RPG: The Outlands Corrupted

Civilization is no more.

Long ago, it is said, people lived in huge structures called fortresses, and freely discussed topics of philosophy and physicality and triviality. Caravans and wanderers traveled the deserts; wood and clockwork ships sailed the seas.

That all ended with the Great Sundering.

Two nearly identical swords were forged at the height of the long bygone age, by two individuals who could not be more different. A Sword of Light was forged by Arcerath, an aspiring young metalworker who lived by the western beaches. And a Sword of Darkness was wrought somewhere in the icy mountains by Unimortis, a solitary self-professed acolyte of the void.

It came to pass that the two architects of steel became wanderers – the first spurned by his only love, the second inexplicably overtaken by restlessness. In the end, they met and clashed – almost with a hint of doom-laden destiny. The battle ignited the swords, permanently intertwining their natures, and sent shockwaves through the fabric of alternate futures. In the aftermath, the opponents themselves were never found.

The outpouring of temporal debris left civilization in ashes. Versions of cities superimposed on each other all crumbled. The biological order of nature was overturned constantly until the gap in times closed. And not least, eerie figures managed to claw their way out of the receding metaphorical tide of the closing futures: the Composite Gods.

Now only a loose coalition of unlikely fortresses remains, united only by their leaders - the shadowy Mancers. Somehow the mages rebuilt or preserved these bastions, and only they stand against the gods now, keeping the records along with an uneasy calm.

Will you live out your life under the shadow of a wordless half-truce, or do you dare to take a side and strike out into the wilderness?


Rules and Regulations

] Posting your character sheet in the discussion topic (rather than using OOC to post it in this main RPG topic) is recommended.
] No god-moderation, unless you have permission to use one of the known gods.
] Respect the NPCs, especially mages and gods!
] Respect your fellow players, and remember that normal forum rules apply too.
] Don’t forget to have fun!

Making Your Character

As with all Codrex Magna RPGs, the number of characters per player is limited to three (plus rare opportunities to portray an NPC).

If you have previously filled out a profile as a Mancer and wish to play as one in this RPG, you’re welcome to, but please PM me or ask in the Discussion topic before you choose a fortress. Remember that your role and appearance may have changed since the Sundering! You may be asked to modify your character’s description accordingly. Also, if you do play as a Mancer, you’re encouraged to play as a civilian in addition - mages may not always have something to do.

If you wish to play as a civilian (non-mage), please fill out the sheet below. The list of fortress starting points may expand as the RPG progresses, so check back if you become interested in making another character!

Currently, opportunities to play as a god are closed.

(Copyable Character Sheet)
Name:
Gender/Age: (Age is optional.)
Fortress: (Choose from Chanvale, Z1NE B, Deltán, Yabe, Nharto.)
Appearance:
Personality:
Weapons/Tools: (Optional.)
Background/History: (Optional.)


NPCs

Gods:

Spoiler:

General NPCs:

Spoiler:

IC:


The sun is high overhead, heralding a time of at least 13 P.D., as the messager returns to the gates of the black fortress.

Markus Bendire has to squint from his perch atop the wall of Z1NE B to resolve the figure in his vision, but it’s obviously the same person he sent out two hours before – and the man is unharmed.

Scrambling to the gate mechanism, Markus bounds down the slanted ladder seconds after kicking the lever into the open position, reaching the slow-opening door before the messager can even enter.

“Was there a counter-message left?”

The messager seems taken aback, raising his hands as he edges through the gap of the door. “Laird, Markus, I just got here. But yes, there was, of sorts.”

“A symbol?” Markus rocks impatiently backwards on his feet, moving out of the messager’s way.

The man nods. “A half-torus burned into the wood of the post. That was all.”

“It’s Saturn then.” Bowing his head, Markus turns to walk away. “It will be a long night tonight.”




On the western horizon, everything is a blank pure white. Snow is coming.

Haruhi Hathhesson lets out a short sigh, and turns awkwardly towards the east in the cramped space of the sentry’s stone turret. Natural or not, the blizzard in the distance has only been an annoyance today, preventing her from seeing past it with or without a spyglass.

Somewhere in Chanvale right now, the resident mage is discussing with a visiting mage whether any expeditions will be feasible soon. The visiting mage is also due to leave within the next few days, and Haruhi is sure that they won’t be pleased with the apparently massive storm approaching.

Unless they can turn it back.

But this particular storm might be the work of the gods, and it isn’t easy to oppose them.

In any case, her volunteer shift in the sentry tower is over. She flicks her ring against the chime behind her, waits a few seconds, then descends. Time for something different, perhaps.

