect your face. It's got a lot of important parts to it."
"All right," says ****, her face drawn into serious lines. "Wellâcome at me."
"I'm going to go slow. To start with, anyway. Just block, and then, uh..." You try and remember how your tutors phrased it. "And then return to protecting your core."
You aim a wide outside swing at her right side, and she raises her arm to blockâa little too hard, and you both end up shaking out your arms from hitting a nerve wrong, laughing the whole time.
"Let's, um, try that again," you say.
She's good, thoughâgraceful and quick, for a beginner, and faster than you, even when you speed up the exercise. "You're picking it up fast," you say, when you break to catch your breath. "Are you sure your parents wouldn't at least let you learn self-defense?"
She shakes her head, her mouth twisting. "They say it's safer for me to not concern myself with such things. That there's no need for me to, when our noble status is unquestioned and there are others whose role it is to protect."
You shrug. "He's not wrongâ"
"*******!"
"âsorry. I just wish... I don't know. That we'd been born under each others' stars." You flop down under the shade of a broad-leaved tree, where **** left the books she'd brought for you. "But there must be a reason for it."
"Hmph," says ****, smoothing her sarong and coming to sit down next to you. "Maybe, but I don't want to protect myself. I want to be able to protect others, like you're learning to do. I want to protect you."
A jolt through your heart like a shock, like the spear of the god of love hitting its target. You take the top book from the stack, and set it on your lap. "See, that's why I've got to work harder. It's irresponsible of me to have to rely on you, like that."
**** punches you in the shoulder. "You know what I mean," she says, and rests her head on your shoulder. You wonder if you do know what she means, butâthat tone of voice means accept it, you dummy, and you'd do anything for her. So you smile, lean back against the tree, and crack open the book, for a moment letting yourself forget about what you ought to be doing and who you ought to be.
Notable:
The girl from this memory is the same girl from memory 1, but both she and Shrike are a few years younger.
The air in the war room isn't what you're used toâevery time you've been in a planning tent, it's been exhaustion and tension and guesswork. Here, in this expensively-decorated boardroom, with its rich silk curtains and intricately carved wooden motifs, it's all business.
You feel out of place, honestly, even though their generals go out of their way to make room for you in conversationâto treat you as an equal. Maybe that's why you feel out of place; you still hardly feel like you should be here. It's true that in your dark armor of light-leeching metal and scarred face, you cut an intimidating figure to soldiers who rarely approach the front lines of battle, and in the absence of your master, you command what respect he would. They nod attentively as you push tokens around the map, instructing them on where to best place their forces to complement your own.
What discomfort you feel, though, vanishes under the comforting murmur of faraway voices, pitter-pattering across your consciousness like light rainâa reminder that all of this is merely temporary. That in but two months time all of these people will be dead, their dreams of expansion and empire a ghostly memory, their war a lesson in hubris. Your master does indeed have plans for them, as he saidâit's just that those plans are more in the way of a funeral pyre.
You'd rather not, to be honest. You don't like drawing things like this out. Your one colleague here is in agreement, albeit for slightly different reasons; he says as much at the next break, when he emerges scowling from his position wedged into the corner.
"This is a waste of time," *** **** mutters, twirling an unsheathed dagger between two fingers, and you dimly reflect that you'd made him leave all of those in your rooms. Apparently you'd missed one. "If I'd have known that I was signing up for more toy soldier bullshit instead of a real bloodbathâ"
"You'd have gotten sent here all the same," you remind him.
He turns the blade to pick at his teeth. "We could kill all of them right now. It'd be easy. The Walker doesn't need all these mind games he's so fucking intent on playing."
You a little bit just want to let him have his wish, for all that all of this would feel less dishonest. But no; you know your orders, and you know your job, and whatever else you've been, you've always been patient. You shake your head. "You know that's only part of the goal," you say. "Now keep an eye out. You know what your role is in all of this. All you have to do is play it."
He groans. "I forgot you liked being a toy soldier," he says, rolls his eyes, and goes back to sulk.
No matter. You go back to your map, the rosters, the supply manifests, and quietly continue planning the beginning and end of a war.
Notable:
Shrike looks much closer to her current appearance here, with most of her current scarring and the white hair and washed-out skin.
Her... co-worker? is a dark-haired man with thin, bird-like features, slight reddish streaks through his hair, and a sort of sallow look to him.
Your lacquered armor sits heavy on your shoulders as you shift uncomfortably among the crowd of young soldiers gathered. Summoned air elementals keep the room cool, but that just makes you feel clammy from nerves.
Everyone knew promotions were coming, between a couple disastrous raids from Mt. Metagalapa killing several of the highest-ranked and best loved commanders in one swoop and the plus the Assembly's approval of more defense resources. But you had been sure you wouldn't be calledâand so had everyone else, judging by the looks you'd gotten when soldiers had been called from the barracks this morning.
You still had your doubts that this wasn't something else entirely. A reprimand? But, no. Here are assembled the best of the lower ranksâand you, and the legion commander with the esteemed Sister Ascendant Crane of the Immaculate Order at her shoulder.
The commander is a brief, efficient woman with her hair pulled up into a tight bun and dark circles under her eyesâthe sort more at home in the field than here, under the sloping polished red-and-gold painted roof of the administration office, the carved statue of Yesyrk, the longtime local guardian deity, looming over her. You find yourself sympathizing. "I imagine none of you are surprised by this," she says. "We're in need of good officers, and we've seen traits among you that might someday get you there.
"None of you are readyâdon't think you are," she goes on, "but you'll need to be, before long, and we intend to make sure you succeed. Each of you will be in charge of a fang of soldiers, and exercises with them begin tomorrow. You'll see the quartermaster after this, and speak with the drill instructors."
Sister Crane puts a hand on her shoulder, with the gentle questioning expression of asking if she might speakâas if she needs permission. The commander clears her throat. "Sister Ascendant Crane wishes to address you, also. Heed her words as the guidance of the Dragons."
"Thank you," says Sister Crane, the sleeves of her realm-style robes sweeping behind her as she steps forward. She's striking, and despite her soft features and her artfully-arranged silky black hair, has a fundamental gravitas. "Thank you, Commander, and thank you, our newly-minted Fang-Leaders. This is a time of great uncertainty and strife, and it will take great courage to rise to the occasionâbut we know that all of you have it within you."
She smiles, and her presence is magnetic; while before you could feel stray glances in your direction now and again, now all attention is focused on her. "If you fear we have made a mistake, here is why we chose you: because you understand, above all, what your duty to your family, home, and country is, and hold it above all else unwaveringly."
You have always been your mother's daughter, that much is true. Her words should give you hope that you might fill these big shoes, but instead you just feel the bottom of your stomach drop like a stone. This is your life now; this is who you are now. Your mother will be so proud.
Wasn't that what you wanted?
On the way to the quartermaster's, the group erupts in quiet but excited chatter. You jog to keep up, and stumble as you tumble over the foot of another newly-minted Fang-Leader.
"Didn't see you there," she says, archly, straightening her peaked helmet, and some of the other new officers snicker before going on without you.
Your troubles are far from over, it seems. Notable:
Shrike looks a little older than she did in Memory 1âmaybe by a year or two. Her hair is still dark.
The local guardian deity appears as a hawk-headed person, and is named Yesyrk.
Knowledge of standard in-world military unit sizes: a fang is 5, a scale is 25, etc.
Knowledge of the Immaculate Order: a respected religion in her homeland that teaches that the virtuous will be reincarnated as higher beings, noblesse oblige, there are bad demon-possessed people known as anathema, the people should not worship small gods, etc. on the latter point, there seems to be some allowances or syncretism going on for the carving of Yesyrk to be present.
Edited (i forgot what person i was writing in for a sentence, apparently) 2019-07-03 02:19 (UTC)
All you have to do is keep out of trouble for the duration of this party while **** performs and makes contact with the captain youâve told can get you off of this continent. That sounded easy enough, but it turns out youâre not the only ones at this event with an ulterior motive.
The stranger is beautiful-faced, lithe, graceful, and heâs paying more attention to **** and your hosts then youâd like. Considering you think you saw your former co-worker *** **** in the crowd, youâre not inclined to take chances. When the stranger slips off to the private quarters of the household, you take your tray of drinks and follow, taking refuge in the relative invisibility of the borrowed black linen servantsâ garb youâre wearing.
Only now you realize the place youâve followed him to: the rooms of the lord of the house. And the stranger is nowhere to be seen.
Shit. This definitely feels like trouble.
âI-is someone there,â you call, setting the drinks on a side table to leave your hands free. Places one might hide: the wardrobe? Behind the folding screen?
...under the bed?
You stoop to lookâand he's out in a flash, rolling to a half-kneel with a long golden needle sliding from his sleeve, and you back up a half-step in surprise. "Stay quiet," he says, in a voice like silk covering steel. "I have no grudge with you."
"Ahâ" You frown. If he's not here for you... "Who... do you have a grudge with, then?"
The man relaxes slightly, though he still holds his needle at the ready. "I should think that would have been obvious by now."
All right, fair. You stay quiet for a long moment, thinking it over. "How much trouble is this going to cause?"
He seems relieved at your questionâor at least the fact that you don't seem to have much of a stake in stopping him. "Trouble tonight?" He shakes his head, sending his long, silken black hair swaying. Â "None at all. Â Trouble tomorrow? Â My hope is that it cures some of that."
You let yourself slump against the wall. Why does this always happen?
"Can you bring me Isymaias?" he asks, naming the lord of the houseâthe man whose room you're currently dallying in.
"Can I bring him to you?" You shake your head. "UhâI'm not sure how, I mean... I don't know where he is?"
He furrows his brow in confusion. "You're one of his servants, aren't you? Can you tell him there's a disturbance elsewhere? Â Or can you get me near him?"
"I'm really only temporary staff, Iâ"
Footsteps in the hallway. You both freeze, and then he rolls back under the bed in one fluid movement, leaving you alone in the room. Fuck. You're not great at hidingâit's hard to hide someone of your heightâso you pick up your tray of drinks to look vaguely like you're doing something legitimate.
It doesn't really do much for you, although you guess the stranger sure got his wish, because the guards flanking Isymaias pin your shoulders to the wall without you being able to get a word in edgewise. "I was justâ"
The man himself gestures to an attendant for his sword. "You'll imagine my surprise when one of my guests tells me the bodyguard of my charming musical guest has wandered out of the kitchens and into my private suite." Silently, you curse *** ****; of course he wouldn't be content to watch you from afar. "Who are you really? I won't ask twice."
You flinch. "I'm no one," you protest. "Only who I said I wasâI saw someone come in here and followedâ"
"****? ****âwhat's my bodyguard done, Lord Isymaias? I assure youâ" ****'s heard the ruckus, trying to elbow her way in past the guards, but to no avail with her delicate stature, though her voice commands the attention of the room.
Isymaias narrows his eyes at her. "I'll deal with you in a moment," he says. "Seize her; that one will make a pretty caged songbird if she's no escape artist, but this skulduggery ends now. I'd be a fool if I didn't know how the peasants plot against me." He raises his sword, and swingsâ
It comes to you as easily as breathing. You raise your hands, and something deep and dark answers your call. There's a clang of steel on steel.
The sword that wasn't in your hands a moment before is more than half your height, dark metal with an uncanny sheen across its pristine surface. Whispers rise to your ears, singing of bloodshed to come, of the glorious carnage you were meant forâbut you ignore them as you rise to your feet in a defensive stance.
Isymaias takes a step back toward his bed, a thousand half-questions forming and dying on his lipsâand then the real assassin strikes.
And the room falls to chaos.
Notable:
Shrike looks very similar to her current appearance in this memoryâwhite-haired, red-eyed, pale and scarred, about the same age.
The woman attempting to vouch for her is the girl from Memory 1 and Memory 3, perhaps five to eight years older than her appearance in Memory 1. She's gotten incredibly striking.
The name the woman uses to refer to Shrike is redacted, but seems to be fewer syllables than the one she previously used.
The former co-worker seems to be the lean, murderous man from Memory 4.
A thing Shrike is aware of: that what she did at the end there was definitely not normal or natural, and that she channeled Essence for it.
Landing in Arjuf is a relief, but only a small one. The Realm proper presents a whole different problem in keeping yourself hidden in the Wyld Hunt that will be sent after both you and **** if you slip up and make it known what you are.
But, for now, you can both take a brief respite in the anonymity of this crowded portside restaurant and something that's not horrible shipboard food. It's nothing special, but the skewers of meat are warm and properly spiced, even to your slightly dulled sense of taste, and there's strong rice wine to be had after cold nights on the sea.
You squeeze into seats along the edge where one of the proprietors is pouring drinks. ****, the richer-looking of the two of you, puts an order to him, but well before it comes, a fellow who looks well-enough fed and comfortable enough among the crowd to be the owner stops by.
"I barely believed it when one of my waitstaff told me that the famed Lark Sings at Dawn had graced us with her presence! What brings you to the Blessed Isle?"
She demurs, managing to inject a chipper tone into her words: "Oh, collecting stories for new materialâand bringing my old material to new faces and places. What a traveling songstress does, of course!"
He shifts with the slightly false modesty of one about to ask a favor. "Would you know, miss, the performers we'd booked for tonight have run into a bit of trouble with their instruments and some water damage from a recent storm. If you wouldn't mindâ"
"I'd love to," she says, without even missing a beat. "Ah, I haven't any instruments with me, but perhaps if you don't mind my asking around in the crowdâ"
"I'm sure anyone would be honored of the chance," he says, visibly relieved.
Lark can command the attention of a room without even trying, and soon enough she manages to find a sailor claiming to be decent with a fiddle and a flutist with wild hair and a sallow complexion, who bows extravagantly to Lark and kisses her hand. You don't like him.
The room quiets, waiting, watchingâand then, after a few moments of whispered discussion, the room is alive with music. The two instrumentalists know just what to do to back Lark's singing, and Lark puts a lively dance to it, encouraging the crowd to call-and-response on the refrains until they're all singing and clapping along, smiles on their faces.
There's the sudden prickling feeling of attention on you, and you realize that a striking red-haired woman has slid in to the seat Lark vacated and is only keeping half her attention on the performanceâbecause the other half is on you.
"Any more of us here and we'll draw attention," she says, sounding slightly pained, and belatedly, you realize she's speaking Old Realm, of all things, which bears little use outside of Realm scholars andâoh. Oh no.
"Even withoutâwell. Never mind," she continues. "Whose business are you here on..."
Your optimism is so far buried that it takes you a moment to realize that she doesn't know who you are, which is the best news you've had in months. You glance away, trying desperately to catch Lark's attention. "Ahâmy own, at the moment," you say, trying to keep it vague. "Taking care of some unfinished business."
Lark finally catches your eye, and is professional enough not to even break mid-line despite registering your alarm.
"Whose business are youâ" the woman begins again, and you stuff a piece of meat into your mouth to forestall further conversation, although the woman looks at your funny.
The piece ends just a few moments later. Lark picks her way over without obvious haste, trying not to pull attention to anything strange going onâalthough as much as you hate the troublesome kind of attention, you wish she'd abandon that care for once in this situation.
"Let's find our lodgings?" she says, brightly, taking your hand, and nodding with only barely perceptible hesitation to your neighbor. You can't stand up fast enough, and once you're into the crowd the two of you practically dash out the back door.
Notable:
Shrike's friend (girlfriend? charge? liege?) is named Lark Sings at Dawn, and she's... an idol, of sorts?
The language the red-haired woman speaks to Shrike is not the common tongueâit seems a little more archaic, maybeâbut Shrike seems to understand it perfectly.
Lark starts to say your old name, as you brush her hair away from her face, but catches herself on the first syllable at your sharp expression. She settles on the last character of your nameâ"Rain. ...I missed you."
"Every dayâevery day I wished I'd gone with you. That I'd said yes." You shake your head, with a small smile. "I thought that I'd never get a chance againâso, I couldn't let myself make the same mistake."
You tune out the voices always at your ears, in whispers, speaking of hunger and light that must be blotted out, and bend down to kiss her.
For a split second it's brilliant, and warm, and she kisses you back, her fingers tugging at the collar of your cloak, and thenâ
The voices scream in your ears, and your thoughts are overtaken pain as first the scars criss-crossing your arms and legs start bleeding fresh. Stumbling back, you look down as a dark wet patch blossoms on your shirt, over your stomach. The world spins, and goes dark.
When you wake up, Lark is kneeling beside you, her face set in lines of worry and her hands bloodied with the effort of bandaging you; your campfire has burned itself out to ashes, and the two of you sit in the center of a perfect, ten-pace circle of newly dead and rotting vegetation. At least Lark's unharmed, though the mark on her forehead is now glowing brightly, the only light in the clearing.
She offers a hand to help you up; you stare at it for a moment, then shake your head and pull yourself to your feet on your own.
Notable:
White-haired, pale Shrike this time.
"Rain" seems to be a name for Shrike, but that's just part of a longer name.
She seems to have some other name that starts with a hard "K" sound?
Hey that symbol on Lark's forehead might seem familiar to certain people?
Why your mother suddenly decided to get a guard dog is beyond you. Maybe she does have a softer side she needs to justify under a practical cause, but whatever it is, she's not told you about it.
In any case, you're pretty sure the family she bought the pup from was overstating a bit the natural capabilities of the breed for home protection. She puts you and your brother to the work of training the dogâyou name him Little Lion for how you have to trim his shaggy fur in the rainy seasonâbut he doesn't want to bite at sticks, no matter how menacingly the two of you shake them. In the end, your brother wanders off, and you play fetch with the stick instead.
It at least gives you an excuse to go out on your own, taking Little Lion with you on runs. He doesn't like being cooped up in the yard, you're pretty sure, and likes exploring down the canal beds and sniffing around the streets for evidence of interesting things gone by. One of the servants from a nearby household shows you how to teach him tricksâroll over, shake, play dead.
Your brother looks at you with a little disdain when you drop your leftover scraps surreptitiously under the table, but it's not *his* feet that Little Lion sleeps at, and thereafter your brother's pranks stop. Maybe there's more than one way of being a guard dog.
Notable:
Shrike is about 12 in this memory; her brother is about 10. Shrike is dark-haired and tan, still.
Her brother looks very similar to her, with shoulder-length dark mahogany-colored hair and tan skin, and he has a sort of bitterness about him already.
Shrike's mother is a tall, powerfully-built woman, perhaps a little on the older side for having two children of this age, and well-dressed. They seem well-to-do.
Your mother's decided that you're old enough to begin training in the sword, which should be excitingâit should. It's an acknowledgment from her that she thinks you can handle something, something that'll catch her attention, if you excel at it, and yetâ
âthe tutor is trying his best, but after the shine wore off on the first day it's just exhausting, and frustrating, and you'd rather be inside. You can see your brother at the window, occasionally catching him staring out at you, and you suddenly have an appreciation for all the reading you've been made to do. It's dull, but you feel like you understand it; here, you don't feel like you can make your body move the right way at all, or fast enough, or forcefully enough.
You're young, so it's a lot of strength-building exercises between actual sword drills. You can tell from reading his reactions that you're nowhere near where he expected you to be; his optimism from the start of the week has fallen to a rock-bottom low. So much for the eldest child of ********** ****** ******* *** ***.
When it's time to break and go to your afternoon lessons, you both look bedraggled; he seems as ready to be gone as you do. But then, a clearing of a throat, and both of you turn and freeze at the *clack* of your mother's boots across the stone.
"I've seen enough," she says, and you can see her expression is dark as she leaves the shade of the broadleaf tree nearest the training yard. "You, boyâyou're dismissed permanently."
He makes no move to protest, nor says a wordâonly grabs his things and turns to leave. The son of a noble house, to be sure, but a fourth son; he has no ground for protest. You're not concerned for him, though, because you know your mother, and you know what's next.
She picks up the wooden practice sword from the ground, and, with a sigh, presses it back into your aching, newly-calloused hands. "Now," she says, "I suppose if you want a thing done right, you must do it yourself. Your afternoon lessons are cancelled, so no need to concern yourself with that.
"That last drill. Do it again. Until I'm satisfied."
When you're finally allowed to stagger inside at sunset, you've missed dinner, but you're too tired to muster up hunger, or anything but going straight to bed. Normally you'd stay up and read from your own small libraryâlose yourself in an epic taleâbut the thought of doing anything but be dead to the world makes you feel like crying.
When you're sure that there's no one near enough to hear, you cry anyway.
Notable:
Shrike looks like she might be about ten, although she's already tall for her age. Dark-haired, still, with tan skin and dark eyes.
Her mother is clearly powerful in a way such that either no one cares about her gender, or gender expectations are very different from, say, Earth in the same approximate era.
The soldier's spear glances off your armorâif it were of any lesser craftsmanship, it would have left a scratch or maybe a dent. He's strong, you can tell, but this is no ordinary mortal steel and you are no ordinary mortal warrior. He wants so desperately for this nightmare to end, for his homeland to be safe.
You can help him with the first of those things, at least. Your daiklave flashes swift and true, glinting uncannily as it slices neatly through the reinforced padding at his neck and through flesh and muscle and bone. A quick death.
You've always hated to see people suffer.
A voice comes to your ears, carried as if on the windâLeave something for me to work with, won't you? Of course. You've both got your orders.
You square your shoulders, and charge ahead, cutting a bloody path through the too-small defensive force assembled, and your forces fall upon the living soldiers after your example. The soldiers here are barely better than a border militia, undergeared and overmatched against the Walker's armies of ghosts and walking dead, who feel no pain nor mercy; the capital isn't taking this seriously. Yet. They will when you establish your forward base here, on a newly-minted shadowland.
As you stride forward into the city proper, your pace relentless, you look over your shoulder at your colleague, standing among the field of corpses, her ash-colored hair fluttering in the torrent of necrotic energies drawn up from the underworld and into the not-yet-cooled bodies.
Turning away, you sigh, and forge onward to continue the messy business of claiming this place for the Walker in Darkness.
As soon as the three of you are alone in the tent, **** folds her arms, glowering a little. Even though you all know you need to get back into Arjufâwell, sheâs not happy about the show youâre going to need to put on for the garrison to get through, but itâs not because itâs beyond her skills. "That's twice now I've saved Brey's ass. Â He owes me his firstborn."
"It's very kind of you to help," you say, trying to keep the tension out of your voice. This kind of conflict is one you were never very good with, when thereâs no way you can throw yourself on your own sword to fix it. True to your asserted role as Larkâs servant, you set yourself to folding clothes and straightening piles of trinketsâa way to burn off the nervous energy without looking like youâre doing it.
âI think Lark deserves the credit.â
âOh, I didn't do much.â Lark shakes her head, hands folded in her lap. âThank you, ****, for accepting the suggestion. I know it can't be easy when some people have been less than welcoming."
"I'm doing it for you two. Â And the members of the caravan who aren't complete assholes." Â She takes off her cloak, and shakes out her mass of wavy black hair, looking very unhappy. "But I think it's safe to say that once we pass through, you'd all be better off without me."
"Why would you think that?â Lark almost reels back, startled. âYou're smart, you're kind, you want to help people.  Why would we be better off without that?"
"And pardon me for sayingâ" You raise your eyebrows, turning from your nervous tidying, though your voice stays mild. "âI feel you're not the one here with the most reason to say such a thing."
**** shakes her head, and gives a long sigh, running a hand backwards through her hair. âAs long as I'm here, there will be no peace among the members of the caravan. That's not going to help anyone."
"Yes. You aren't putting all these people's lives at riskââLark gestures to the caravan generallyââby existing.â She tilts her head. "Perhaps the conflict will bring about a better resolution.  They can't be on the Isle and hate all Dragon-touched."
A snort from ****. âI would say Kyra has them all well-trained."
"One might say the same of you and Oroonoko, with regard to us,â Lark continues, naming the grouchy, green-haired Dragonblooded archer whoâs become part of your traveling circle as well. âThe entire world teaches that we're evil. Â Yet you haven't tried to kill us. Why expect less from Kyra's followers?"
"And they probably haven't gotten to know many Dragon-touched well,â you add, hastily, to back her up, taking your seat back next to her. âThey'll surely realize soon that you're not what they think?"
"The one thing I've learned,â says ****, âwhen it comes to anything dragon-related, is that people will never fail to disappoint you."
"You saw how Tepet Aroven and Nellens Poramo reacted to me. I'm everything they fear, but they are willing to allow me a chance. And not all of Kyra's followers are being rude." She says the word "rude" in a way that implies it's a stand-in for a great many other, less kind things.
You glance back toward where you know the caravan stands outside, though itâs obscured by the tent. âI guess, alsoââ you start, âI feel like even if they're not the most trusting, they're still worth trying to protect?"
Lark nods, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder, and you almost pull away out of surprise. Instead, you sit up a little straighter, keeping still as if any movement might cause the world to disintegrate.
**** sighs, sitting down across from the two of you. Â She plays with the hem of her dress for a moment. Â "You know something? Â Before this..." she makes a vague gesture to herself, "...happened to me. Â I hated and feared the Dragons too." Â She pauses. Â "And in some ways, I still do..."
"Quite often, those with power use that power,â Lark says, and sighs. âSometimes for good and sometimes for ill, but one way or another, they use it."
"I know,â **** says, crossing her arms across her waist. âBut if I use mine, I live down to their expectations."Â
You try to smile, but it comes out with a wincing quality to it. "Some people you're never going to be able to please, probably? But youâyou shouldn't let their opinions stop you, I guess?" It doesnât come out very convincing; probably because itâs always been the kind of platitude youâve had trouble believing. "I've sort of come to terms with not being liked."
Lark squeezes your hand. âI like you," she says, and then turns to **** before she can see the look on your face. "I think the best thing you can do is to try to use your power wisely.  There's no sense pretending you don't have it.  You might as well use it to help others when you can, and when it won't cause other harm.
"....If that's comfortable for you, I mean. Â If it's not then by all means ignore me."
**** runs her hands through her hair, setting her mouth in a grim line. "Don't get me wrong. Â I'll give them the dance of a lifetime. Â I just...don't know where I'll be after."
Lark nods. "I would never presume to tell you what to do. Â But...I've grown fond of your company, and if you're willing, I think we could do a lot of good in the world, together."
"It's selfish of me to say, maybe?â You look down at your knees as you speak. âBut you've been very kind to us. There's too little of that in the world, it feels like, sometimes. And it's easier to accomplish real things together."
**** shakes her head, smiling absently. "What times we're living in. They treat me too rudely as a 'prince of the earth.' You treat me too kindly as a daughter of a whore."
"What on earth has your mother's profession to do with this?" Lark looks genuinely affronted. Â "I served in the courts of the Raksha; I've no right to judge anyone else."
"Andâand you treat me too kindly as a murderer," you murmur.
"I assume they deserved it,â **** says, drily, and you donât see her wry smileâyour blood runs cold in your veins, your breath catches in your throat.
Lark hisses, and squeezes your hand again, grounding you enough to shake your head, weakly. You close your eyes, and take refuge in the temporary dark. âNo,â you say. âThey didnât.â
Why do people keep thinking so well of you? They donât understand. Maybe not even Lark, who leans over to rest her head on your shoulder.
****âs still watching the two of you, fallen silent for once, her gaze both searching andâmaybe with a note of misplaced envy. You clasp your hands in your lap, not quite leaning back against Lark, and go on:
"You say you don't care what I am, but perhaps you should; I once served the Walker in Darkness because I was too weak-willed to be willing to die as I was meant to on the battlefield. I broke away, but not before helping to carry out the deathlords' war. And now that choice to leave sees me hunted. So..."
Lark cuts in, turning her face up toward you, her expression fierce. âIâm glad you didn't die. Â I'm glad you chose service. It means we found each other again. And we'll fix it. We'll make the world a better place."
**** shakes her head, smiling ruefully. âThis world doesn't deserve you."
"You really are too kind," you murmur.
Lark nods, looking away. âWhat she said.â
"Butââ you add, âthank you. For that."
**** lets out a slow exhale. Â "We get through the night. Â Get the caravan where they want to go. Â Then worry about tomorrow." Â A pause. Â "But you keep Brey away from me. Â His ingratitude is at odds with my patience. Â And I don't care if that sounds dynastic. Â I've been trying so hard."
The whole party is uncomfortable and restless after your experience at the shrine; youâre still not sure whoâs life some of the visions were supposed to be from, but some were all too familiarâjust twisted in uncomfortable ways. Around the fire, itâs uncharacteristically silent.
âCompany.â The green-haired Wood-aspect is the first to twig to unwelcome visitors; she notches an arrow and her panther companion drops into a crouch at the edge of the clearing. Uneasy, you get to your feet, hand hovering in the air, ready to draw your sword from Nowhere, and the others assemble themselves into readiness, as well. The dark-haired Fire-aspect bites her lower lip, reaching protectively to draw Lark behind her.
When the two step into sight, though, the reaction is surprising and instantaneous. One man, one woman, and though the woman is particularly striking with sharp-features and a mane of dark hair, neither of them looks familiar to youâbut your shrouded, masked colleagueâs voice is suddenly thick with uncharacteristic emotion as he speaks a name, quietly.
âYoke.â
Both of the newcomers ignore this, apparently not recognizing it as directed at either of them. The woman starts in: âThis is Shaâa Okaâs territory. I thought weâd made clear what that meant to Dynastsââ
But she stops, realizing suddenly that not one but three sets of eyes are trained on hers. The assassin-courtier with the long, silky raven-black hair has his eyes on her as well, with a naked longing, and Lark, next to you, looks stunned. No, more than thatâthereâs something off about her expression, somehow. Like itâs not herâ
âYoke, dearestâitâs been so long,â continues *****, emotion audible though his face is still, as nearly always, hidden. His voice is strange, tooâmore imperious. Angry?
âDonât you dare speak to her,â the assassin-courtier cuts in, and his voice is odd, too. Heâs always angry, in that seething way of his, but his voice is sharp, higher-pitched.
The womanâYoke?âfor her part, looks just as bewildered to you. Something very strange is going on here. You turn to Lark, the question apparent on your features, but sheâs moving forward, pushing past **** and not looking at you.
The men are shouting at each otherâ***** shouting at **** for stealing his wife, **** retorting with accusations of being a controlling asshole, and Lark is trying to calm them down but canât get in a word edgewise. **** pulls the golden needles from his updo, but before he can strike ***** unleashes sorcery you hadnât even realized he was shapingâcracks form in the ground under ****âs feet, and smoke coils up from them into the shapes of cobras, who fall upon him.
You hear Larkâs voice sing out through the dust and dirt and smoke, but what finally clears the smoke away is when âYokeâ bursts through the fight, her arms growing fur, hands elongating into claws, taking the form of an enormous mongoose.
âItâs Snake Eater,â she growls. âGet it right. And youâre coming with me to explain to Shaâa Oka why you trespassed in his territory.â
Notable:
Hey cool what the fuck was thatâ
White-haired Shrike.
The assassin-courtier with long black hair is the same man from Memory 6.
The dark-haired Fire aspect is the same woman from Memory 12.
You know itâs no ordinary horse by immediate sight, its eyes glowing red and its coat a pure, glossy shadow-black that melts into the alleyâs shadows. But if you hadnât recognized it by that, youâd have recognized its mistress astride its back, long dark braid spilling out from her hood: The Storm-Ridden Flock Above Bare Branches, sometimes known as the Rider.
"I figured," you say, shrugging, some of the tension leaving your shoulders in the motion.
"Of course you did,â she says. "We won't have much time before Crow notices I'm missing."
"Sure.â You nod, and pinch the bridge of your nose, not bothering to mention that this isnât the greatest time; she knows that well enough. âAre we going to find ourselves at odds again soon? I don't know if you can tell me what your orders are."
"I hope not," she chuckles. It's more of a cackle, but you know her well enough to know it's a humorous reaction, not any kind of baiting. "Red Crow's orders are to keep the factions fighting. Mine are to assist him in any way he asks.
"But that's not what my mistress really wants."
She tosses something at you.
You catch itânot as deftly as Oroonoko would, but you don't fumble. It's some sort of small leather sack, with laces around one end; you open it, curious, but thereâs nothing inside. Thoughâitâs just about the right size to be tied around a horse's hoof, now that you think of it.
"Take that to your Dragonblooded friend,â says the Rider. âShe'll know what to make of it."
You look up again, and give a curt nod. "I will," you say. "And alsoâI was wonderingââ
You pause for a moment. Should you go on? Is it even right to expect an answer from her? After all, what youâve been to each other in the pastâcolleagues, friends, occasional loversâwell, you more or less cut off any future there when you left the Walkerâs service, never to return.
Still, though, you forge ahead: âWhy are you helping me?"
The Rider smiles, with a tinge of bitterness. âBecause we're friends? Andâbecause my mission is not Red Crow's mission. My true mission, that is."
You pause for a long second, but then smile in turn, though itâs a bittersweet expression. That's enough. "Iâwell, I'm glad you still count me as a friend. I just wish I'd met you anywhere else." You tuck some stray hair behind your ear, and the smile fades. âI guess the Seer hasnât changed much. What is your mission, anyway?"
The Rider sighs. "Rain, there's much more going on here than a single, ancient feud. You've met the Seer. She always sends us on these odd quests that seem nonsensical, but always make sense after the fact. For whatever reason, she wants the Roseblack off of this isle, with her army intact. And do not tell anyone I told you that."
"Wellâ" You sigh, albeit in mild relief. So your plans do align. "Consider it secret. I'm... glad to hear that, although I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me more than a little uneasy."
A brief bark of laughter. For a moment, the atmosphere is such that you could be back together in the Seerâs manse, swapping black humor over trading sips from a flask. âYou and me both."
You laugh, as honestly as you have in a long while. "You should know that some of my friends have designs on killing Red Crow. You might want to make sure you're out of the way when they come after him."
She cackles again, and crosses her arms across her leather-armored chest with a smirk. "You mean you have designs on his head. Don't worry, I'll stay out of the fight."
"Wellâyou know me." You smile again, though this time it doesn't really reach to your eyes. "Althoughâwell. I have something else I need to take care of, before that." You pause, rubbing at your arms, and the old scars there. "Something bad's going to happen if I keep going like this."
She starts to turn her horse away. "Rain... it was good to see you again." Though before she lifts the reins to ride off, she adds, as partingâ "Think back, Rain. Have you ever seen me miss a shot?"
Her horse disappears into the darkness.
Notable:
White-haired Shrike.
That sure is an evil-looking horse.
Remember that asshole from Memory 4 and one of Persephone's memories? That seems to be "Red Crow"
She seems to be in a similar climate/area to the one she was in for Memory 13.
Your mother, unsurprisingly, doesnât excuse you from lessons for any more than the barest minimum of time to send off your brother.
Then again, he isnât excused, either; the servants pack his bags with what heâll need at the temple while he he finishes the last of his work. As far as sheâs concerned, youâre both doing your duty, and thereâs little special about today.
All of you meet at the gates; youâre still wiping sweat from your forehead, practice sword stuck under your arm. Your brother, meanwhile, barely looks at you while your mother holds a brief discussion with the servants tasked with seeing him to his new home, looking too-small in his new robe.
You scuff one of your feet against the path, not sure what to say. âBitty, Iââ
âDonât call me that,â he says, reflexively, but continues on: âYou and I both know sheâs sending away the wrong one of us. Youâll never be what she wants. And I could have been, but sheâd never let me.â
âIt doesnât excuse either of us from trying, though, does it,â you say, quietly.
âNo,â he says, and for a moment the bitterness in his young features relaxes into simple weariness. âIf you donât work extra hard to make up for your complete lack of talent you can fuck right off.â
âWhereâd you learn that word?â
âIâve been working harder than you. If Iâm consigned to this Iâll at least make something of myself.â A rare tremor of emotion sneaks into his voice, though he doubles down on his aggressive tone to hide itâyou wouldnât know except you know what to look for. âThis is my home.â
âSorry,â you say. âSorry,â and thatâs all you can say before the servants bustle him off to the waiting horses to deliver him to the Immaculate Temple as its newest monk-in-training, and your motherâs hand is firm on your shoulder.
âBack to work,â she says, firmly, and soon itâs gone from your mind.
Notable:
Shrike is dark-haired, tan-skinned, and maybe fifteen in this memory; her brother looks like he might be about twelve.
"Bitty" seems to be short for his actual name.
An Immaculate priest also appeared in Memory 5 ("Ascendant Crane")
As much as it makes you antsy to take time off from the more direct pursuit of your mission youâve often been assigned to under the Walker in Darknessâs command, you have to admit that this is⊠close to what you used to want. His sister Deathlord the Illuminated Seer Beneath Tenebrous Skies lacks military minds, and while youâre not entirely sure why you need to attend her lectures, youâre not⊠arguing, exactly.
You hear some of the Deathlords have some rather repugnant tastes as far as their personal life activities, but the Seer seems to be a quiet academic, if the kind of genius itâs hard to talk to. She consults you on answers to questions of strategy at a theoretical level, and then bustles off to give orders that seemingly have nothing to do with the question asked.
A ghost takes notes for her on the chalkboard as she speaks at the front of the lecture hall at the center of her manse. Todayâs topic is the history of the ancient language of the Dragon-Kings, a lizardlike people youâve never had chance to encounter in your life, but you have always liked languages, so you try and take notes, even though you keep having to scratch them out and repeat them as she patiently but repeatedly corrects her ghostly servant on his script.
As youâre on your way out, you hear your name called. âSorrowful Blade of the Softly-Falling Rain?â the Seer says, in her gentle, slightly-wispy voice. âIf you have a moment.â
âIf,â as if thatâs a question. Obediently, you turn on the ball of your foot, and make your way down the steps.
âWith what can I assist you, Milady?â you ask, tucking your notebook under your arm.
She peers up at you from behind her spectacles, and underneath her slightly wild mane of ashy-greenish hair. âI was wondering, Sorrowful Blade of the Softly-Falling Rain, what you thought of my lecture today.â
âItâs, ahââ You fluster a little bit, at being addressed by your full title. âRain is fine, Milady.â
âIs that the only thing youâd prefer to be addressed by?â
Youâve always been keenly attuned to what other people want, even when they donât say it, and it strikes you that she seems to have an answer in mindâbut you donât know what it is.
After a moment of hesitation, you shake your head. âNo, Milady. Just Rain. But it was very educationalâIâve not had experience with the language before, but I think Iâve picked up a little, at least.â
She looks at you again like sheâs inspecting something, but instead of asking further questions just lays one hand gently on your cheek. You still your movements, not sure what to do, until finally she steps back and smiles. âI expect no less,â she says, in a slightly faraway tone. âIâd like it if you keep attending. Iâd be interested to see what you can learn.â
You let out your held breath very slowly, trying to make it look natural. âOf course,â you say, and smile.
Once youâre out of the lecture hall, though, you realize your hands are shaking.
Notable:
White-haired Shrike.
One of the other "students" in the lecture hall seems to be the Rider, from Memory 14.
Youâve been up for two hours already. Calisthenics, before-dawn run around the parade grounds, five laps, more calisthenics, then taking down the unitâs laundry and putting back the washing-up from last night. To be honest, youâre running yourself a bit ragged, and even ***** from Training Scale Three looks at you like youâre mad when he sees you already doing extra chores when heâs just waking up.
It doesnât surprise you that they gave you the hard-luck soldiers. Scale Twelve is the slowest and weakest out of all of them, and unmotivated, to boot. The children of nobles not notable or motivated enough to rate officer and too used to being spoiledâyou could assign KP and laundry duty, but itâs come out badly too many times for you to risk another unit-level reprimand. And you know better than to think that recommending them unfit for duty wonât reflect poorly on you.
The first bellâs past, now, though, and thereâs been nary a rustle from the bunks after your last pass. You reach for the brass bell you keep near the door as a backup for the heavy sleepers, and realize that not only is it missing, a row of tacks laid in its place, ******* in bunk four is gone as well.