IC: A dark-clothed figure walked briskly from the cylindrical Administration Building, guards, officials, and messengers moving quickly aside when they registered his presence. The local mage, Cryomancer, was very personable, well known by the people of Chanvale and considerably popular, although regarded with a sense of awe and mystique. The citizens he protected had learned that the mages which came to visit were not always as friendly, desiring no distractions from their business.

Not that Ventimancer would have minded a smile in his direction. He and Cryomancer had enjoyed their little chat, and Ventimancer had done a quick scan of the surrounding geography based upon the map in Cryomancer’s office. Chanvale was wedged between two mountains, with various cliffs and plateaus breaking the flat terrain of most fortresses. As the builders had been forced to work around natural walls and edges, the fortress itself was poorly organized and easy to get lost in, although of course the locals knew the layout well enough to get by. In fact, their knowledge of the complex and its defendable positions made the Chanvale Militia a formidable force, their enemies often resorting to brute force and attrition to gain any ground.

The icy landscape surrounding Chanvale was vast yet restrictive, caves, paths, and steps carved into the mountains by man or naturally formed. The Cryomancer knew the area better than most, but even he couldn’t have seen all the quirks and crevices in his magically-elongated life.

Ventimancer grinned as he continued striding to the sentries’ towers, thinking of his previous exploits in the frigid Fortress and its surroundings. He had come here before he had ever been initiated as a mage; from a very young age he had been struck by wanderlust. Around every corner was an adventure waiting to happen, someone in need of aid - or hindrance.

Both of his hands were in the deep pockets of his dark cloak, but his right hand fingered a brass pen. He thought of the strange events that had taken place years before the Sundering, and how that pen had come into his possession.

“Is it good to make an impact on history?” he whispered to the murky liquid contained in the pen, as he was prone to doing. The pen never answered.

But it always listened.

“Is it better to change everything and everyone you interact with for the worse, or not at all?” he continued, “Millennia ago, nature found it had a better time evolving organisms with compassion, a sense of community. We are all driven to help, to be good. None of us want to be useless, helpless, a waste of an individual ... ”

He stopped for a moment, suddenly disoriented. He was in some sort of square, but a quick glance at the sky, and the few beams of sunlight working through the clouds, told him which road to take.

“ ... and yet, we are capable of such destruction, with good intentions or ill,” He resumed. At this point, he felt a profound thought coming, a conclusion worth ending his ramblings on. He took out his pen and addressed it directly, his eyes scanning the intricate engraving. “And I, as the nay-immortal Mage of Winds, am capable of so much more.”

He reached the cobblestone walls, not quite the edge of Chanvale but close enough to serve as the first line of defense. Here, a stairway could lead him to his destination.

Wrapping his cloak tightly around him and repocketing his pen, he began to ascend. He could feel the wind picking up around him, getting nippier. He knew that it was no natural storm, but he wasn’t sure if it was his doing. It could be his work, even though he didn’t know what was coming, he did know something was about to happen in Chanvale, a threat looming in the distance, and a force just as deadly acting within its walls. He was anxious and a little excited, and if a battle was coming, either he or his enemy could be conjuring a storm in preparation.

He reached a landing, turning to continue on his way up.

Time to get a better view.

OOC: Hopefully, that did a good job of establishing Ventimancer's character. I considered starting with him uncovering the threat, but I'm still working on my plans for that, and I want to get a better feel for the world.

I tried to build off of Wally's blizzard here. It looks like Venti's heading for Haruhi, too, so I might need a reminder of how NPC permissions work ...

IC:


With a sweep of her hand to gather in her maroon cloak around her, Haruhi descended the hewn ladder as quickly as she was able - which was not very. She still wasn't comfortable with the stone handholds.

She bent her head to don her bleached halfdora, the gesture like an unconscious ducking as she exits the door of the sentry turret. After a couple of steps, adjusting the hat, she looked up in time to see a long-haired man with a windblown cloak.

Averting her gaze, she removed her hat deferentially - too bad she'd just put it on - and moved to go around the Wind Mage, mumbling the generic term of respect. "Good day, maestro."