Fuck. A sinking feeling fills the pit of your stomach; missing a soldier whoâs probably decided to cut exercises for the day and having the rest of your unit oversleep will be the end of it for youâ
You brace yourself, and slam your fist against the corner of the nearest set of bunks as hard as you can. âWake UP you holler, and the boy in the topmost bunk almost startles off the edge. âDressed and beds made in five minutes, and if anyone knows where ******* went, youâd better tell me now.â
âWho?â yawns one, and the rest erupt in titters. You drag your hands down your face. Itâs going to be a long day, and an even longer conversation if you have to explain this to the Commander.
Notable:
Dark-haired, tan-skinned Shrike this time; she's probably nineteen or twenty.
The temple stands tall, taller than nearly all the buildings in the city with its intricately-carved ivory spires. Only the Hall of Noble Voices stands higher and more bold against the skyline. Honestly, itâs kind of peaceful hereâquiet, contemplative. Maybe thatâs why you take your leave days here, in spite of Bitty.
It hasnât always been an Immaculate temple; some ages ago, it was a temple to Yesryk, the patron god of the region, and you stop before their statue. You donât pray; youâre not supposed to, after all. The Immaculates take care of giving each god their due and no more. Still, itâs always seemed a little lonely to you, so in lieu of seeking out your brother you sit on one of the stone benches, enjoying the quiet.
But itâs not long after that thereâs the soft sound of slippers on stone, and a familiar grumble. âWhat the hell are you doing here, *******?â Bitty says, coming to stand next to you. âDonât tell me you want family time.â
You give a one-shouldered shrug. âThis is probably the last leave Iâm going to get in a while, andâI donât really have a good place to spend it, anyway. Motherâs much too busy, andââ
And Larkâs gone.
âAnd, well. You didnât have to come see me.â
He crosses his arms and looks away. âHonorable Ascendant Craneâs really pushing for war, isnât she.â
âYou donât think itâs a good idea? With Ryukenâs incursionsââ
âUgh.â He turns on the ball of his foot, his junior monkâs robes swirling around him. âJust because you made officerâhonestly, you being an officer is a sign we really shouldnât be going to war, and you know it.â
âIâmâtrying.â
âWhen have you ever tried in your entire life, *******? Taking the path of least resistance isnât trying, but, hey, it got you everything, so why argue with that?â
You sit very still, hands in your lap, waiting for him to get it out of his system, but he stalks over and grabs you by the lapels, hauling you up off the benchâyouâre so surprised that you donât even resist. âI, I didnât mean toâwhat could I have done, Bittyââ
âFuck off, *******. You could have done literally anything, but here we are, arenât we? Youâre always going to be a disappointment, and Iâm always going to be nothing, all because youâre too coward to change anything.â He looks like heâs not sure what he wants to doâif he wants to throw a punch, or walk away.
His consideration is cut short, though, by the click of heeled boots across the stone floor. âGuarded Bittern,â says a smooth, serene voiceâa voice youâve heard before, in fact. âCould you see to preparing tomorrowâs offerings?â
A woman in senior monkâs robesâAscendant Crane, one of the highest authorities in the temple. Youâd seen her speak before, and she was a commanding presence then; your brother, wordlessly, lets you down, after a moment of hesitation, and you stumble back against the bench. He gives you a look, like this isnât over, but steps back, and walks off without argument.
Youâre a little surprised when Ascendant Crane walks over to you, though, with a soft smile. âItâs *******, isnât it?â she says, and youâre surprised she would even know, much less have remembered. âMy apologies for his behavior.â
You shake your head. âItâs, umâan old argument,â you say. âHe has a right to be angry.â
âI think heâs wrong, though,â she says, putting a hand on your shoulder. âIâve heard youâre making very good progress with your unit. Itâs a difficult task youâve been put to, but donât give up on your potential. You have important skills for your positionâeven if theyâre not the ones youâve been told to prioritize.â
âOh, um.â You donât even know what to say to that. âTh⊠thank you. I, ahâŠâ You shouldnât argue with her, andâhonestly, she has such a soothing presence, you donât really want to. âItâs an honor, to hear you say that?â
âItâs the truth.â She pats your shoulder. âIâve business to attend to, but I hope the rest of your visit will be peaceful. And, too, the days to come.â
You nod, and watch her walk away; somehow, you feel better, in spite of everything.
Notable:
Dark-haired, tan-skinned Shrike this time; she's probably about twenty. Somewhere after Memory 17?
Her brother's name is apparently Guarded Bittern, which explains the nickname "Bitty."
Apparently things are going better for her in the military? But also it seems like war is on the horizon.
They are maybe at war, or close to it, with a neighboring nation called Ryuken.
Ascendant Crane seems to be... very convincing? Maybe weirdly so?
It feels like youâve been turning the training grounds upside-down for eternity looking for *******, but itâs probably only more like twenty minutesâtell that to the hammering in your chest, though. Youâve searched every supply closet and shed and probably ruffled some feathers at the quartermasterâs, besides, and nothing.
All right, this is a disaster, butâfuck, you have to think. What do you even know about *******? Where would they go to ground?
In the end, your instinct turns out to be rightâthereâs a trail of bent grass at the edge of the uncut field behind the mess hall, near where the scraps get dumped for the dogs, and the missing bellâs been dropped beside the edge of the path. You follow the trail, and see a dark-haired head poking through the yellow stalks.
Youâre a little startled to see tracks of tears running down their face.
They look up at you, rub their eyes, and fix their face into a scowl. âOh, so youâre going to drag me in front of the commander yourself? Iâm sure thatâll be a feather in your cap.â
ââŠno,â you say, after a long pause. âI⊠donât actually know what Iâm going to do.â Another pause, and then she goes to sit down beside them, back to the building. âMaybe you should help me figure that out.â
âFuck off,â they bite out, and turn their head away, crossing their arms over their knees. âIâm a fifth child. No one cares, not my family, not you. Youâre a first daughter, so this is just one little obstacle in your way to an illustrious career. If you keep me here to punish me, Iâll just make things worse, so you might as well pack me off so you can get back to using us as a stepping stone to your dream command.â
Youâve never heard them speak so many words at once to your faceâjust whispers to the other soldiers, a snicker in the back of the group. Sure, it had been tense, but⊠you hadnât registered anyone elseâs misery but your own.
You breathe out a sigh. âYou know,â you say, slowly, âI, er⊠I thought about running away with someone Iâwith a friend. Who knew I didnât really want to go into the army.â
Their eyes are on youâyou can feel it, even though youâre looking studiously at your feet. âI donât really have many other options, either, but⊠I, um. I donât know if I have ambitious apart from doing the best for whoeverâs my responsibility. Is everyone this unhappy?â
Thereâs a brief hesitationâtrying to figure out of youâre genuineâand then they nod. âWeâre all younger children, unsuitable for marriage, too weird or troublesome or not smart enough for the Immaculate Order or a government officialâs posting. ***** is on her last chance before getting disowned. Too irresponsible with her affections for her family.â
You lean your head back with a thunk against the wall. âSorry I never asked.â
They snort, but itâs not with scorn. âThat wouldnât be very officer-like of you, if you did.â
âWell, I never really wanted to be an officer, anyway.â Youâre going to have to think on thisâmaybe some of what you might want to do will be against regulation or otherwise just not done, butâyou stand. âThank you, though.â
A frown crosses their face. âWhat are you going to do?â
âWell, ah⊠that was going to be my question to you. Do you want to get sent home?â
Their nose wrinkles, and thatâs about all the answer you need. You shrug. âSo, letâs go back, and⊠start this day over. And I, uh⊠I guess Iâll do better.â
âYou know,â they hazard, slowly, âyouâre not at all what I thought you were like.â
You give a half-smile, and give them a hand up. âJust no more tacks, please.â
The Water Shrineâs mazelike interior is familiarâlike the last shrine you visited, itâs a Manse, the local flow of essence directed toward the singular purpose of creating some kind of spiritual journeyâbut that doesnât make it any more easily navigable, and youâre uneasy. Especially since, passage by passage, your small band is separated, until you find yourself alone.
Itâs not like thereâs an easy way to tap out, though, and the only way out seems to be through, so you push forward. After wandering for... some minutes? An hour? Multiple hours? You find your way to a circular chamberâwindowless, of hewn and carved stone. A narrow hallway circumscribes a series of alcoves, each of which holds a single stone goblet, standing on a pedestal beneath a spigot.
You take one of the goblets in your gloved hand, and sniff dubiously at the contents. It contains a cold, briny, bitter-smelling liquid, but a carved diagram above the alcove shows a humanoid figure (sporting... a halo?) drinking from a goblet, soâwell, youâve drunk worse, in the army. So you do it, although you have to choke it down.
The smell is hard to get out of your nose, and you realize with growing alarm that you recognize the scent, just barelyânot unlike a drug called Bright Morning. The Realm outlaws itâit allows mortals to see immaterial spirits, among other things, and you recall a special section of the officer corps being trained to use it to fight ghostly enemies.
But once you drink itâaside from being disgustingâit doesnât seem to do much, though, and you frown, turning to one side to follow the next passageâ
And then you see.
Battle rings in your ears, and you cry out, desperately calling the half-trained soldiers of your Circleâs nascent kingdom to close ranks and hold fast against the Dragonsâ heavy infantry. The golden blade you hold cuts through the ranks of the mercenary troops arrayed against you, buying your forces some breathing roomâ
But itâs too little, too late. Your right flankâs collapsedâonly by sacrificing half the town have you managed to keep your forces from complete encirclement.
You hear Lark sing out, a high note ringing over the chaos, and glance to your leftâand you feel the breath leave you suddenly. Your loverâs kiai shattered the volley of lightning-javelins aimed at her torso, butâ
...but.
Her flank was open. You didnât see it in timeâopen just long enough for a tall Fire-Aspect, red hair blazing behind her like a banner, to bury her mismatched shortswords in Larkâs ribcage. Around her, the troops lose their courage, shrinking backâsheâs always a bolster to those around her, and now, as the life fades from her eyes, they remember how colorless the world seems in her absence.
You canâtâyou canât do this. Itâs not going to work, and sheâ
You squeeze your eyes shut, and blinking back tears, call for the retreat.
The Water Aspect shudders as your daiklave runs him through, the spatter of his blood adding yet another stain to your golden armor. You jerk your blade free of his corpse, catching only a momentary glimpse of how haggard you look in its reflection, and impose it in the path of the next Dragon-blooded rebelâs blade.
The blow never comesâyour one-eyed circlemate has already intercepted that traitor and literally torn her apart with his bare hands, in a move that makes you cringe, slightly. Itâs not pretty work, and youâre not sure this is even the best way to solve this, butâyou only have so many solutions available to you, right now. And this was your first and best one. The remnants of the scale of soldiers, already starting to recoil, explode in a shower of gore as your other companion, the worldâs greatest sorceress, unleashes her magic in a sudden burst to shred them down to their very Essence.
All right, now youâre just bodily wincing.âš
The two of them hold the stairway behind you, guarding your back so that you can manage the final stages of the battle. From your shining balcony, you see smoke rising from shattered crystal towers, shards of shimmering rainbow falling like rain. Blood and bodies line the streets the city, but your Charms let you sense that the battle is all but won. The only remaining body of rebel troops is pinned in the market district, and the loyalist artillery is finally in position.
Gritting your teeth, you wordlessly signal the order: finish it.
Maybe now something resembling healing can start. Maybe you can fix this. Who knows.
You lean upon the dark stone railing of the balcony outside your study, watching the door of your citadel as you await the arrival of your newest student. Your thoughts drift to the last time you saw each other, and you canât help but find yourself short of breath in anger, just thinking about it.
Remembering the Final Feast, when the traitors cut you both downâit always gets your blood up. Your ghostly servants keep their distance; they know better than to bother you, when youâre thinking.
As your spectral butler announces the arrival of your ranger and his charge, you crane your head down to gather your first impression of herâand, hm.
She wears a high-collared gown over a soulsteel torc, its tight-laced bodice and flaring skirts no doubt intended to make her look taller and more impressive, all the better to give impassioned speeches to the masses. Now, however, she just looks... uncomfortable, awkward, and out of place. Clearly your colleagueâher masterâstill has no idea how to manage those who do not conform to the stereotypes of their Caste. This is how he treats the one who was once Creationâs greatest sorceress?
But sheâs here with you nowâand perhaps, with your help, she can reclaim some of her lost glory. You descend the stairs, and adjust your glasses, a nostalgic smile coming to your face regardless, to meet this new version of your oldest friend.
You stagger, disoriented, residually distraught, and steady yourself against a wall as you wait for your vision to clearâyouâve wandered further into the winding passages, though you donât remember walking. That was... strange, that it all felt like your memories, but... not you at all?
But thereâs a second chamber to find, before you can get out of here. Youâre starting to hate this quest, as necessary as itâs become.
Itâs a long, long time before you find itâor it feels like it, anyway. Itâs dimly lit, and resembles the chamber you started from, and you groan as you see whatâs in itâa stone basin, large enough to draw water from a well, standing on a dais in the center of the room. More goblets surround it, and you smell the liquid in it againâ
...itâs more drugs. Great.
But it seems like you have to, to complete whatever the test here is, so you sigh, and dip a goblet in the liquid and drink.
Nothing seems to happen at first, but that happened last time, too, and you start walking again, waiting for it to activateâ
âyou stagger as an unfamiliar feeling overpowers you, and brings tears to your eyes. A rush of emotion after emotion, with unfamiliar memory along with it. These... none of these feel familiar, but theyâre in your head like youâre seeing someone elseâs past made yours, jumping from one moment to the next until you feel dizzy.
Eventually, you realize that youâve fallen asleepâor passed out, lying on the cold stone floor of the ritual chamber, your head still swimming, though you donât feel like youâve fallen. But you have one hell of a headacheâworse than any hangover.
But, somehow, the way back seems clear, now. Steadying yourself, you take a deep breath, and head to where you can, hopefully, reunite with the others.
Notable:
White-haired Shrike this time.
Sheâs wearing the sort of inconspicuous traveling clothes she was wearing in Memory 7, Memory 12, and Memory 14.
The visions are for visible to the memory-viewer, for once, but theyâre from her perspective.
In the second vision, her sorceress companion looks uncannily like the Illuminated Seer Beneath Tenebrous Skies, from Memory 16.
Oddly, in the second and third of the visions detailed... when she speaks, itâs with a manâs voice, and when her face is caught in reflection she looks very different.
All the combat recalled here is like, over the top badassery wuxia fantasy film nonsense.
You descend seemingly endless stairsâdown, down, down, into the endless dark. You donât know the way, but you do, actually, even though you can feel presences falling into step behind you to guide you, if you need it. Perhaps to stop you, should you turn and run, but you wonât.
Outlines of something in the darkness come into focus as you descendâimmeasurably large, edifices jutting out of the dark. High archways, heavy doors, engravings in no language youâve ever known. Theyâre larger than the descent youâve made, but still in the dark it seems they go on forever, up into the now-distant sky of the living world that youâve left behind.
It feels like a dream. A nightmare, maybe, but youâre not afraid, for the first time in your life. Just purposeful, in putting one foot in front of the other, down, down, down, for what could be forever.
But you know it wonât be. After all, as the sutra goes: âThereâs always an ending.â
So when your feet meet ground, at the end of the stairway, it doesnât surprise you; nor does the rising susurration of voices that comes to your ears. A welcome, of sorts, but youâve been hearing them distantly all this timeâthe call to meet them. Theyâve been with you, all this time.
You force yourself to concentrate on the voices, to wrench yourself awayâyou can hear it, the single louder voice that drowns out all the others in the very specific spot that you stand.
One last thing remains. You must let go of it.
It comes to you, what you must do. You turn around, face whatâs behind you, and walk toward it.
In the middle of the massive ring of... no, thatâs a mistake. Focus. In the middle of the ring, the low water on the ground hits a steep drop, vanishing into a pit ofâ
...nothing.
Itâs the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen. In fact, you donât know how long you stand, staring into it, listening to the rush of the vanishing water. But eventually, you remember that you have a purpose. And the first of it is to cast off the last burden keeping you from it.
Or, you donât. The sound is garbled, swallowed, vanishes, leaving only the ghost of its memory on your tongue. You donât miss it.
After some timeâyouâre not sure how muchâthereâs the muffled sound of footsteps through the water behind you.
âWelcome,â says the voice that spoke to you, in your last moments. âCome with me. We have much work to do.â
Notable
White-haired Shrike... sort of. As she descends the stairs, the mahogany color drips from her hair like blood, vanishing into the dark and leaving the familiar bone-white color.
Looking at the enormous, strange, non-Euclidean tombs she finds herself facing at the endâeven to other viewersâis unsettling, alarming, and prone to showing up in your nightmares. The sight brings with it the sense of something vast and terrible, and a feeling of looming doom.
That's probably fine, though.
The voice at the end is a man's voice; a tenor. It hasn't appeared in any memories before.
The name that she speaks for herself cannot be discerned, and fuzzes into uncomfortable static sounds.
Itâs well past lights-out, but youâre still awake, restlessâeven if things arenât going poorly, youâve always had a hard time settling down, and even the scant reading material youâve been able to bring back to the encampment isnât really helping you rest. So you get out of bed, quiet as you can beâwhich is pretty quiet, for someone whoâs otherwise the opposite of stealthyâand shut the door behind you.
The night air is refreshingly cool, after the sticky summer heat of the daytime, and it feels⊠a little better, anyway. Skyâs clear, and you can see the heavens clearly; andâthe gentle smell of pipe smoke wafting from above, letting you know that you werenât the only one whoâs up a little later than regulation.
You look up and you recognize himâthe lean, black-haired lieutenant in charge of Scale Ten, who at least has never been one of the ones trying to push you around. Heâs clearly noticed you, too, peering down at you curiously.
âThought you were a stickler for regulations,â he says, although itâs a little muffled by the fact that heâs shoved his pipe over to the side of his mouth in lieu of putting it down, since he seems to be in the middle of some kind of whittling project, scraping wood shavings off a fallen branch with his knife into some sort of sculpture.
âFigure itâs better to burn off some energy by having a walkabout than tossing and turning all night and feeling terrible tomorrow,â you say, shrugging. Then you pause. âYou didnât seem like the sort to be looking for late-night alone time.â
âAhahaââ He snorts. âWell, thereâs a lot most people donât know about me, I guess! Command doesnât leave much time for personal fun, does it. Or personal anything.â
ââŠI guess?â
âYeah, you seem like you wouldnât really know,â he says, good-humored, and makes a couple very dextrous twists of his knife before looking over his work, seeming satisfied. Then he puts one end to his mouth and blows, emitting a warmly whistleâa bird call. âHey, got it!â
You donât really know what to say, butââThatâs pretty impressive⊠Really, just pretty.â
He grins. âThanks, thanks! Iâm making a collection.â And pauses. âDunno if you smoke, but you could come up here if you wanna see how itâs done.â
âŠhuh. Youâre not sure anyoneâs ever really invited you to anything like that before. So, after a second, you start figuring out how to use the supports to pull yourself up onto the roof of Barracks 10, and take a perch next to him to watch him work until sleep does start catching up with you.
Notable:
Dark-haired, tan Shrike, early twenties.
The lieutenant for Scale Ten looks... remarkably like Red Crow, but without the black in his hair and distinctly not sallow-complexioned. His voice sounds the same, for anyone who saw Persephone's memory of him or who was in Shrike's heart and talked to him.
It soon becomes apparent that even though your scale certainly doesnât uniformly like you, they also donât uniformly get along with each other, and you find this out by getting clocked in the face trying to break up a fight between **** and *****, after ******* nudges you that thereâs shit going down.
*****âs a scrappy fighter and itâsâwell, a punch you would have praised her for if it wasnât directly to your jaw, but as it is you can taste blood in your mouth and you know itâll be an impressive bruise tomorrow, and from the look on her face as she staggers back, ***** knows sheâs messed up. ****âs still trying to take a swing at her, but you just grab him by the back of his shirt and shove him into the dirt.
âWhatever this is, itâs done now, thank you,â you say, trying to keep your voice even, but it strains a little bit from how much that smarts. âCan anyone explain what happened?â
âCanât take a jokeââ
ââinsulted my mother!â
âIâm just stating factsââ
âAll right all right thatâs definitely enough, ****, go cool off in the barracks until nightfall. Both of you, no dinner, and Iâm assigning you both to kitchen duty for a week.â
âOh, come onââ
âAnd *****ââ
She stiffens, in a way thatâs not unfamiliar to you; someone whoâs only trying not to make things worse.
ââŠI guess I canât have a repeat of this in the barracks, soâcome with me. Iâll talk to you about what happened first.â
And you realize for the first timeâyouâre actually getting treated like an officer? But the look on her face is more fearful than youâre really comfortable with.
Itâs going to be a lot to get used to.
Notable:
Dark hair, tan-skinned Shrike, circa maybe age 21 or so.
The soldier to alerts her to the fight is the same one from Memory 19.
Youâre not sure why the Seer wanted you to come along on this one, and you say as much to The Storm-Ridden Flock Above Bare Branches as you fall in beside her as you pick your way over the rough ground.
âYouâre perfectly competent,â you say, with mild bafflement. âYou really donât need meâŠâ
âAre you complaining?â asks the Rider, grinning at you sideways. âYou werenât complaining last night.â
You huff, and, after a moment⊠shake your head. As much as not having much straightforward work to do makes you antsy, being in close quarters alone with her isnât exactly a punishment. Itâs hard to resist the urge to run your fingers through her jet-black hair, so instead you settle for running the pad of your thumb over the fresh scratches just below your collarbones.
This cityâs small, and on the poorer side; apparently of some kind of historical significance, although your memory for that isnât as good as it is for linguistics. The ruins of an old temple dating back to the first age still lay here, although the local inhabitants have forgotten that connection and passing Immaculate monks built their own temple halfway on top of it some time ago.
Seeing this place is... a little painful. Coming in on the road, you noticed the fields donât have nearly as much yield as a city this small would need, and the buildings are in poor repair. Urchins and beggars in the streets, but no one has much to give to them. The Realm washed its hands of this place a long time ago, and no one else has bothered to do anything for it. Anyone who stays probably won't last the next few years, the way disease, drought, famine and war plague this region.
Still, you gave your bread to a gaggle of parentless children as you passed; youâll manage, after all. Your sense of hunger isnât nearly as strong anymore, and even if theyâll all starve soon enough, it pains you to see them like that in the meantime.
âHey, take a look at this,â says the Rider, calling you over, as you pick through the ruins. The Seer hasnât told you much about why youâre supposed to do what youâre doing here, or even what youâre doingâjust that âitâll make sense when you see it.â (Youâre dubious. Sometimes sheâs just too on her own level to explain things properly.)
But thereâs supposed to be an old artifact here, somewhere. She just said âit needs to be activated.â Probably one of those things thatâll make sense later and itâs no bother asking why now, although it still troubles you a little bit as to why you need to be here.
What sheâs found is... itâs a Hearthstone, actually, embedded in a stone vessel attached to a stone pillar. âCan you read this?â she asks. âI can't.â
You frown. âThis is older dialect than Iâm familiar with, and some of the writingâs worn... er... I can make out some of it, though, I think. Something about... recorded history? And to access it...â
Oh.
Well, the circumstances arenât the worst, you suppose. The price to payâwell, itâll help alleviate some of the suffering here. In fact, it gives you a little relief to think about it, with the voices of the Neverborn pressing in around you, calling for the blood of the world.
Youâre not good at trickery but you really donât need it anyway, to get one of the urchins to follow you with the promise of more food and a campfire. Sheâs painfully thin, and you make sure she has a decent meal and sheâs warm and comfortable, and dozed off before you break her neck and spill her blood into the vessel buried under the ruins before placing your hand on the activation rune.
It sparks, and glows for a moment, andâthen sputters, the essence circuits finally overloading and burning out after untold years idle. You just... stand there, for a moment, and look at the Rider, and she looks at you, and a hot spike of anger courses through youâyou drive your unholy blade into the vessel with the Hearthstone to shatter it.
âAhâRain, weâre supposed toâthe Seerâs gonna be pissedââ
You turn to her, eyes wide, but you... donât know why youâre angry, you realize. It would make sense, to be sorry for wasted life, but...
No, something about the feeling is...
...alien. Not yours, in a way thatâs unsettling.
âSorry,â you say, and youâre not sure to who. Is it guilt, for that girl? Is it to yourself, or for the mission, or someone else? âSorry.â
When you return and give your report, the Seer is thoughtful, listens, and says very little. And the next day you're informed by one of her ghostly servants that you're being reassigned to the Walker in Darkness effective immediately.
Notable:
White-haired Shrike this time.
The Rider calls her Rain, which is a fragment of her full title, "Sorrowful Blade of the Softly-Falling Rain."
The Rider also appeared in memory 14, and briefly in memory 16.
***** startles to see you at the desk youâre afforded as an officer when she returns to the barracks, and tilts her head at you. âI know you donât know how to relax, boss, but I thought the officer on duty had tâhave missed something when she said you hadnât checked out for your scheduled leave today.â
You turn your head to her, brow furrowed, ink dripping off of your pen to blot on the paperââI what? I didnât request leave.â
She shrugs. âShe said you were down as visiting your brother in the city. You can still move it if you want, I guess?â
âIs someone playing a jokeâŠâ You shake your head, and shrug. âI donât have a brother. Maybe she got me mixed up with someone elseââ
You sigh, and push your chair out. âI guess Iâve got to go get this sorted out. Thanks for letting me know, *****.â
The man introduces himself as Swims-in-Shadows as you are trying and failing to hide behind your much smaller companions as youâre led into the stronghold of the Wood Shrineâs city. Heâsâmuch more delighted to see you than the woman who called herself Snake Eater, and youâre surprised heâs interested in you at all.
Though, it seems more like heâs interested in your relation to the rest of your party: âAnd you! How did you come to be traveling in the company of the Solar Exalted? There must be a story to it.â
You realize that you have, in fact, managed to pretend your way into being a mortal well enough to be mistaken for one, which is wild, and you demur: âWell, Lark and I grew up together, so Iâd follow her anywhereâŠâ
Honestly, though, youâre a little nervous of the attention, especially among so many strangers and even more so very dangerous strangers. The shrine-city is built high into the trees, and all over there are⊠cages, and pens, where the conquering lord of this place has imprisoned both the former inhabitants and any further prisoners of war they acquire.
He catches your unease. âNot to worry, friendâwhat was your name?â
âErâRain is fine.â
âNot to worry, then, Rain. Oroonoko is a friend to us,â he says, referring to your green-haired dragon blooded compatriot, âand Shaâa Oka will give your lieges the hearing that is theirs by right. And of course, youâll be fed, and you can tell of all your adventures!â
Oh no. Oh no, this is even worse than you thought.Notable:
There's a lot going on here???
Oroonoko and Snake Eater both appeared in memory 13, and Oroonoko's been mentioned a few times before. This in fact seems to take place shortly after memory 13.
Considering that you are on pilgrimage, technically, you did not expect to be sitting through nearly this many awkward dinners, and yet here you are. Your traveling party is seated around one end of a long table, a dais at one end of the room for entertainment currently empty, and youâre joined byâŠ
âŠthree personages. How to describe them: they are all arresting of visage beyond earthly comprehension, though in different ways. Dilari of the Sea Foam could be the belle of any ball in Creation just by showing up; one has the manner of a shabby but distinguished wizard, and the third⊠keeps paying too much attention to you.
Coryado has already challenged you to a duel, which you keep gracefully declining-without-declining, but it seems tonight, two nights after your arrival here in the fiendishly-humid shrine of Fire, he has had enough of your excuses, and bids you join him in a match of steel atop the banquet table, with a glorious prize on the line if you winâand a favor to be owed to the fair folk if you lose. First blood, not to the death, but the termsâ
You hate this.
The terrible thing is thatâyouâre hyper-aware, as you step very delicately onto the banquet table, that an easy way to avoid indebting yourself to the fair folk is to indebt yourself to something elseâthe patrons who already have their terrible threads wrapped around your neck from their dark graves at the bottom of the world. All you have to do is listen for a little bit. Open the door just a tiny bit.
But no: youâre doing this on your own terms. And as you look at his stance, examine how he holds himselfâ
âŠwell, they want a show. Youâre just going to give them a very different one than they expect.
The signal to start is given, and Coryado raises his sword with a flourish. And so do you, coming in with a sweeping blow that surely would look good in an illustrationâ
âexcept at the last moment you reverse your direction, swapping from the strike you telegraphed to sweep upwards instead, daiklave flashing to drive him back. You donât wait to press the advantage, hauling your leg back to kick him in the midsection and send him toppling back onto one of the chairs, balancing tenuously as it threatens to fall backwards, and then slam your elbow into his nose for good measure, sending him down to the floor with a bloody nose and your sword at his throat.
âYield,â you say, and the corner of your mouth curves just slightly upwards. Not a mote of essence expended.
Thereâs a silence, and then Coryado drops his sword to the stone floor with a clatter, and begins the applause.Notable:
Everyone looks SO DEEPLY ILL AT EASE except the three radiant individuals.
Youâre not sure what woke all of you in the middle of the nightâit felt like an earthquake, and the sealed manse of the Air Shrine has unsealed despite the local garrisonâs watch over it. Itâs the best chance youâre going to get to be able to walk that path.
But now that youâre in it, youâve all become separated, itâs pitch-dark, and the corridors are labyrinthine. And worst of all, the Neverborn whisper to you in the dark, suggesting which way to go, andâ
âhere, at the chasm that splits the two halves of the shrine, they tell you to jump.
Youâre absolutely not fucking doing that, even if in their own way theyâre trying to help something that they think is theirs. Even when your masked and cloaked traveling companion heeds their call, vanishing into the dark; even when Oroonoko does as well, relying on her gymnastâs build and athletic skills. There will be no jumping into any weird spooky holes tonight.
Later, youâre slightly embarrassed to find out from them that it was something of a test of faith, and that the drop wasnât actually dangerous in the end; but on the other hand, you donât feel very bad at all for ignoring the Neverborn.
Notable:
White-haired Shrike, probably from the same time as her other Shrine visits.
Your mother always rises before you do, somehow, and goes to bed later, and yet somehow you have never been able to best her in the sword, even when sheâs clearly holding back for your training. She hardly has the hours to train to the extent that you do, these days, with her duties, but still, she barely has to break a sweat to outpace you.
You pull yourself to your feet withâeffort. It needs a lot of effort, because youâre tired and aching and for fuckâs sake, sheâs already coming in swinging, and this time you block, still on one knee, training sword above your head before rolling to the side before her weapon comes down again onto the stones with a thwack.
She doesnât praise you; youâre only doing the minimum expected, after all. But you get more or less steady to your feet, even though your head feels a little like itâs ringing. Maybe sheâs still shouting at you, but it sort of passes over you, tinny and distant, and you can feel yourself move but itâs⊠strange, you feel heavy and your head feels cloudy, even though youâre pretty sure youâre not slowing down, and thenâ
Your mother steps neatly past you to your flank, and slams her wooden sword down across your back, and you drop to the flagstones like a sack of potatoes, your own sword dropping from your nerveless fingers.
Today you are sixteen years old.
Notable
Mahogany-haired, tan-skinned Shrike, clearly in her mid-teens.
Youâre in⊠a shrine, again. This seems to happen a lot to you.
Through the entrance, the hallway makes a sharp left turn, leading you back toward the outer wall. Halfway down, you realize thereâs an inscriptionâOld Realm on one side, High Realm on the other:
The Earth Dragon is the pillar of strength upon which the world rests, for He understands that there is no difference between the Essence of the self and the Essence of All Creation. It is the Way of He Who Illuminates Both Worlds with Majesty and Power to endure any hardship, for He knows that the key to altering the world is to first alter the self.
âŠhuh.
Once again, you must contend with a series of puzzles that seem designed to get a little under your skinâmirrors that show you in different clothes and poses until you all realize (after way too long) that it requires you to strip naked in the relatively chilly shrine corridors. At least you donât mind the cold, but itâs a little irritating. However, this is the last stop on your journey, and all of you are at least determined to see it through (with varying amounts of complaining).
One of your companions activates the pyramid that the corridor leads to, causing a brilliant white beam to shoot outâand it seems that Glory finished his task on the other side of the shrine, as well. An adamant door rises from the floor in front of the enormous gem on the back wallânow leading to a vast, indistinct cityscape.
Itâs a city, yes, butâalien, and impossible as a landscape, each direction consumed by one particular element, a vast pyramid visible in the distance, and a smaller one even further away. The buildings are strange and geometric, in triangles and parallelograms; birds made of fire fly across the sky; colors youâve never seen before paint into labyrinths that make your head hurt. Itâs mesmerizing and you immediately wrench your gaze to your feetâbefore realizing that Oroonoko, Glory, and **** havenât. You grab Oroonoko and cover her eyes, and she squeaks, but doesnât actually protest.
Keeping your eyes on your feet, you all shuffle toward the pyramidâit seems significant, and, well. You want to not have to look at all of whatever the hell that stuff is outside.
There are two doors leading into the pyramidâone is rimmed in ever-shifting, silvery light, while the other is made up of the five elements: wood, water, earth, fire, and air. The corridors are very narrow, so you have to go single-file, until you find⊠something.
It looks like a bush, but it canât be oneâwith golden branches and twigs of water, leaves of fire and solidified air. And above you, in the distance above the smaller pyramid, you can see⊠silvery light, coalescing into a disc, dark patches shifting and flowing across its face, seemingly at random.
The bush flares bright, and speaks to the silvery disc, delighted bewilderment in Her voiceâalthough, you more experience the words, rather than hear them, precisely.
"Beloved! It has been ages! How have you come to be here?â
âIt would seem some of our Chosen walked the Path you left upon Creationâs birth-Caul,â the disc replies, and you realize, startled, that this must beâLuna? âThe Chosenâhumans, that isâonce again serve as our Conduits.â
âDoes this mean we will commune with regularity, the way we once did?â
âNo, I do not believe we shall.â Thereâs the feeling of a deep sigh, in the moonâs soul-voice. âThis particular instance seems to be a fluke. An unusual confluence of circumstance led these children to walk our Path.â
âSo your Chosen are still at odds with those of my children?â
âYes. Their feud shows no sign of abating.â
âMoreâs the pity.â You sense the bushâs scrutiny turn toward all of you, and thereâs somethingâterrifying about that, honestly. âDearest, I see a few of my childrenâs Chosen, but where are yours? Are these some of Solâs? And what are these?â Tendrils of fire-water reach out across the infinite gulf between pyramids to coil, questingly, toward you and Gloryâ
You choke down a yelp. You both want to jump back and also really, really donât want to offend who you think this is.
âSo they are. I believe the presence of one of His more flexible Chosen is what enabled our communion. The other two... I know not.â They speak low, mournful. âThey are a new development, dark mirrors of Solâs servants, but Chosen by your fallen kin.â
You hold entirely rigid and still while some of the tendrils reach into your chest, and try not to breathe or make any kind of sound, althoughâdespite the fact that itâs made of fire, it doesnât hurt, somehow. It just feels⊠really uncomfortable. The bushâwho must be Gaiaâmakes a satisfied sort of hum. âI disagree, dearest. These Exaltations are hardly new. Tell me, is Sol missing any of his Chosen?â
âHm⊠Yes, quite a few.â
âWell, these âdark mirrorsâ may be the ones He misplaced. These two, at least, bear the Makerâs signature â I believe they are part of his original batch. Have you consulted with Him about these ânewâ Chosen?â
âNo, beloved, and we cannot. He hid Himself away shortly after you departed.â
âTch.â Gaia scoffs. âPerhaps that is for the best.â Her voice turns warm again, though, just a moment later. âI know how much you love a puzzle, my dear.â
Luna's laugh echoes through your bones. âThat I do. Beloved, I know not how long this Conduit will remain open. Perhaps we should make the most of the time we have?â
âYes, please. Come here, dearest.â
And then yet another impossible, incomprehensible thing happens in front of you, and you are left to avert your eyes once more.
Honestly, youâre surprised it takes as long as it does to break into outright war, with Ryuken taking over territory in two of the small fiefdoms between your nations; your scale sees action in a few small skirmishes edging across the border.
Youâre more meticulous than some of your fellow lieutenants; while your squad handles its engagements cleanly and you do your best to draw fighting away from towns, you wince every time you hear the clinical readouts of local casualties in the morning briefings. The Walker in Darkness has moved to back Ryuken, and their unnatural, ghostly scouts are hard to spot for anyone not paying attention.
******* is irritable about the whole thing. âI canât believe they call us the hard-luck scale and we keep getting stuck cleaning up their messes.â
***** punches them in the shoulder. âWe donât even get called that anymore, dumbass. Weâre fully reformed or something.â
âIâll reform your ass.â
She grins. âTry itââ
âChildren, children,â you say, airily, setting your hands on their shoulders, and across from you, **** snorts, and ******** goes back to humming amiably as she stokes the campfire.
Youâve all worked hard. And also thereâs been a lot of blood and tears and shouting, butânow, everyone works together nigh-seamlessly. ******* elbows you lightly in the ribs for their personal space, you laugh and raise your hands, and you think that maybeâyou have friends you can trust at your back.
Itâs a couple weeks later when you get called in for support of a routine scouting mission that turned into a skirmish, that turns into a full-on battleâby the end youâre muddied and have a smear of blood across your face, but itâs not yours. Sister Ascendant Crane stalks through the group, holding the battle-standard highâ
âAble scales, to meâwe chase this down and nip this in the bud! For the glory and future of Zhanglam! Kestrel Strikes at Twilight, I need you with meââ
You startle. You? You look back at your scale, and they look at you, and you shrug at them, like: well, shit. Letâs go. Notable: Surely nothing will go wrong.
Youâre not sure how they fell on you that quicklyâmaybe you missed some scouts, hidden in the pass. The mists rolled in quickly, making it hard to see, but you were sure it would pass, if the wind was like this. Chasing the Ryuken army back along their path, suddenly thereâs a flurry of arrows from the eastâ
âCurassow!â you shout, seeing her take one to the shoulderâsheâs sturdy and tall, but still.
âIâm good,â she says, gritting her teeth. âShit, where did theyââ
âEast, up on the rocks, shields up!â yells one of your soldiers.
âGood spotting, Hoatzin,â you say, crisply, and they nod. âPull backâif theyâre on the run thatâs good enoughââ
âKâLieutenant! Behindââ
You turn just fast enough to see your rear guard dodge out of the way of the heavily-armored soldier who somehow appeared silently, from nowhereâshe takes a scrape, but sheâs agile.
âCrake, to me,â you say, raising your swordâeven with Curassow, youâre probably the heaviest fighter here. âWhoever you are, stand down. Pass with your fellows, or surrender.â
The single enemy soldier doesnât speak, just raises their empty handâand the earth starts to shake.
âSorcery!â calls your archer. âFuck, we gotta get out of here, we donât have a fucking sorcererââ
You donât bother to reprimand him on his language for once. âWren, help me clear a path!â
He nods, grinning, and nocks an arrow. âGot it, bossââ
You charge, swords raised, and your people take on defensive positionsâand then Wren falters, gasping and choking, dropping his bow. Alarmed, you turn, andâ
In that moment, you leave just the barest of openings. You were always so efficient, but thereâthere. The enemy sweeps up with their sword, with that perfect accursed precision you would later acquire yourself, a chosen of the black pit of night, and skewers you through, front to back, and pulls the sword out neatly with a wet sound.
You donât even really notice youâre falling until you hit the ground, boneless, lightheadedâsword still clutched in a deathgrip in your fingers. Around you, you can hear shoutingâyou can hear them calling your name, almostâor at least the space your name would occupy, if you hadnât later removed it from all memory and all fate. You can hear the dull thud of bodies against the groundâof steel through flesh. Of another flurry of arrows, now that their sniper has been forgotten in the chaos, points thudding into flesh.
And you hear silence.
And then you hear a voice. The words it speaks are gentle, kind. Melancholy. Mourning the fact that it could only ever end this way; that these children would follow you in faith and give their lives for you in love, all for naught. That so many would suffer this same wayâgiving their lives for things that would pass away, when all would eventually fade.