MEANWHILE IN DELTAN'



iraemancer was finally finished furnishing his new fortress it had taken him months to gather all the nessecary supplies and labour to repair the various towers and butresses he had placed a series of sentry posts all around the fortress walls iraemancer was also very proud of his dungeons he had spent almost 2 weeks making them look gothic and medieval... but his most prized accomplishment was his throne room... intimidating yet elegant and opulent he was never much for interior decorating so he just painted the walls red and black and placed red banners all over the place... in fact the only place you will not find red or black in his throne room is the golden throne itself which is a somewhat goldish colour (no, really? ) he sat on his throne drinking wine he told everyone it was blood but in reality it was just wine... one had to keep up appearances after all and appearance is everything so he sat in his throne looking through the manifest of various sea trade the proximity to the ocean made deltan one of the most lucrative fortresses around he had beefed up the defenses fearing someone would try to take deltan due to its strategic and economic importance however an attack had not come and most likely will not come even so he had managed to erect a series of temporary wooden watchtowers near the surrounding villages

deltan was once ruled by a council of nobles and merchants... that is untill he managed to get enough political and economic sway to essentially controll most of deltan he had purchased or gotten his allies to purchase every bit of coastal land and by controlling the coast had gotten a near monopoly on 70% of tradable goods (the other 30 being by land or homegrown) by doing this he had managed to bribe his way into both governorship and chancelorship and inserted his supporters into the councilonce that was accomplished all he had to do was make a few detractors and dissenters dissapear and he was in charge


iraemancer was trying to contact the other mancers but for now he could not find out how


OOC: how is this for an intro for my character? EDIT OOC: better?

IC: Good day, maestro.

He had heard the words before, a common phrase in the Outlands. Repeated again and again, with all the vanity usually paired with shallow courtesy. The most bizarre thing about everyday objects, phrases, and activities is that they carry with them great symbolic power, immediately associated with an onslaught of memories.

For the Ventimancer, still sensing what had to be a storm, a god, or both quickly approaching, the word maestro triggered a reflex.

He snatched the passing soldier’s wrist, a girl wearing clothing just on the brink of peculiar. All day, citizens of Chanvale had nodded in his direction, afraid of the Mage they barely knew, and yet praying that he would defend them from the gods who now called the Outlands their own.

“Maestro?” He asked the girl, a cold curiosity seeping into his voice.

“Maestro?” He repeated, “One who conducts, one who controls?” He grinned wider at the soldier - she had to be a sentry for the Chanvale Militia, maybe a messenger - “You recognize me as Ventimancer, the Mage of Winds,”

“You call me a maestro, for I conduct my element, I control the air,” He continued, his mind whirling, thinking of the logic behind the word, “But you are wrong,”

“As I have grown in power, I have not grown in control. When I am angered, when I panic, when I need a storm to help me survive, then one will appear. But storms do not arise from nothing - the decisions leading to the battle, the clues to the crime, the winds to the storm, they are already there,”

“There is a storm brewing, am I correct?” he asked, not waiting for an answer, “That could be for me, preparing for a climax I don’t know about yet. The winds favor me, you see, but I do not control them as the other mages control their elements,”

He lowered his voice, letting go of the confused sentry’s arm whispered, “I assure you, I am no maestro.”

“I have no idea what I am doing. Now, tell me, what does it look like up there?”

Ventimancer grinned. The stress of the job had been getting to him, all of those people staring at their shoes and walking away, and here he had found someone to take it all out on. At first, there was that awe, that fear, which kept her silent. But the girl wasn’t afraid of him, not now that she had processed the idea of his presence. Would she be annoyed? Shocked? Sympathetic? Entirely unresponsive?

He had no idea what he was doing.

But he loved messing with people.

OOC: For a minute there, I thought you were trying to move Haruhi out of my way. I'm afraid I'm too curious about her character to let her escape, and besides, I want to get the hang of interacting with characters controlled by someone else.

That said, I may have let Venti ramble for too long. He is a bit insecure about his power, which does function as he described. However, it's more likely he does control the storms he summons - as he said, there is anticipation before a climax, which allows his subconscious to prepare the winds while he prepares for battle or whatever. The relationship as Venti sees it is just that - how Venti sees it.

I don't know if the blizzard is Venti unknowingly preparing for the conflict he suspects is about to go down in Chanvale, or if it's the work of the Composites, or if it's just a natural storm. I do know a Mancer-hating force is present in Chanvale, and will make its appearance soon.

IC:


If this mage wasn't going to let her get on with getting on, then she would just do what she wanted to.

"Well, maestro, s'pose you know something this time." Haruhi obstinately put her halfdora back on her head, folding her arms to grasp the edges of her cloak. "There is a storm. It's all over the horizon - whiteness everywhere. Looks like a full-on blizzard coming. I hope your plans for... Your plans aren't hindered."

Maybe a bit abrupt, a bit familiar, for speaking with the mage. It would have to do. She nodded sharply at him, her glacier irises briefly glaring through his sky eyes, and again moved to continue down the hallway to the open.

IC: The Ventimancer obsessed over details - the minutia of his reputation, his appearance, and of course, the attitude of those who addressed him.