When it asks you if youâd like to make their sacrifice worth something, you say yes.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
Memory 001
Thereâs a rustle, and her hand separates the fronds that block you from view. **** looks up, brushing damp mahogany hair out of her face, and seems momentarily relieved to have found you before her face turns uncharacteristically serious again.
â*******,â she says, softly. âI need to tell you something.â
You bite the inside of your lower lip, bracing yourself, and look up at her, not quite meeting her eyes.
**** looks like sheâs waiting for you to say something, but then gives an almost-imperceptible shake of her head, and sighs. âFatherâs worried about me,â she says, âwith war so close. He says itâs high time I entertained suitors, anyway. Weâre leaving for Greyfalls.â
You should say something, but what is there to say? You knew was comingâthat there was no future for the two of you. It was just a matter of when the axe would fall.
After a moment, **** walks over, to flop down next to you on the riverbank. âYour mother will lose her mind if you ruin that dress,â you say, finally.
**** rolls her eyes. âReally? Thatâs all you can say about it?â
You shrug, folding your hands in your lap. âI just⊠What can we do?â
âOne thing,â says ****, covering your tanned hands with her fair ones. âRun away with me.â
âWhat?â You jerk back involuntarily, almost banging your head on the bridge above. âWhat, no. We canât.â
âYou and meâbetween the two of us, weâve always been good at taking care of each other,â **** goes on, breathlessly. âWe can make it. Go to some other country where no one knows us, or to Chiaroscuro. Or the Blessed Isle! But I canât protect you here anymore.â
It feels like your heart is going to beat out of your chest, like youâre standing watching pebbles peel off from beneath your feet at the edge of a cliff. It almost feels like someone will catch you.
But then your motherâs face flashes before her eyesâstern, steely, disappointedâand it feels like youâre already falling. All her hopes she pinned on you, her disappointing firstborn, everything sheâs given you to help you fill the shoes of the family legacy. Your brother, who would have much rather been in your place, watching you carefully from the high windows of the temple.
All your ancestors, for generations and generations, serving dutifully, and then youâall it takes is one word to sever that long unbroken line. Just one.
You canât say it.
She cries and she screams and you feel like youâre going to throw up, caught between the immovable object of your family and the unstoppable force of the person most important to you. You canât even come up with a good argument; itâs just that, when it comes down to it, youâve never resented your family for the pressure theyâve put on you. Itâs yourself you resent.
In the end, **** storms off, long braid whipping behind her as she elbows her way back through the palms and into the now-pouring rain. You make a half-hearted attempt to follow, near-slipping and scraping your head on the bridge as you go, but what can you say that will change anything? What can you offer?
Her family leaves the next week. You donât say goodbye.
Notable:
memory 002
You could almost call it peaceful here, next to the clouded, still waters of the lake. A calm after a storm, perhaps. When you hear the intermittent screams of the dying, they're distant and quickly over. The overcast, smoke-choked sky casts everything in a soft greyish light. It'll rain soon; your scars always twinge when it's on its way.
Here in the quiet is where you like it bestâno eyes on you, no crushing pressure squeezing at your heart. All thought slips away into the gentle undertow of Oblivion, your presence like a transparent shadow passing through the world.
Duty remains, though; you can't stay here forever. With a sigh, you pull your sword from the soft ground next to you that you planted it in, shaking off the dirt and blood still clinging. The blade is long and keen, and the dark surface glints with a shifting, oily sheen; it feels comfortable in your hand despite its heft. You're about to sheathe it when a sound catches your attention.
In the reeds, movement. You tilt your head, and step lightly across the ground; in your heavy armor, there's little need to be worried about surprises. Gently, you part the tall stalks along your path toward the source of the noise.
The man isn't much older than you, and he never will be; one leg is twisted at an awkward angle, and you know well enough what it sounds like when breath won't quite take. Curled in his arms is a small boy; his black hair is stuck with sweat to his face, but he doesn't stir at all.
"Youâ" the man bites out, his voice a wheeze. His eyes can't quite focus on you. "Please, whoever you are, have mercy... my brother..."
Gently, you smile, and nodâand then in one quick movement you drive the sword directly through his chest. He gives one last gasp of surprise, and then the light in his eyes fades as he joins his brother.
You sheathe your sword and bend to close his eyes just as the first drops of rain begin to fall.
Notable:
memory 003
**** puts up her fists in an approximation of a fighting stance, brow furrowed in complete seriousness. She's tied her long dark hair back in a simple braid, every inch the warrior except for the stiff, expensive fabrics her parents dress her in.
You inspect her stanceâher delicate wrists, the lines of her arms. "Erâhere," you say, and gingerly push her arms up until her fists stay in front of her eyes. "I'm not going to be as good as a real teacher, but they're always saying to keep your hands up, protect your face. It's got a lot of important parts to it."
"All right," says ****, her face drawn into serious lines. "Wellâcome at me."
"I'm going to go slow. To start with, anyway. Just block, and then, uh..." You try and remember how your tutors phrased it. "And then return to protecting your core."
You aim a wide outside swing at her right side, and she raises her arm to blockâa little too hard, and you both end up shaking out your arms from hitting a nerve wrong, laughing the whole time.
"Let's, um, try that again," you say.
She's good, thoughâgraceful and quick, for a beginner, and faster than you, even when you speed up the exercise. "You're picking it up fast," you say, when you break to catch your breath. "Are you sure your parents wouldn't at least let you learn self-defense?"
She shakes her head, her mouth twisting. "They say it's safer for me to not concern myself with such things. That there's no need for me to, when our noble status is unquestioned and there are others whose role it is to protect."
You shrug. "He's not wrongâ"
"*******!"
"âsorry. I just wish... I don't know. That we'd been born under each others' stars." You flop down under the shade of a broad-leaved tree, where **** left the books she'd brought for you. "But there must be a reason for it."
"Hmph," says ****, smoothing her sarong and coming to sit down next to you. "Maybe, but I don't want to protect myself. I want to be able to protect others, like you're learning to do. I want to protect you."
A jolt through your heart like a shock, like the spear of the god of love hitting its target. You take the top book from the stack, and set it on your lap. "See, that's why I've got to work harder. It's irresponsible of me to have to rely on you, like that."
**** punches you in the shoulder. "You know what I mean," she says, and rests her head on your shoulder. You wonder if you do know what she means, butâthat tone of voice means accept it, you dummy, and you'd do anything for her. So you smile, lean back against the tree, and crack open the book, for a moment letting yourself forget about what you ought to be doing and who you ought to be.
Notable:
memory 004
You feel out of place, honestly, even though their generals go out of their way to make room for you in conversationâto treat you as an equal. Maybe that's why you feel out of place; you still hardly feel like you should be here. It's true that in your dark armor of light-leeching metal and scarred face, you cut an intimidating figure to soldiers who rarely approach the front lines of battle, and in the absence of your master, you command what respect he would. They nod attentively as you push tokens around the map, instructing them on where to best place their forces to complement your own.
What discomfort you feel, though, vanishes under the comforting murmur of faraway voices, pitter-pattering across your consciousness like light rainâa reminder that all of this is merely temporary. That in but two months time all of these people will be dead, their dreams of expansion and empire a ghostly memory, their war a lesson in hubris. Your master does indeed have plans for them, as he saidâit's just that those plans are more in the way of a funeral pyre.
You'd rather not, to be honest. You don't like drawing things like this out. Your one colleague here is in agreement, albeit for slightly different reasons; he says as much at the next break, when he emerges scowling from his position wedged into the corner.
"This is a waste of time," *** **** mutters, twirling an unsheathed dagger between two fingers, and you dimly reflect that you'd made him leave all of those in your rooms. Apparently you'd missed one. "If I'd have known that I was signing up for more toy soldier bullshit instead of a real bloodbathâ"
"You'd have gotten sent here all the same," you remind him.
He turns the blade to pick at his teeth. "We could kill all of them right now. It'd be easy. The Walker doesn't need all these mind games he's so fucking intent on playing."
You a little bit just want to let him have his wish, for all that all of this would feel less dishonest. But no; you know your orders, and you know your job, and whatever else you've been, you've always been patient. You shake your head. "You know that's only part of the goal," you say. "Now keep an eye out. You know what your role is in all of this. All you have to do is play it."
He groans. "I forgot you liked being a toy soldier," he says, rolls his eyes, and goes back to sulk.
No matter. You go back to your map, the rosters, the supply manifests, and quietly continue planning the beginning and end of a war.
Notable:
memory 005
Everyone knew promotions were coming, between a couple disastrous raids from Mt. Metagalapa killing several of the highest-ranked and best loved commanders in one swoop and the plus the Assembly's approval of more defense resources. But you had been sure you wouldn't be calledâand so had everyone else, judging by the looks you'd gotten when soldiers had been called from the barracks this morning.
You still had your doubts that this wasn't something else entirely. A reprimand? But, no. Here are assembled the best of the lower ranksâand you, and the legion commander with the esteemed Sister Ascendant Crane of the Immaculate Order at her shoulder.
The commander is a brief, efficient woman with her hair pulled up into a tight bun and dark circles under her eyesâthe sort more at home in the field than here, under the sloping polished red-and-gold painted roof of the administration office, the carved statue of Yesyrk, the longtime local guardian deity, looming over her. You find yourself sympathizing. "I imagine none of you are surprised by this," she says. "We're in need of good officers, and we've seen traits among you that might someday get you there.
"None of you are readyâdon't think you are," she goes on, "but you'll need to be, before long, and we intend to make sure you succeed. Each of you will be in charge of a fang of soldiers, and exercises with them begin tomorrow. You'll see the quartermaster after this, and speak with the drill instructors."
Sister Crane puts a hand on her shoulder, with the gentle questioning expression of asking if she might speakâas if she needs permission. The commander clears her throat. "Sister Ascendant Crane wishes to address you, also. Heed her words as the guidance of the Dragons."
"Thank you," says Sister Crane, the sleeves of her realm-style robes sweeping behind her as she steps forward. She's striking, and despite her soft features and her artfully-arranged silky black hair, has a fundamental gravitas. "Thank you, Commander, and thank you, our newly-minted Fang-Leaders. This is a time of great uncertainty and strife, and it will take great courage to rise to the occasionâbut we know that all of you have it within you."
She smiles, and her presence is magnetic; while before you could feel stray glances in your direction now and again, now all attention is focused on her. "If you fear we have made a mistake, here is why we chose you: because you understand, above all, what your duty to your family, home, and country is, and hold it above all else unwaveringly."
You have always been your mother's daughter, that much is true. Her words should give you hope that you might fill these big shoes, but instead you just feel the bottom of your stomach drop like a stone. This is your life now; this is who you are now. Your mother will be so proud.
Wasn't that what you wanted?
On the way to the quartermaster's, the group erupts in quiet but excited chatter. You jog to keep up, and stumble as you tumble over the foot of another newly-minted Fang-Leader.
"Didn't see you there," she says, archly, straightening her peaked helmet, and some of the other new officers snicker before going on without you.
Your troubles are far from over, it seems.
Notable:
memory 006
The stranger is beautiful-faced, lithe, graceful, and heâs paying more attention to **** and your hosts then youâd like. Considering you think you saw your former co-worker *** **** in the crowd, youâre not inclined to take chances. When the stranger slips off to the private quarters of the household, you take your tray of drinks and follow, taking refuge in the relative invisibility of the borrowed black linen servantsâ garb youâre wearing.
Only now you realize the place youâve followed him to: the rooms of the lord of the house. And the stranger is nowhere to be seen.
Shit. This definitely feels like trouble.
âI-is someone there,â you call, setting the drinks on a side table to leave your hands free. Places one might hide: the wardrobe? Behind the folding screen?
...under the bed?
You stoop to lookâand he's out in a flash, rolling to a half-kneel with a long golden needle sliding from his sleeve, and you back up a half-step in surprise. "Stay quiet," he says, in a voice like silk covering steel. "I have no grudge with you."
"Ahâ" You frown. If he's not here for you... "Who... do you have a grudge with, then?"
The man relaxes slightly, though he still holds his needle at the ready. "I should think that would have been obvious by now."
All right, fair. You stay quiet for a long moment, thinking it over. "How much trouble is this going to cause?"
He seems relieved at your questionâor at least the fact that you don't seem to have much of a stake in stopping him. "Trouble tonight?" He shakes his head, sending his long, silken black hair swaying. Â "None at all. Â Trouble tomorrow? Â My hope is that it cures some of that."
You let yourself slump against the wall. Why does this always happen?
"Can you bring me Isymaias?" he asks, naming the lord of the houseâthe man whose room you're currently dallying in.
"Can I bring him to you?" You shake your head. "UhâI'm not sure how, I mean... I don't know where he is?"
He furrows his brow in confusion. "You're one of his servants, aren't you? Can you tell him there's a disturbance elsewhere? Â Or can you get me near him?"
"I'm really only temporary staff, Iâ"
Footsteps in the hallway. You both freeze, and then he rolls back under the bed in one fluid movement, leaving you alone in the room. Fuck. You're not great at hidingâit's hard to hide someone of your heightâso you pick up your tray of drinks to look vaguely like you're doing something legitimate.
It doesn't really do much for you, although you guess the stranger sure got his wish, because the guards flanking Isymaias pin your shoulders to the wall without you being able to get a word in edgewise. "I was justâ"
The man himself gestures to an attendant for his sword. "You'll imagine my surprise when one of my guests tells me the bodyguard of my charming musical guest has wandered out of the kitchens and into my private suite." Silently, you curse *** ****; of course he wouldn't be content to watch you from afar. "Who are you really? I won't ask twice."
You flinch. "I'm no one," you protest. "Only who I said I wasâI saw someone come in here and followedâ"
"****? ****âwhat's my bodyguard done, Lord Isymaias? I assure youâ" ****'s heard the ruckus, trying to elbow her way in past the guards, but to no avail with her delicate stature, though her voice commands the attention of the room.
Isymaias narrows his eyes at her. "I'll deal with you in a moment," he says. "Seize her; that one will make a pretty caged songbird if she's no escape artist, but this skulduggery ends now. I'd be a fool if I didn't know how the peasants plot against me." He raises his sword, and swingsâ
It comes to you as easily as breathing. You raise your hands, and something deep and dark answers your call. There's a clang of steel on steel.
The sword that wasn't in your hands a moment before is more than half your height, dark metal with an uncanny sheen across its pristine surface. Whispers rise to your ears, singing of bloodshed to come, of the glorious carnage you were meant forâbut you ignore them as you rise to your feet in a defensive stance.
Isymaias takes a step back toward his bed, a thousand half-questions forming and dying on his lipsâand then the real assassin strikes.
And the room falls to chaos.
Notable:
memory 007
But, for now, you can both take a brief respite in the anonymity of this crowded portside restaurant and something that's not horrible shipboard food. It's nothing special, but the skewers of meat are warm and properly spiced, even to your slightly dulled sense of taste, and there's strong rice wine to be had after cold nights on the sea.
You squeeze into seats along the edge where one of the proprietors is pouring drinks. ****, the richer-looking of the two of you, puts an order to him, but well before it comes, a fellow who looks well-enough fed and comfortable enough among the crowd to be the owner stops by.
"I barely believed it when one of my waitstaff told me that the famed Lark Sings at Dawn had graced us with her presence! What brings you to the Blessed Isle?"
She demurs, managing to inject a chipper tone into her words: "Oh, collecting stories for new materialâand bringing my old material to new faces and places. What a traveling songstress does, of course!"
He shifts with the slightly false modesty of one about to ask a favor. "Would you know, miss, the performers we'd booked for tonight have run into a bit of trouble with their instruments and some water damage from a recent storm. If you wouldn't mindâ"
"I'd love to," she says, without even missing a beat. "Ah, I haven't any instruments with me, but perhaps if you don't mind my asking around in the crowdâ"
"I'm sure anyone would be honored of the chance," he says, visibly relieved.
Lark can command the attention of a room without even trying, and soon enough she manages to find a sailor claiming to be decent with a fiddle and a flutist with wild hair and a sallow complexion, who bows extravagantly to Lark and kisses her hand. You don't like him.
The room quiets, waiting, watchingâand then, after a few moments of whispered discussion, the room is alive with music. The two instrumentalists know just what to do to back Lark's singing, and Lark puts a lively dance to it, encouraging the crowd to call-and-response on the refrains until they're all singing and clapping along, smiles on their faces.
There's the sudden prickling feeling of attention on you, and you realize that a striking red-haired woman has slid in to the seat Lark vacated and is only keeping half her attention on the performanceâbecause the other half is on you.
"Any more of us here and we'll draw attention," she says, sounding slightly pained, and belatedly, you realize she's speaking Old Realm, of all things, which bears little use outside of Realm scholars andâoh. Oh no.
"Even withoutâwell. Never mind," she continues. "Whose business are you here on..."
Your optimism is so far buried that it takes you a moment to realize that she doesn't know who you are, which is the best news you've had in months. You glance away, trying desperately to catch Lark's attention. "Ahâmy own, at the moment," you say, trying to keep it vague. "Taking care of some unfinished business."
Lark finally catches your eye, and is professional enough not to even break mid-line despite registering your alarm.
"Whose business are youâ" the woman begins again, and you stuff a piece of meat into your mouth to forestall further conversation, although the woman looks at your funny.
The piece ends just a few moments later. Lark picks her way over without obvious haste, trying not to pull attention to anything strange going onâalthough as much as you hate the troublesome kind of attention, you wish she'd abandon that care for once in this situation.
"Let's find our lodgings?" she says, brightly, taking your hand, and nodding with only barely perceptible hesitation to your neighbor. You can't stand up fast enough, and once you're into the crowd the two of you practically dash out the back door.
Notable:
memory 008
"Every dayâevery day I wished I'd gone with you. That I'd said yes." You shake your head, with a small smile. "I thought that I'd never get a chance againâso, I couldn't let myself make the same mistake."
You tune out the voices always at your ears, in whispers, speaking of hunger and light that must be blotted out, and bend down to kiss her.
For a split second it's brilliant, and warm, and she kisses you back, her fingers tugging at the collar of your cloak, and thenâ
The voices scream in your ears, and your thoughts are overtaken pain as first the scars criss-crossing your arms and legs start bleeding fresh. Stumbling back, you look down as a dark wet patch blossoms on your shirt, over your stomach. The world spins, and goes dark.
When you wake up, Lark is kneeling beside you, her face set in lines of worry and her hands bloodied with the effort of bandaging you; your campfire has burned itself out to ashes, and the two of you sit in the center of a perfect, ten-pace circle of newly dead and rotting vegetation. At least Lark's unharmed, though the mark on her forehead is now glowing brightly, the only light in the clearing.
She offers a hand to help you up; you stare at it for a moment, then shake your head and pull yourself to your feet on your own.
Notable:
memory 009
In any case, you're pretty sure the family she bought the pup from was overstating a bit the natural capabilities of the breed for home protection. She puts you and your brother to the work of training the dogâyou name him Little Lion for how you have to trim his shaggy fur in the rainy seasonâbut he doesn't want to bite at sticks, no matter how menacingly the two of you shake them. In the end, your brother wanders off, and you play fetch with the stick instead.
It at least gives you an excuse to go out on your own, taking Little Lion with you on runs. He doesn't like being cooped up in the yard, you're pretty sure, and likes exploring down the canal beds and sniffing around the streets for evidence of interesting things gone by. One of the servants from a nearby household shows you how to teach him tricksâroll over, shake, play dead.
Your brother looks at you with a little disdain when you drop your leftover scraps surreptitiously under the table, but it's not *his* feet that Little Lion sleeps at, and thereafter your brother's pranks stop. Maybe there's more than one way of being a guard dog.
Notable:
memory 010 (CW: parental abuse)
âthe tutor is trying his best, but after the shine wore off on the first day it's just exhausting, and frustrating, and you'd rather be inside. You can see your brother at the window, occasionally catching him staring out at you, and you suddenly have an appreciation for all the reading you've been made to do. It's dull, but you feel like you understand it; here, you don't feel like you can make your body move the right way at all, or fast enough, or forcefully enough.
You're young, so it's a lot of strength-building exercises between actual sword drills. You can tell from reading his reactions that you're nowhere near where he expected you to be; his optimism from the start of the week has fallen to a rock-bottom low. So much for the eldest child of ********** ****** ******* *** ***.
When it's time to break and go to your afternoon lessons, you both look bedraggled; he seems as ready to be gone as you do. But then, a clearing of a throat, and both of you turn and freeze at the *clack* of your mother's boots across the stone.
"I've seen enough," she says, and you can see her expression is dark as she leaves the shade of the broadleaf tree nearest the training yard. "You, boyâyou're dismissed permanently."
He makes no move to protest, nor says a wordâonly grabs his things and turns to leave. The son of a noble house, to be sure, but a fourth son; he has no ground for protest. You're not concerned for him, though, because you know your mother, and you know what's next.
She picks up the wooden practice sword from the ground, and, with a sigh, presses it back into your aching, newly-calloused hands. "Now," she says, "I suppose if you want a thing done right, you must do it yourself. Your afternoon lessons are cancelled, so no need to concern yourself with that.
"That last drill. Do it again. Until I'm satisfied."
When you're finally allowed to stagger inside at sunset, you've missed dinner, but you're too tired to muster up hunger, or anything but going straight to bed. Normally you'd stay up and read from your own small libraryâlose yourself in an epic taleâbut the thought of doing anything but be dead to the world makes you feel like crying.
When you're sure that there's no one near enough to hear, you cry anyway.
Notable:
memory 011
You can help him with the first of those things, at least. Your daiklave flashes swift and true, glinting uncannily as it slices neatly through the reinforced padding at his neck and through flesh and muscle and bone. A quick death.
You've always hated to see people suffer.
A voice comes to your ears, carried as if on the windâLeave something for me to work with, won't you? Of course. You've both got your orders.
You square your shoulders, and charge ahead, cutting a bloody path through the too-small defensive force assembled, and your forces fall upon the living soldiers after your example. The soldiers here are barely better than a border militia, undergeared and overmatched against the Walker's armies of ghosts and walking dead, who feel no pain nor mercy; the capital isn't taking this seriously. Yet. They will when you establish your forward base here, on a newly-minted shadowland.
As you stride forward into the city proper, your pace relentless, you look over your shoulder at your colleague, standing among the field of corpses, her ash-colored hair fluttering in the torrent of necrotic energies drawn up from the underworld and into the not-yet-cooled bodies.
Turning away, you sigh, and forge onward to continue the messy business of claiming this place for the Walker in Darkness.
Notable:
memory 012
"It's very kind of you to help," you say, trying to keep the tension out of your voice. This kind of conflict is one you were never very good with, when thereâs no way you can throw yourself on your own sword to fix it. True to your asserted role as Larkâs servant, you set yourself to folding clothes and straightening piles of trinketsâa way to burn off the nervous energy without looking like youâre doing it.
âI think Lark deserves the credit.â
âOh, I didn't do much.â Lark shakes her head, hands folded in her lap. âThank you, ****, for accepting the suggestion. I know it can't be easy when some people have been less than welcoming."
"I'm doing it for you two. Â And the members of the caravan who aren't complete assholes." Â She takes off her cloak, and shakes out her mass of wavy black hair, looking very unhappy. "But I think it's safe to say that once we pass through, you'd all be better off without me."
"Why would you think that?â Lark almost reels back, startled. âYou're smart, you're kind, you want to help people.  Why would we be better off without that?"
"And pardon me for sayingâ" You raise your eyebrows, turning from your nervous tidying, though your voice stays mild. "âI feel you're not the one here with the most reason to say such a thing."
**** shakes her head, and gives a long sigh, running a hand backwards through her hair. âAs long as I'm here, there will be no peace among the members of the caravan. That's not going to help anyone."
"Yes. You aren't putting all these people's lives at riskââLark gestures to the caravan generallyââby existing.â She tilts her head. "Perhaps the conflict will bring about a better resolution.  They can't be on the Isle and hate all Dragon-touched."
A snort from ****. âI would say Kyra has them all well-trained."
"One might say the same of you and Oroonoko, with regard to us,â Lark continues, naming the grouchy, green-haired Dragonblooded archer whoâs become part of your traveling circle as well. âThe entire world teaches that we're evil. Â Yet you haven't tried to kill us. Why expect less from Kyra's followers?"
"And they probably haven't gotten to know many Dragon-touched well,â you add, hastily, to back her up, taking your seat back next to her. âThey'll surely realize soon that you're not what they think?"
"The one thing I've learned,â says ****, âwhen it comes to anything dragon-related, is that people will never fail to disappoint you."
"You saw how Tepet Aroven and Nellens Poramo reacted to me. I'm everything they fear, but they are willing to allow me a chance. And not all of Kyra's followers are being rude." She says the word "rude" in a way that implies it's a stand-in for a great many other, less kind things.
You glance back toward where you know the caravan stands outside, though itâs obscured by the tent. âI guess, alsoââ you start, âI feel like even if they're not the most trusting, they're still worth trying to protect?"
Lark nods, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder, and you almost pull away out of surprise. Instead, you sit up a little straighter, keeping still as if any movement might cause the world to disintegrate.
**** sighs, sitting down across from the two of you. Â She plays with the hem of her dress for a moment. Â "You know something? Â Before this..." she makes a vague gesture to herself, "...happened to me. Â I hated and feared the Dragons too." Â She pauses. Â "And in some ways, I still do..."
"Quite often, those with power use that power,â Lark says, and sighs. âSometimes for good and sometimes for ill, but one way or another, they use it."
"I know,â **** says, crossing her arms across her waist. âBut if I use mine, I live down to their expectations."Â
You try to smile, but it comes out with a wincing quality to it. "Some people you're never going to be able to please, probably? But youâyou shouldn't let their opinions stop you, I guess?" It doesnât come out very convincing; probably because itâs always been the kind of platitude youâve had trouble believing. "I've sort of come to terms with not being liked."
Lark squeezes your hand. âI like you," she says, and then turns to **** before she can see the look on your face. "I think the best thing you can do is to try to use your power wisely.  There's no sense pretending you don't have it.  You might as well use it to help others when you can, and when it won't cause other harm.
"....If that's comfortable for you, I mean. Â If it's not then by all means ignore me."
**** runs her hands through her hair, setting her mouth in a grim line. "Don't get me wrong. Â I'll give them the dance of a lifetime. Â I just...don't know where I'll be after."
Lark nods. "I would never presume to tell you what to do. Â But...I've grown fond of your company, and if you're willing, I think we could do a lot of good in the world, together."
"It's selfish of me to say, maybe?â You look down at your knees as you speak. âBut you've been very kind to us. There's too little of that in the world, it feels like, sometimes. And it's easier to accomplish real things together."
**** shakes her head, smiling absently. "What times we're living in. They treat me too rudely as a 'prince of the earth.' You treat me too kindly as a daughter of a whore."
"What on earth has your mother's profession to do with this?" Lark looks genuinely affronted. Â "I served in the courts of the Raksha; I've no right to judge anyone else."
"Andâand you treat me too kindly as a murderer," you murmur.
"I assume they deserved it,â **** says, drily, and you donât see her wry smileâyour blood runs cold in your veins, your breath catches in your throat.
Lark hisses, and squeezes your hand again, grounding you enough to shake your head, weakly. You close your eyes, and take refuge in the temporary dark. âNo,â you say. âThey didnât.â
Why do people keep thinking so well of you? They donât understand. Maybe not even Lark, who leans over to rest her head on your shoulder.
****âs still watching the two of you, fallen silent for once, her gaze both searching andâmaybe with a note of misplaced envy. You clasp your hands in your lap, not quite leaning back against Lark, and go on:
"You say you don't care what I am, but perhaps you should; I once served the Walker in Darkness because I was too weak-willed to be willing to die as I was meant to on the battlefield. I broke away, but not before helping to carry out the deathlords' war. And now that choice to leave sees me hunted. So..."
Lark cuts in, turning her face up toward you, her expression fierce. âIâm glad you didn't die. Â I'm glad you chose service. It means we found each other again. And we'll fix it. We'll make the world a better place."
**** shakes her head, smiling ruefully. âThis world doesn't deserve you."
"You really are too kind," you murmur.
Lark nods, looking away. âWhat she said.â
"Butââ you add, âthank you. For that."
**** lets out a slow exhale. Â "We get through the night. Â Get the caravan where they want to go. Â Then worry about tomorrow." Â A pause. Â "But you keep Brey away from me. Â His ingratitude is at odds with my patience. Â And I don't care if that sounds dynastic. Â I've been trying so hard."
Notable:
memory 013
âCompany.â The green-haired Wood-aspect is the first to twig to unwelcome visitors; she notches an arrow and her panther companion drops into a crouch at the edge of the clearing. Uneasy, you get to your feet, hand hovering in the air, ready to draw your sword from Nowhere, and the others assemble themselves into readiness, as well. The dark-haired Fire-aspect bites her lower lip, reaching protectively to draw Lark behind her.
When the two step into sight, though, the reaction is surprising and instantaneous. One man, one woman, and though the woman is particularly striking with sharp-features and a mane of dark hair, neither of them looks familiar to youâbut your shrouded, masked colleagueâs voice is suddenly thick with uncharacteristic emotion as he speaks a name, quietly.
âYoke.â
Both of the newcomers ignore this, apparently not recognizing it as directed at either of them. The woman starts in: âThis is Shaâa Okaâs territory. I thought weâd made clear what that meant to Dynastsââ
But she stops, realizing suddenly that not one but three sets of eyes are trained on hers. The assassin-courtier with the long, silky raven-black hair has his eyes on her as well, with a naked longing, and Lark, next to you, looks stunned. No, more than thatâthereâs something off about her expression, somehow. Like itâs not herâ
âYoke, dearestâitâs been so long,â continues *****, emotion audible though his face is still, as nearly always, hidden. His voice is strange, tooâmore imperious. Angry?
âDonât you dare speak to her,â the assassin-courtier cuts in, and his voice is odd, too. Heâs always angry, in that seething way of his, but his voice is sharp, higher-pitched.
The womanâYoke?âfor her part, looks just as bewildered to you. Something very strange is going on here. You turn to Lark, the question apparent on your features, but sheâs moving forward, pushing past **** and not looking at you.
The men are shouting at each otherâ***** shouting at **** for stealing his wife, **** retorting with accusations of being a controlling asshole, and Lark is trying to calm them down but canât get in a word edgewise. **** pulls the golden needles from his updo, but before he can strike ***** unleashes sorcery you hadnât even realized he was shapingâcracks form in the ground under ****âs feet, and smoke coils up from them into the shapes of cobras, who fall upon him.
You hear Larkâs voice sing out through the dust and dirt and smoke, but what finally clears the smoke away is when âYokeâ bursts through the fight, her arms growing fur, hands elongating into claws, taking the form of an enormous mongoose.
âItâs Snake Eater,â she growls. âGet it right. And youâre coming with me to explain to Shaâa Oka why you trespassed in his territory.â
Notable:
memory 014
"I figured," you say, shrugging, some of the tension leaving your shoulders in the motion.
"Of course you did,â she says. "We won't have much time before Crow notices I'm missing."
"Sure.â You nod, and pinch the bridge of your nose, not bothering to mention that this isnât the greatest time; she knows that well enough. âAre we going to find ourselves at odds again soon? I don't know if you can tell me what your orders are."
"I hope not," she chuckles. It's more of a cackle, but you know her well enough to know it's a humorous reaction, not any kind of baiting. "Red Crow's orders are to keep the factions fighting. Mine are to assist him in any way he asks.
"But that's not what my mistress really wants."
She tosses something at you.
You catch itânot as deftly as Oroonoko would, but you don't fumble. It's some sort of small leather sack, with laces around one end; you open it, curious, but thereâs nothing inside. Thoughâitâs just about the right size to be tied around a horse's hoof, now that you think of it.
"Take that to your Dragonblooded friend,â says the Rider. âShe'll know what to make of it."
You look up again, and give a curt nod. "I will," you say. "And alsoâI was wonderingââ
You pause for a moment. Should you go on? Is it even right to expect an answer from her? After all, what youâve been to each other in the pastâcolleagues, friends, occasional loversâwell, you more or less cut off any future there when you left the Walkerâs service, never to return.
Still, though, you forge ahead: âWhy are you helping me?"
The Rider smiles, with a tinge of bitterness. âBecause we're friends? Andâbecause my mission is not Red Crow's mission. My true mission, that is."
You pause for a long second, but then smile in turn, though itâs a bittersweet expression. That's enough. "Iâwell, I'm glad you still count me as a friend. I just wish I'd met you anywhere else." You tuck some stray hair behind your ear, and the smile fades. âI guess the Seer hasnât changed much. What is your mission, anyway?"
The Rider sighs. "Rain, there's much more going on here than a single, ancient feud. You've met the Seer. She always sends us on these odd quests that seem nonsensical, but always make sense after the fact. For whatever reason, she wants the Roseblack off of this isle, with her army intact. And do not tell anyone I told you that."
"Wellâ" You sigh, albeit in mild relief. So your plans do align. "Consider it secret. I'm... glad to hear that, although I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me more than a little uneasy."
A brief bark of laughter. For a moment, the atmosphere is such that you could be back together in the Seerâs manse, swapping black humor over trading sips from a flask. âYou and me both."
You laugh, as honestly as you have in a long while. "You should know that some of my friends have designs on killing Red Crow. You might want to make sure you're out of the way when they come after him."
She cackles again, and crosses her arms across her leather-armored chest with a smirk. "You mean you have designs on his head. Don't worry, I'll stay out of the fight."
"Wellâyou know me." You smile again, though this time it doesn't really reach to your eyes. "Althoughâwell. I have something else I need to take care of, before that." You pause, rubbing at your arms, and the old scars there. "Something bad's going to happen if I keep going like this."
She starts to turn her horse away. "Rain... it was good to see you again." Though before she lifts the reins to ride off, she adds, as partingâ "Think back, Rain. Have you ever seen me miss a shot?"
Her horse disappears into the darkness.
Notable:
memory 015
Then again, he isnât excused, either; the servants pack his bags with what heâll need at the temple while he he finishes the last of his work. As far as sheâs concerned, youâre both doing your duty, and thereâs little special about today.
All of you meet at the gates; youâre still wiping sweat from your forehead, practice sword stuck under your arm. Your brother, meanwhile, barely looks at you while your mother holds a brief discussion with the servants tasked with seeing him to his new home, looking too-small in his new robe.
You scuff one of your feet against the path, not sure what to say. âBitty, Iââ
âDonât call me that,â he says, reflexively, but continues on: âYou and I both know sheâs sending away the wrong one of us. Youâll never be what she wants. And I could have been, but sheâd never let me.â
âIt doesnât excuse either of us from trying, though, does it,â you say, quietly.
âNo,â he says, and for a moment the bitterness in his young features relaxes into simple weariness. âIf you donât work extra hard to make up for your complete lack of talent you can fuck right off.â
âWhereâd you learn that word?â
âIâve been working harder than you. If Iâm consigned to this Iâll at least make something of myself.â A rare tremor of emotion sneaks into his voice, though he doubles down on his aggressive tone to hide itâyou wouldnât know except you know what to look for. âThis is my home.â
âSorry,â you say. âSorry,â and thatâs all you can say before the servants bustle him off to the waiting horses to deliver him to the Immaculate Temple as its newest monk-in-training, and your motherâs hand is firm on your shoulder.
âBack to work,â she says, firmly, and soon itâs gone from your mind.
Notable:
memory 016
You hear some of the Deathlords have some rather repugnant tastes as far as their personal life activities, but the Seer seems to be a quiet academic, if the kind of genius itâs hard to talk to. She consults you on answers to questions of strategy at a theoretical level, and then bustles off to give orders that seemingly have nothing to do with the question asked.
A ghost takes notes for her on the chalkboard as she speaks at the front of the lecture hall at the center of her manse. Todayâs topic is the history of the ancient language of the Dragon-Kings, a lizardlike people youâve never had chance to encounter in your life, but you have always liked languages, so you try and take notes, even though you keep having to scratch them out and repeat them as she patiently but repeatedly corrects her ghostly servant on his script.
As youâre on your way out, you hear your name called. âSorrowful Blade of the Softly-Falling Rain?â the Seer says, in her gentle, slightly-wispy voice. âIf you have a moment.â
âIf,â as if thatâs a question. Obediently, you turn on the ball of your foot, and make your way down the steps.
âWith what can I assist you, Milady?â you ask, tucking your notebook under your arm.
She peers up at you from behind her spectacles, and underneath her slightly wild mane of ashy-greenish hair. âI was wondering, Sorrowful Blade of the Softly-Falling Rain, what you thought of my lecture today.â
âItâs, ahââ You fluster a little bit, at being addressed by your full title. âRain is fine, Milady.â
âIs that the only thing youâd prefer to be addressed by?â
Youâve always been keenly attuned to what other people want, even when they donât say it, and it strikes you that she seems to have an answer in mindâbut you donât know what it is.
After a moment of hesitation, you shake your head. âNo, Milady. Just Rain. But it was very educationalâIâve not had experience with the language before, but I think Iâve picked up a little, at least.â
She looks at you again like sheâs inspecting something, but instead of asking further questions just lays one hand gently on your cheek. You still your movements, not sure what to do, until finally she steps back and smiles. âI expect no less,â she says, in a slightly faraway tone. âIâd like it if you keep attending. Iâd be interested to see what you can learn.â
You let out your held breath very slowly, trying to make it look natural. âOf course,â you say, and smile.
Once youâre out of the lecture hall, though, you realize your hands are shaking.
Notable:
memory 017
It doesnât surprise you that they gave you the hard-luck soldiers. Scale Twelve is the slowest and weakest out of all of them, and unmotivated, to boot. The children of nobles not notable or motivated enough to rate officer and too used to being spoiledâyou could assign KP and laundry duty, but itâs come out badly too many times for you to risk another unit-level reprimand. And you know better than to think that recommending them unfit for duty wonât reflect poorly on you.
The first bellâs past, now, though, and thereâs been nary a rustle from the bunks after your last pass. You reach for the brass bell you keep near the door as a backup for the heavy sleepers, and realize that not only is it missing, a row of tacks laid in its place, ******* in bunk four is gone as well.
Fuck. A sinking feeling fills the pit of your stomach; missing a soldier whoâs probably decided to cut exercises for the day and having the rest of your unit oversleep will be the end of it for youâ
You brace yourself, and slam your fist against the corner of the nearest set of bunks as hard as you can. âWake UP you holler, and the boy in the topmost bunk almost startles off the edge. âDressed and beds made in five minutes, and if anyone knows where ******* went, youâd better tell me now.â
âWho?â yawns one, and the rest erupt in titters. You drag your hands down your face. Itâs going to be a long day, and an even longer conversation if you have to explain this to the Commander.
Notable:
memory 018
It hasnât always been an Immaculate temple; some ages ago, it was a temple to Yesryk, the patron god of the region, and you stop before their statue. You donât pray; youâre not supposed to, after all. The Immaculates take care of giving each god their due and no more. Still, itâs always seemed a little lonely to you, so in lieu of seeking out your brother you sit on one of the stone benches, enjoying the quiet.
But itâs not long after that thereâs the soft sound of slippers on stone, and a familiar grumble. âWhat the hell are you doing here, *******?â Bitty says, coming to stand next to you. âDonât tell me you want family time.â
You give a one-shouldered shrug. âThis is probably the last leave Iâm going to get in a while, andâI donât really have a good place to spend it, anyway. Motherâs much too busy, andââ
And Larkâs gone.
âAnd, well. You didnât have to come see me.â
He crosses his arms and looks away. âHonorable Ascendant Craneâs really pushing for war, isnât she.â
âYou donât think itâs a good idea? With Ryukenâs incursionsââ
âUgh.â He turns on the ball of his foot, his junior monkâs robes swirling around him. âJust because you made officerâhonestly, you being an officer is a sign we really shouldnât be going to war, and you know it.â
âIâmâtrying.â
âWhen have you ever tried in your entire life, *******? Taking the path of least resistance isnât trying, but, hey, it got you everything, so why argue with that?â
You sit very still, hands in your lap, waiting for him to get it out of his system, but he stalks over and grabs you by the lapels, hauling you up off the benchâyouâre so surprised that you donât even resist. âI, I didnât mean toâwhat could I have done, Bittyââ
âFuck off, *******. You could have done literally anything, but here we are, arenât we? Youâre always going to be a disappointment, and Iâm always going to be nothing, all because youâre too coward to change anything.â He looks like heâs not sure what he wants to doâif he wants to throw a punch, or walk away.
His consideration is cut short, though, by the click of heeled boots across the stone floor. âGuarded Bittern,â says a smooth, serene voiceâa voice youâve heard before, in fact. âCould you see to preparing tomorrowâs offerings?â
A woman in senior monkâs robesâAscendant Crane, one of the highest authorities in the temple. Youâd seen her speak before, and she was a commanding presence then; your brother, wordlessly, lets you down, after a moment of hesitation, and you stumble back against the bench. He gives you a look, like this isnât over, but steps back, and walks off without argument.
Youâre a little surprised when Ascendant Crane walks over to you, though, with a soft smile. âItâs *******, isnât it?â she says, and youâre surprised she would even know, much less have remembered. âMy apologies for his behavior.â
You shake your head. âItâs, umâan old argument,â you say. âHe has a right to be angry.â
âI think heâs wrong, though,â she says, putting a hand on your shoulder. âIâve heard youâre making very good progress with your unit. Itâs a difficult task youâve been put to, but donât give up on your potential. You have important skills for your positionâeven if theyâre not the ones youâve been told to prioritize.â
âOh, um.â You donât even know what to say to that. âTh⊠thank you. I, ahâŠâ You shouldnât argue with her, andâhonestly, she has such a soothing presence, you donât really want to. âItâs an honor, to hear you say that?â
âItâs the truth.â She pats your shoulder. âIâve business to attend to, but I hope the rest of your visit will be peaceful. And, too, the days to come.â
You nod, and watch her walk away; somehow, you feel better, in spite of everything.
Notable:
memory 019
All right, this is a disaster, butâfuck, you have to think. What do you even know about *******? Where would they go to ground?
In the end, your instinct turns out to be rightâthereâs a trail of bent grass at the edge of the uncut field behind the mess hall, near where the scraps get dumped for the dogs, and the missing bellâs been dropped beside the edge of the path. You follow the trail, and see a dark-haired head poking through the yellow stalks.
Youâre a little startled to see tracks of tears running down their face.
They look up at you, rub their eyes, and fix their face into a scowl. âOh, so youâre going to drag me in front of the commander yourself? Iâm sure thatâll be a feather in your cap.â
ââŠno,â you say, after a long pause. âI⊠donât actually know what Iâm going to do.â Another pause, and then she goes to sit down beside them, back to the building. âMaybe you should help me figure that out.â
âFuck off,â they bite out, and turn their head away, crossing their arms over their knees. âIâm a fifth child. No one cares, not my family, not you. Youâre a first daughter, so this is just one little obstacle in your way to an illustrious career. If you keep me here to punish me, Iâll just make things worse, so you might as well pack me off so you can get back to using us as a stepping stone to your dream command.â
Youâve never heard them speak so many words at once to your faceâjust whispers to the other soldiers, a snicker in the back of the group. Sure, it had been tense, but⊠you hadnât registered anyone elseâs misery but your own.
You breathe out a sigh. âYou know,â you say, slowly, âI, er⊠I thought about running away with someone Iâwith a friend. Who knew I didnât really want to go into the army.â
Their eyes are on youâyou can feel it, even though youâre looking studiously at your feet. âI donât really have many other options, either, but⊠I, um. I donât know if I have ambitious apart from doing the best for whoeverâs my responsibility. Is everyone this unhappy?â
Thereâs a brief hesitationâtrying to figure out of youâre genuineâand then they nod. âWeâre all younger children, unsuitable for marriage, too weird or troublesome or not smart enough for the Immaculate Order or a government officialâs posting. ***** is on her last chance before getting disowned. Too irresponsible with her affections for her family.â
You lean your head back with a thunk against the wall. âSorry I never asked.â
They snort, but itâs not with scorn. âThat wouldnât be very officer-like of you, if you did.â
âWell, I never really wanted to be an officer, anyway.â Youâre going to have to think on thisâmaybe some of what you might want to do will be against regulation or otherwise just not done, butâyou stand. âThank you, though.â
A frown crosses their face. âWhat are you going to do?â
âWell, ah⊠that was going to be my question to you. Do you want to get sent home?â
Their nose wrinkles, and thatâs about all the answer you need. You shrug. âSo, letâs go back, and⊠start this day over. And I, uh⊠I guess Iâll do better.â
âYou know,â they hazard, slowly, âyouâre not at all what I thought you were like.â
You give a half-smile, and give them a hand up. âJust no more tacks, please.â
âHah. All right.â
Notable:
memory 020
Itâs not like thereâs an easy way to tap out, though, and the only way out seems to be through, so you push forward. After wandering for... some minutes? An hour? Multiple hours? You find your way to a circular chamberâwindowless, of hewn and carved stone. A narrow hallway circumscribes a series of alcoves, each of which holds a single stone goblet, standing on a pedestal beneath a spigot.
You take one of the goblets in your gloved hand, and sniff dubiously at the contents. It contains a cold, briny, bitter-smelling liquid, but a carved diagram above the alcove shows a humanoid figure (sporting... a halo?) drinking from a goblet, soâwell, youâve drunk worse, in the army. So you do it, although you have to choke it down.
The smell is hard to get out of your nose, and you realize with growing alarm that you recognize the scent, just barelyânot unlike a drug called Bright Morning. The Realm outlaws itâit allows mortals to see immaterial spirits, among other things, and you recall a special section of the officer corps being trained to use it to fight ghostly enemies.
But once you drink itâaside from being disgustingâit doesnât seem to do much, though, and you frown, turning to one side to follow the next passageâ
And then you see.
Battle rings in your ears, and you cry out, desperately calling the half-trained soldiers of your Circleâs nascent kingdom to close ranks and hold fast against the Dragonsâ heavy infantry. The golden blade you hold cuts through the ranks of the mercenary troops arrayed against you, buying your forces some breathing roomâ
But itâs too little, too late. Your right flankâs collapsedâonly by sacrificing half the town have you managed to keep your forces from complete encirclement.
You hear Lark sing out, a high note ringing over the chaos, and glance to your leftâand you feel the breath leave you suddenly. Your loverâs kiai shattered the volley of lightning-javelins aimed at her torso, butâ
...but.
Her flank was open. You didnât see it in timeâopen just long enough for a tall Fire-Aspect, red hair blazing behind her like a banner, to bury her mismatched shortswords in Larkâs ribcage. Around her, the troops lose their courage, shrinking backâsheâs always a bolster to those around her, and now, as the life fades from her eyes, they remember how colorless the world seems in her absence.
You canâtâyou canât do this. Itâs not going to work, and sheâ
You squeeze your eyes shut, and blinking back tears, call for the retreat.
The Water Aspect shudders as your daiklave runs him through, the spatter of his blood adding yet another stain to your golden armor. You jerk your blade free of his corpse, catching only a momentary glimpse of how haggard you look in its reflection, and impose it in the path of the next Dragon-blooded rebelâs blade.
The blow never comesâyour one-eyed circlemate has already intercepted that traitor and literally torn her apart with his bare hands, in a move that makes you cringe, slightly. Itâs not pretty work, and youâre not sure this is even the best way to solve this, butâyou only have so many solutions available to you, right now. And this was your first and best one. The remnants of the scale of soldiers, already starting to recoil, explode in a shower of gore as your other companion, the worldâs greatest sorceress, unleashes her magic in a sudden burst to shred them down to their very Essence.
All right, now youâre just bodily wincing.âš
The two of them hold the stairway behind you, guarding your back so that you can manage the final stages of the battle. From your shining balcony, you see smoke rising from shattered crystal towers, shards of shimmering rainbow falling like rain. Blood and bodies line the streets the city, but your Charms let you sense that the battle is all but won. The only remaining body of rebel troops is pinned in the market district, and the loyalist artillery is finally in position.
Gritting your teeth, you wordlessly signal the order: finish it.
Maybe now something resembling healing can start. Maybe you can fix this. Who knows.
You lean upon the dark stone railing of the balcony outside your study, watching the door of your citadel as you await the arrival of your newest student. Your thoughts drift to the last time you saw each other, and you canât help but find yourself short of breath in anger, just thinking about it.
Remembering the Final Feast, when the traitors cut you both downâit always gets your blood up. Your ghostly servants keep their distance; they know better than to bother you, when youâre thinking.
As your spectral butler announces the arrival of your ranger and his charge, you crane your head down to gather your first impression of herâand, hm.
She wears a high-collared gown over a soulsteel torc, its tight-laced bodice and flaring skirts no doubt intended to make her look taller and more impressive, all the better to give impassioned speeches to the masses. Now, however, she just looks... uncomfortable, awkward, and out of place. Clearly your colleagueâher masterâstill has no idea how to manage those who do not conform to the stereotypes of their Caste. This is how he treats the one who was once Creationâs greatest sorceress?
But sheâs here with you nowâand perhaps, with your help, she can reclaim some of her lost glory. You descend the stairs, and adjust your glasses, a nostalgic smile coming to your face regardless, to meet this new version of your oldest friend.
You stagger, disoriented, residually distraught, and steady yourself against a wall as you wait for your vision to clearâyouâve wandered further into the winding passages, though you donât remember walking. That was... strange, that it all felt like your memories, but... not you at all?
But thereâs a second chamber to find, before you can get out of here. Youâre starting to hate this quest, as necessary as itâs become.
Itâs a long, long time before you find itâor it feels like it, anyway. Itâs dimly lit, and resembles the chamber you started from, and you groan as you see whatâs in itâa stone basin, large enough to draw water from a well, standing on a dais in the center of the room. More goblets surround it, and you smell the liquid in it againâ
...itâs more drugs. Great.
But it seems like you have to, to complete whatever the test here is, so you sigh, and dip a goblet in the liquid and drink.
Nothing seems to happen at first, but that happened last time, too, and you start walking again, waiting for it to activateâ
âyou stagger as an unfamiliar feeling overpowers you, and brings tears to your eyes. A rush of emotion after emotion, with unfamiliar memory along with it. These... none of these feel familiar, but theyâre in your head like youâre seeing someone elseâs past made yours, jumping from one moment to the next until you feel dizzy.
Eventually, you realize that youâve fallen asleepâor passed out, lying on the cold stone floor of the ritual chamber, your head still swimming, though you donât feel like youâve fallen. But you have one hell of a headacheâworse than any hangover.
But, somehow, the way back seems clear, now. Steadying yourself, you take a deep breath, and head to where you can, hopefully, reunite with the others.
Notable:
memory 021
Outlines of something in the darkness come into focus as you descendâimmeasurably large, edifices jutting out of the dark. High archways, heavy doors, engravings in no language youâve ever known. Theyâre larger than the descent youâve made, but still in the dark it seems they go on forever, up into the now-distant sky of the living world that youâve left behind.
It feels like a dream. A nightmare, maybe, but youâre not afraid, for the first time in your life. Just purposeful, in putting one foot in front of the other, down, down, down, for what could be forever.
But you know it wonât be. After all, as the sutra goes: âThereâs always an ending.â
So when your feet meet ground, at the end of the stairway, it doesnât surprise you; nor does the rising susurration of voices that comes to your ears. A welcome, of sorts, but youâve been hearing them distantly all this timeâthe call to meet them. Theyâve been with you, all this time.
Your path takes you to stand in front of a doorâno. A face? Aâno, nÍÌÍÌČÌŠoÍÌÌÌŻÍÍÌÌ,ÍÍÍÌÌŁ, nÍÌÍÌŠÌoÌ”ÍÍÌŠÍ,ÍÌ”ÍÌ Ì, nÍÍÌŻÌ„ÍÌŁÌÍ Ì̱̫̀̀ÌoÌžÌÍÌÌÌ°ÌÌŁÌ«ÌŒÌÍÌŁÍÌÌ ÌȘÌÌ, you canât think about that, you canât, yÍąÌ̱ÌoÌšÌłÌÌ°ÌŒÍuÌ·ÌźÍÌŠÌ Ì©Ì„Ì̱̄cÌźÌŹaÌąÌŹÍÌÌÌÌ©nÌ°'Í tÍÌ ÌÍ, yÌÌ°Ì„oÍÍÌÌșÍ uÌ·ÌłÌ cÌžÍ̞̔̚ÍÌźÌȘÍÌźÌÍÌ„ÌÍÌ«ÍÌŻÌŁÍÌaÌ”Í ÍąÍĄÍ ÌŻÌ„ÌčÌłÍ ÍÌłÍ Ì€ÌșÌ±Ì ÌłnÍąÌŽÍÌÌ°ÌÌȘÍÌÌŹÍ ÌÍÌȘÌÌčÌČÍÌŁÌČÌÍ 'ÍÌšÌ̶ÍÌźÌÌȘÌÌ«ÌÌÌtÍÍÌ»ÌÌŠÍÌŹÍ ÌČÍÌŠÌÌ„ÌÌ ÌŠÍÌ.
But.
You force yourself to concentrate on the voices, to wrench yourself awayâyou can hear it, the single louder voice that drowns out all the others in the very specific spot that you stand.
One last thing remains. You must let go of it.
It comes to you, what you must do. You turn around, face whatâs behind you, and walk toward it.
In the middle of the massive ring of... no, thatâs a mistake. Focus. In the middle of the ring, the low water on the ground hits a steep drop, vanishing into a pit ofâ
...nothing.
Itâs the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen. In fact, you donât know how long you stand, staring into it, listening to the rush of the vanishing water. But eventually, you remember that you have a purpose. And the first of it is to cast off the last burden keeping you from it.
You speak your nameâ
KÍ«ÌÍÍźÌÌÍÌÌÍȘÌÍÌĄÌČÌÌÍeÍŹÍÍÌÍÍŻÌŸÌÌÌÌÌ̜͚ÌÍÍ̱ÌÌȘÍÌÌŻÌŒÍÌ«ÌŒÍÌÍÍÌčÌŻsÌżÌÌÍÌÍŁÌżÍÍÌÍ„ÌÍ€ÌÌÍÍźÌÍÍÍÍÍÌ€ÌÌŻtÌÍźÍÌ ÍšÍͧÌÍÍąÌÍ Ì§ÍÌźÍÍÌșÌŠÌÌ°ÌČÌÌłÌrÌÍÍŻÌÌ Ì ÍŹÍ§ÌÌÌÌÍÍÌ̀ͫÌÌÍ ÌĄÌšÌšÌ„ÍÍÍÌÍÌłÌÍÌÌ«eÍÌżÌÌÌÍÌÍÌÌÍ«Í„ÌÍÌÍÌÍÌĄÌ”Í ÌŹÌ©Ì€Ì©ÌŻÌ«ÌŠÌłÌłÌčÍÌźÌÌlÌÌÌÌÍÍ€Í̧̞ÍÍÍÌŠÍÌÌźÌ ÍÍ ÌŠÍÍÌ°ÌŒÍÌŹ ÌŸÌÍźÌÌÌŸÌÍŹÍŁÌÍÌÌÌŽÍĄÍÍÌÌÌÍ ÌÌŠÌÍÍ SÍÌÌÍȘÌœÌżÍ̶ÍÌÍt̀͟͏ÌÍźÌÍÍÌÍÌÌÌÍŹÍźÌÍÌčÌ±ÌŹÌÌÌŻrÌżÍ„ÍÌœÌÍÌÍÍÌžÌÍÌčÍÌ„ÌȘÍÍÌČiÌÍȘÌÍÌÌżÌÍÍÍÌÌÌŹÍÌŻÍÍÍÌ Ì Ì©ÌŠkÍ©ÌÌÍšÌÍÌ”ÍÌÍÌÍÍÌŁÌ»ÍÌŠÍÌźeÌœÍŹÍÍÌÌÌżÌ͚͟ÌÌŽÍąÍÌÌ€ÌŁÍ ÌŠÍÍÍÍÌ©Ì©Ì©ÌÌ±ÌŁÍÌȘsÌÍŁÍÍ©ÌÌąÍÍÌčÌșÌŠÍÌŁÌŻÍÍÌč ÌÍÌÍŹÌÍȘÌÍ̀͟ÌÍÍÍÌÌčÍ Ì©Í̱aÌżÌœÌÌąÍ ÒÍÌźÌŒÍÌčÍtÌÍÍÍÌÍÍÍšÍÌÍ«ÍȘÍ€ÌÍÌÌÍźÍÍąÌŽÌÌ°ÍÌ°Í Ì©ÍÌșÌÌŒÌ Í«ÍŻÍ€ÌÌżÌ ÍšÍŠÍÌÍÌÌżÍÌÌŸÌÍąÌŽÍ Ì·ÌÍÌ ÌTÌÌœÍŠÍŁÌÍŠÍÌÍÍͧÌÌÍÌÍÒ̌̄ÌÍÍÍwÌ ÌÌÌÌŸÍ„Í«ÌÌÍŠÍͧ̚ÍÍÌ±ÌłÌčÍÌ°ÌČÍÍÌiÌÌÍÍÍÌÍźÌÌÌÍÍ«ÌœÌÌÌÌÌ̩̀ÌÌČÌ«ÌÌłÌ€ÌÌ€Í Ì«ÌčÍÍÌČlÌŸÌÌÌÌÍÌÌÍ̜̈́ÍÌżÌ ÌÍÍŻÍÍĄÍÌŹÌ±ÍÍiÌŸÌÌÍÌÍÌÍÍÌÍÍŹÌÍ€ÍÌÍÍÍÍÌ„Ì ÌÌÍÍ ÌŒÍÌŹÌłÍÌÌÍÍ ÌșgÍŻÌÍÌÍÍ„ÍÍĄÍÌŁÌłÌČÍÌłÍ̱̱̻ÌÍÌÌŠÌÍÌÍÌhÍÌÌÍÌÌÍ̔̚ÒÌ©Í̻̄̀ÍtÌÌÍŹÌÌÍÌœÍÍ„ÌÌÍÌÍÍ€ÌÌ·ÍÍÌŽÍÌÌ„ÍÍÍÍÍÍÌ
Or, you donât. The sound is garbled, swallowed, vanishes, leaving only the ghost of its memory on your tongue. You donât miss it.
After some timeâyouâre not sure how muchâthereâs the muffled sound of footsteps through the water behind you.
âWelcome,â says the voice that spoke to you, in your last moments. âCome with me. We have much work to do.â
Notable
That's probably fine, though.
memory 022
The night air is refreshingly cool, after the sticky summer heat of the daytime, and it feels⊠a little better, anyway. Skyâs clear, and you can see the heavens clearly; andâthe gentle smell of pipe smoke wafting from above, letting you know that you werenât the only one whoâs up a little later than regulation.
You look up and you recognize himâthe lean, black-haired lieutenant in charge of Scale Ten, who at least has never been one of the ones trying to push you around. Heâs clearly noticed you, too, peering down at you curiously.
âThought you were a stickler for regulations,â he says, although itâs a little muffled by the fact that heâs shoved his pipe over to the side of his mouth in lieu of putting it down, since he seems to be in the middle of some kind of whittling project, scraping wood shavings off a fallen branch with his knife into some sort of sculpture.
âFigure itâs better to burn off some energy by having a walkabout than tossing and turning all night and feeling terrible tomorrow,â you say, shrugging. Then you pause. âYou didnât seem like the sort to be looking for late-night alone time.â
âAhahaââ He snorts. âWell, thereâs a lot most people donât know about me, I guess! Command doesnât leave much time for personal fun, does it. Or personal anything.â
ââŠI guess?â
âYeah, you seem like you wouldnât really know,â he says, good-humored, and makes a couple very dextrous twists of his knife before looking over his work, seeming satisfied. Then he puts one end to his mouth and blows, emitting a warmly whistleâa bird call. âHey, got it!â
You donât really know what to say, butââThatâs pretty impressive⊠Really, just pretty.â
He grins. âThanks, thanks! Iâm making a collection.â And pauses. âDunno if you smoke, but you could come up here if you wanna see how itâs done.â
âŠhuh. Youâre not sure anyoneâs ever really invited you to anything like that before. So, after a second, you start figuring out how to use the supports to pull yourself up onto the roof of Barracks 10, and take a perch next to him to watch him work until sleep does start catching up with you.
Notable:
memory 023
*****âs a scrappy fighter and itâsâwell, a punch you would have praised her for if it wasnât directly to your jaw, but as it is you can taste blood in your mouth and you know itâll be an impressive bruise tomorrow, and from the look on her face as she staggers back, ***** knows sheâs messed up. ****âs still trying to take a swing at her, but you just grab him by the back of his shirt and shove him into the dirt.
âWhatever this is, itâs done now, thank you,â you say, trying to keep your voice even, but it strains a little bit from how much that smarts. âCan anyone explain what happened?â
âCanât take a jokeââ
ââinsulted my mother!â
âIâm just stating factsââ
âAll right all right thatâs definitely enough, ****, go cool off in the barracks until nightfall. Both of you, no dinner, and Iâm assigning you both to kitchen duty for a week.â
âOh, come onââ
âAnd *****ââ
She stiffens, in a way thatâs not unfamiliar to you; someone whoâs only trying not to make things worse.
ââŠI guess I canât have a repeat of this in the barracks, soâcome with me. Iâll talk to you about what happened first.â
And you realize for the first timeâyouâre actually getting treated like an officer? But the look on her face is more fearful than youâre really comfortable with.
Itâs going to be a lot to get used to.
Notable:
memory 024
âYouâre perfectly competent,â you say, with mild bafflement. âYou really donât need meâŠâ
âAre you complaining?â asks the Rider, grinning at you sideways. âYou werenât complaining last night.â
You huff, and, after a moment⊠shake your head. As much as not having much straightforward work to do makes you antsy, being in close quarters alone with her isnât exactly a punishment. Itâs hard to resist the urge to run your fingers through her jet-black hair, so instead you settle for running the pad of your thumb over the fresh scratches just below your collarbones.
This cityâs small, and on the poorer side; apparently of some kind of historical significance, although your memory for that isnât as good as it is for linguistics. The ruins of an old temple dating back to the first age still lay here, although the local inhabitants have forgotten that connection and passing Immaculate monks built their own temple halfway on top of it some time ago.
Seeing this place is... a little painful. Coming in on the road, you noticed the fields donât have nearly as much yield as a city this small would need, and the buildings are in poor repair. Urchins and beggars in the streets, but no one has much to give to them. The Realm washed its hands of this place a long time ago, and no one else has bothered to do anything for it. Anyone who stays probably won't last the next few years, the way disease, drought, famine and war plague this region.
Still, you gave your bread to a gaggle of parentless children as you passed; youâll manage, after all. Your sense of hunger isnât nearly as strong anymore, and even if theyâll all starve soon enough, it pains you to see them like that in the meantime.
âHey, take a look at this,â says the Rider, calling you over, as you pick through the ruins. The Seer hasnât told you much about why youâre supposed to do what youâre doing here, or even what youâre doingâjust that âitâll make sense when you see it.â (Youâre dubious. Sometimes sheâs just too on her own level to explain things properly.)
But thereâs supposed to be an old artifact here, somewhere. She just said âit needs to be activated.â Probably one of those things thatâll make sense later and itâs no bother asking why now, although it still troubles you a little bit as to why you need to be here.
What sheâs found is... itâs a Hearthstone, actually, embedded in a stone vessel attached to a stone pillar. âCan you read this?â she asks. âI can't.â
You frown. âThis is older dialect than Iâm familiar with, and some of the writingâs worn... er... I can make out some of it, though, I think. Something about... recorded history? And to access it...â
Oh.
Well, the circumstances arenât the worst, you suppose. The price to payâwell, itâll help alleviate some of the suffering here. In fact, it gives you a little relief to think about it, with the voices of the Neverborn pressing in around you, calling for the blood of the world.
Youâre not good at trickery but you really donât need it anyway, to get one of the urchins to follow you with the promise of more food and a campfire. Sheâs painfully thin, and you make sure she has a decent meal and sheâs warm and comfortable, and dozed off before you break her neck and spill her blood into the vessel buried under the ruins before placing your hand on the activation rune.
It sparks, and glows for a moment, andâthen sputters, the essence circuits finally overloading and burning out after untold years idle. You just... stand there, for a moment, and look at the Rider, and she looks at you, and a hot spike of anger courses through youâyou drive your unholy blade into the vessel with the Hearthstone to shatter it.
âAhâRain, weâre supposed toâthe Seerâs gonna be pissedââ
You turn to her, eyes wide, but you... donât know why youâre angry, you realize. It would make sense, to be sorry for wasted life, but...
No, something about the feeling is...
...alien. Not yours, in a way thatâs unsettling.
âSorry,â you say, and youâre not sure to who. Is it guilt, for that girl? Is it to yourself, or for the mission, or someone else? âSorry.â
When you return and give your report, the Seer is thoughtful, listens, and says very little. And the next day you're informed by one of her ghostly servants that you're being reassigned to the Walker in Darkness effective immediately.
Notable:
memory 025
You turn your head to her, brow furrowed, ink dripping off of your pen to blot on the paperââI what? I didnât request leave.â
She shrugs. âShe said you were down as visiting your brother in the city. You can still move it if you want, I guess?â
âIs someone playing a jokeâŠâ You shake your head, and shrug. âI donât have a brother. Maybe she got me mixed up with someone elseââ
You sigh, and push your chair out. âI guess Iâve got to go get this sorted out. Thanks for letting me know, *****.â
Notable:
Shrike definitely has a brother.
memory 026
Though, it seems more like heâs interested in your relation to the rest of your party: âAnd you! How did you come to be traveling in the company of the Solar Exalted? There must be a story to it.â
You realize that you have, in fact, managed to pretend your way into being a mortal well enough to be mistaken for one, which is wild, and you demur: âWell, Lark and I grew up together, so Iâd follow her anywhereâŠâ
Honestly, though, youâre a little nervous of the attention, especially among so many strangers and even more so very dangerous strangers. The shrine-city is built high into the trees, and all over there are⊠cages, and pens, where the conquering lord of this place has imprisoned both the former inhabitants and any further prisoners of war they acquire.
He catches your unease. âNot to worry, friendâwhat was your name?â
âErâRain is fine.â
âNot to worry, then, Rain. Oroonoko is a friend to us,â he says, referring to your green-haired dragon blooded compatriot, âand Shaâa Oka will give your lieges the hearing that is theirs by right. And of course, youâll be fed, and you can tell of all your adventures!â
Oh no. Oh no, this is even worse than you thought.
Notable:
memory 027
âŠthree personages. How to describe them: they are all arresting of visage beyond earthly comprehension, though in different ways. Dilari of the Sea Foam could be the belle of any ball in Creation just by showing up; one has the manner of a shabby but distinguished wizard, and the third⊠keeps paying too much attention to you.
Coryado has already challenged you to a duel, which you keep gracefully declining-without-declining, but it seems tonight, two nights after your arrival here in the fiendishly-humid shrine of Fire, he has had enough of your excuses, and bids you join him in a match of steel atop the banquet table, with a glorious prize on the line if you winâand a favor to be owed to the fair folk if you lose. First blood, not to the death, but the termsâ
You hate this.
The terrible thing is thatâyouâre hyper-aware, as you step very delicately onto the banquet table, that an easy way to avoid indebting yourself to the fair folk is to indebt yourself to something elseâthe patrons who already have their terrible threads wrapped around your neck from their dark graves at the bottom of the world. All you have to do is listen for a little bit. Open the door just a tiny bit.
But no: youâre doing this on your own terms. And as you look at his stance, examine how he holds himselfâ
âŠwell, they want a show. Youâre just going to give them a very different one than they expect.
The signal to start is given, and Coryado raises his sword with a flourish. And so do you, coming in with a sweeping blow that surely would look good in an illustrationâ
âexcept at the last moment you reverse your direction, swapping from the strike you telegraphed to sweep upwards instead, daiklave flashing to drive him back. You donât wait to press the advantage, hauling your leg back to kick him in the midsection and send him toppling back onto one of the chairs, balancing tenuously as it threatens to fall backwards, and then slam your elbow into his nose for good measure, sending him down to the floor with a bloody nose and your sword at his throat.
âYield,â you say, and the corner of your mouth curves just slightly upwards. Not a mote of essence expended.
Thereâs a silence, and then Coryado drops his sword to the stone floor with a clatter, and begins the applause.
Notable:
memory 028
But now that youâre in it, youâve all become separated, itâs pitch-dark, and the corridors are labyrinthine. And worst of all, the Neverborn whisper to you in the dark, suggesting which way to go, andâ
âhere, at the chasm that splits the two halves of the shrine, they tell you to jump.
Youâre absolutely not fucking doing that, even if in their own way theyâre trying to help something that they think is theirs. Even when your masked and cloaked traveling companion heeds their call, vanishing into the dark; even when Oroonoko does as well, relying on her gymnastâs build and athletic skills. There will be no jumping into any weird spooky holes tonight.
Later, youâre slightly embarrassed to find out from them that it was something of a test of faith, and that the drop wasnât actually dangerous in the end; but on the other hand, you donât feel very bad at all for ignoring the Neverborn.
Notable:
memory 029
She has in fact, just knocked you flat on your ass (again; youâre going to be one large bruise tomorrow), and snaps: âOn your feet! The enemy will not grant you a momentâs reprieve, whether itâs on the battlefield or in that viperâs nest of the Hall of Noble Voices. I have not built this family up from nothing for you to lose it, KÌąÌŽÍÍÍÌÌčÌŹÌÍÌłÌ«ÌŠeÍÍÍ ÌÌÌ«ÍÌsÌąÌ·Ì¶ÌŠÌčÌÌÌÌłÌ ÍÌÍÍÌÌźÌtÌŽÌ·ÍÍÍÍÌÍÍÌȘÌŠÌČÌÍÍÍÌ„ÍrÍÍÌŁÍÍÌ€ÌŠÌŁÌÌÍÌČÌźÌÍÌ°Ì„ÌÌŻeÌ·ÌšÌąÌÌȘÌÍÍÌÍÌ̱lÒÌ·ÍÌŹÌŹÌ«ÌčÌ©ÌŠÍÌŠ! Did you think that today was a day for you to rest?â
You pull yourself to your feet withâeffort. It needs a lot of effort, because youâre tired and aching and for fuckâs sake, sheâs already coming in swinging, and this time you block, still on one knee, training sword above your head before rolling to the side before her weapon comes down again onto the stones with a thwack.
She doesnât praise you; youâre only doing the minimum expected, after all. But you get more or less steady to your feet, even though your head feels a little like itâs ringing. Maybe sheâs still shouting at you, but it sort of passes over you, tinny and distant, and you can feel yourself move but itâs⊠strange, you feel heavy and your head feels cloudy, even though youâre pretty sure youâre not slowing down, and thenâ
Your mother steps neatly past you to your flank, and slams her wooden sword down across your back, and you drop to the flagstones like a sack of potatoes, your own sword dropping from your nerveless fingers.
Today you are sixteen years old.
Notable
memory 030
Through the entrance, the hallway makes a sharp left turn, leading you back toward the outer wall. Halfway down, you realize thereâs an inscriptionâOld Realm on one side, High Realm on the other:
The Earth Dragon is the pillar of strength upon which the world rests, for He understands that there is no difference between the Essence of the self and the Essence of All Creation. It is the Way of He Who Illuminates Both Worlds with Majesty and Power to endure any hardship, for He knows that the key to altering the world is to first alter the self.
âŠhuh.
Once again, you must contend with a series of puzzles that seem designed to get a little under your skinâmirrors that show you in different clothes and poses until you all realize (after way too long) that it requires you to strip naked in the relatively chilly shrine corridors. At least you donât mind the cold, but itâs a little irritating. However, this is the last stop on your journey, and all of you are at least determined to see it through (with varying amounts of complaining).
One of your companions activates the pyramid that the corridor leads to, causing a brilliant white beam to shoot outâand it seems that Glory finished his task on the other side of the shrine, as well. An adamant door rises from the floor in front of the enormous gem on the back wallânow leading to a vast, indistinct cityscape.
Itâs a city, yes, butâalien, and impossible as a landscape, each direction consumed by one particular element, a vast pyramid visible in the distance, and a smaller one even further away. The buildings are strange and geometric, in triangles and parallelograms; birds made of fire fly across the sky; colors youâve never seen before paint into labyrinths that make your head hurt. Itâs mesmerizing and you immediately wrench your gaze to your feetâbefore realizing that Oroonoko, Glory, and **** havenât. You grab Oroonoko and cover her eyes, and she squeaks, but doesnât actually protest.
Keeping your eyes on your feet, you all shuffle toward the pyramidâit seems significant, and, well. You want to not have to look at all of whatever the hell that stuff is outside.
There are two doors leading into the pyramidâone is rimmed in ever-shifting, silvery light, while the other is made up of the five elements: wood, water, earth, fire, and air. The corridors are very narrow, so you have to go single-file, until you find⊠something.
It looks like a bush, but it canât be oneâwith golden branches and twigs of water, leaves of fire and solidified air. And above you, in the distance above the smaller pyramid, you can see⊠silvery light, coalescing into a disc, dark patches shifting and flowing across its face, seemingly at random.
The bush flares bright, and speaks to the silvery disc, delighted bewilderment in Her voiceâalthough, you more experience the words, rather than hear them, precisely.
"Beloved! It has been ages! How have you come to be here?â
âIt would seem some of our Chosen walked the Path you left upon Creationâs birth-Caul,â the disc replies, and you realize, startled, that this must beâLuna? âThe Chosenâhumans, that isâonce again serve as our Conduits.â
âDoes this mean we will commune with regularity, the way we once did?â
âNo, I do not believe we shall.â Thereâs the feeling of a deep sigh, in the moonâs soul-voice. âThis particular instance seems to be a fluke. An unusual confluence of circumstance led these children to walk our Path.â
âSo your Chosen are still at odds with those of my children?â
âYes. Their feud shows no sign of abating.â
âMoreâs the pity.â You sense the bushâs scrutiny turn toward all of you, and thereâs somethingâterrifying about that, honestly. âDearest, I see a few of my childrenâs Chosen, but where are yours? Are these some of Solâs? And what are these?â Tendrils of fire-water reach out across the infinite gulf between pyramids to coil, questingly, toward you and Gloryâ
You choke down a yelp. You both want to jump back and also really, really donât want to offend who you think this is.
âSo they are. I believe the presence of one of His more flexible Chosen is what enabled our communion. The other two... I know not.â They speak low, mournful. âThey are a new development, dark mirrors of Solâs servants, but Chosen by your fallen kin.â
You hold entirely rigid and still while some of the tendrils reach into your chest, and try not to breathe or make any kind of sound, althoughâdespite the fact that itâs made of fire, it doesnât hurt, somehow. It just feels⊠really uncomfortable. The bushâwho must be Gaiaâmakes a satisfied sort of hum. âI disagree, dearest. These Exaltations are hardly new. Tell me, is Sol missing any of his Chosen?â
âHm⊠Yes, quite a few.â
âWell, these âdark mirrorsâ may be the ones He misplaced. These two, at least, bear the Makerâs signature â I believe they are part of his original batch. Have you consulted with Him about these ânewâ Chosen?â
âNo, beloved, and we cannot. He hid Himself away shortly after you departed.â
âTch.â Gaia scoffs. âPerhaps that is for the best.â Her voice turns warm again, though, just a moment later. âI know how much you love a puzzle, my dear.â
Luna's laugh echoes through your bones. âThat I do. Beloved, I know not how long this Conduit will remain open. Perhaps we should make the most of the time we have?â
âYes, please. Come here, dearest.â
And then yet another impossible, incomprehensible thing happens in front of you, and you are left to avert your eyes once more.
Notable:
What the fuck was that.
memory 031
Honestly, youâre surprised it takes as long as it does to break into outright war, with Ryuken taking over territory in two of the small fiefdoms between your nations; your scale sees action in a few small skirmishes edging across the border.
Youâre more meticulous than some of your fellow lieutenants; while your squad handles its engagements cleanly and you do your best to draw fighting away from towns, you wince every time you hear the clinical readouts of local casualties in the morning briefings. The Walker in Darkness has moved to back Ryuken, and their unnatural, ghostly scouts are hard to spot for anyone not paying attention.
******* is irritable about the whole thing. âI canât believe they call us the hard-luck scale and we keep getting stuck cleaning up their messes.â
***** punches them in the shoulder. âWe donât even get called that anymore, dumbass. Weâre fully reformed or something.â
âIâll reform your ass.â
She grins. âTry itââ
âChildren, children,â you say, airily, setting your hands on their shoulders, and across from you, **** snorts, and ******** goes back to humming amiably as she stokes the campfire.
Youâve all worked hard. And also thereâs been a lot of blood and tears and shouting, butânow, everyone works together nigh-seamlessly. ******* elbows you lightly in the ribs for their personal space, you laugh and raise your hands, and you think that maybeâyou have friends you can trust at your back.
Itâs a couple weeks later when you get called in for support of a routine scouting mission that turned into a skirmish, that turns into a full-on battleâby the end youâre muddied and have a smear of blood across your face, but itâs not yours. Sister Ascendant Crane stalks through the group, holding the battle-standard highâ
âAble scales, to meâwe chase this down and nip this in the bud! For the glory and future of Zhanglam! Kestrel Strikes at Twilight, I need you with meââ
You startle. You? You look back at your scale, and they look at you, and you shrug at them, like: well, shit. Letâs go.
Notable:
Surely nothing will go wrong.
memory 032
Almost.
Youâre not sure how they fell on you that quicklyâmaybe you missed some scouts, hidden in the pass. The mists rolled in quickly, making it hard to see, but you were sure it would pass, if the wind was like this. Chasing the Ryuken army back along their path, suddenly thereâs a flurry of arrows from the eastâ
âCurassow!â you shout, seeing her take one to the shoulderâsheâs sturdy and tall, but still.
âIâm good,â she says, gritting her teeth. âShit, where did theyââ
âEast, up on the rocks, shields up!â yells one of your soldiers.
âGood spotting, Hoatzin,â you say, crisply, and they nod. âPull backâif theyâre on the run thatâs good enoughââ
âKâLieutenant! Behindââ
You turn just fast enough to see your rear guard dodge out of the way of the heavily-armored soldier who somehow appeared silently, from nowhereâshe takes a scrape, but sheâs agile.
âCrake, to me,â you say, raising your swordâeven with Curassow, youâre probably the heaviest fighter here. âWhoever you are, stand down. Pass with your fellows, or surrender.â
The single enemy soldier doesnât speak, just raises their empty handâand the earth starts to shake.
âSorcery!â calls your archer. âFuck, we gotta get out of here, we donât have a fucking sorcererââ
You donât bother to reprimand him on his language for once. âWren, help me clear a path!â
He nods, grinning, and nocks an arrow. âGot it, bossââ
You charge, swords raised, and your people take on defensive positionsâand then Wren falters, gasping and choking, dropping his bow. Alarmed, you turn, andâ
In that moment, you leave just the barest of openings. You were always so efficient, but thereâthere. The enemy sweeps up with their sword, with that perfect accursed precision you would later acquire yourself, a chosen of the black pit of night, and skewers you through, front to back, and pulls the sword out neatly with a wet sound.
You donât even really notice youâre falling until you hit the ground, boneless, lightheadedâsword still clutched in a deathgrip in your fingers. Around you, you can hear shoutingâyou can hear them calling your name, almostâor at least the space your name would occupy, if you hadnât later removed it from all memory and all fate. You can hear the dull thud of bodies against the groundâof steel through flesh. Of another flurry of arrows, now that their sniper has been forgotten in the chaos, points thudding into flesh.
And you hear silence.
And then you hear a voice. The words it speaks are gentle, kind. Melancholy. Mourning the fact that it could only ever end this way; that these children would follow you in faith and give their lives for you in love, all for naught. That so many would suffer this same wayâgiving their lives for things that would pass away, when all would eventually fade.
When it asks you if youâd like to make their sacrifice worth something, you say yes.