And he was pleased with this sentry’s response. She had been to-the-point, with a bit of disapproval in her voice. She still spoke to him as a superior, but as a human being, not as some alien Mage. It had been getting on his nerves lately, that air of fear surrounding the Mancers.

He considered pursuing the girl some more - she had adjusted to an awkward situation very quickly, something the always-shifted Mage of Winds admired. He decided against it, though - it wasn’t his place to drag young ladies on adventures with him, soldiers they may be. He had the Cryomancer as an ally, and hopefully the two of them could handle what was coming.

Apprehension seized him again, having faded since he left Administration. Thoughts of how people treated him had preoccupied him on the way over, but now that he was so close to the cramped sentry tower, he was reminded of how poorly prepared he was.

Storms just seemed to appear whenever thing got intense for the Ventimancer, and while Biomancer insisted it was under his control, Ventimancer had too much reverence for the winds. He could sense the mounting blizzard, and he couldn’t believe he could be responsible ...

Of course, he might not be. He had never been in this situation before, feeling the disturbance in the weather like this. Perhaps he had never noticed it before, perhaps that energy was there to detect in every mundane storm, or at least every storm he stirred up. Or something else was doing this, some storm-stirring Sunder God. There were certainly Composite agents at work in Chanvale, and they could very likely be the scouts - or heralds - of a larger threat. There was only one way Ventimancer could reason out the source of the storm.

Go and see.

Ventimancer shook his head, and turned and left the tower along the same route the girl had taken a few moments before. He had needed a walk to think the situation through, but he decided that he didn’t need to see the blizzard after all. He knew it was there, to help or to harm him. When the storm hit, he would be ready.

He only hoped Cryomancer was having better luck. He was certain those spies weren't working alone - why supply information when there's no demand?

OOC: I thought that may be a prompt for Venti to do something, but I wasn't sure. One way or another, I can't see him pursueing her much longer, even though I have an inkling she'd have an interesting story.

And I'm still working out a little plot for Venti and Cryo to worry about within Chanvale's boarders. The reason why Cryomancer and Ventimancer were talking was because of activity in the area, a decent-sized group of people up to something they didn't want Chanvale's Militia to know about. They were contemplating courses of action when they were interupted.

I think I'll go into detail in the future, after talking it over with Arty.

Let me know if I'm overstepping anything!

IC:


Putting the mage out of her mind, Haruhi proceeded heedlessly through the streets with her head down. She shouldered past people without actually making physical contact and debated whether to get anything while she was out. There wouldn't be any need for food at the moment, but maybe a book? A copy of the Book of King Ua was already back where she lived, but she'd wanted to look at an account of old myths again just for fun...

Her chosen road decided the matter for her. The library - well, the legitimate library - was just on her right. She veered in, registering but not processing the presence of a familiar cloaked figure following approximately in her footsteps as he too departed the sentry tower.




Xexan Ynhrodepst sat cross-legged on the end of the pier, watching the passage of the risen sun.

It was a beautiful morning, the seabreeze washing airily and faintly across their face. Shutting their eyelids, they listened for the faraway shouts and wood-hitting waves that heralded the sailors' embarking into near-shore waters. For all the buildings that the Sundering had ruined, Deltán hadn't been slowed down much by the event, other than its open-water fishing (which invited attack by Composite Gods and had been halted). It was a point of pride, and the once-called Delta Towns were finally more of a single entity, helped by the walls that its citizens had cooperated to erect... and enforced partially by the Wrath Mage and his new governance.

A few days had passed since they last met with Iraemancer. Xexan wasn't one of the more important figures in the government, and they had no further ambitions.

... No further ambitions in the government.

Sure that no one else was around, Xexan closed their eyes and leaned back against the pier's warmed boards in an extended stretch, clasping their hands over their head and grinning uncontrollably. Why not enjoy the sun? In a while, it would be time to pay a visit...


With a knock on the door as an afterthought, Xexan leaned around and through the jamb haphazardly, their face obscured. "Is one Mr. Carradine here today?"

"Which one." An annoyed but lighthearted voice, its owner impossible to see, snaked through the offset bookshelves of the decidedly disordered study building.

"They call him the Auxier, of course." Xexan said mockingly as they swung through the door and began to stroll down the narrow aisle, turning as necessary through the openings in the shelf desks. "Auxier, the master clockworker."

"Clockworker? Ptahf's name, Exy." There was a click of a loupe being set down on a wall-bolted desk. "Inventor to you."

"Isn't tha- hey." Rounding another corner, Xexan nearly collided with a rumpled-looking man in a satiny-grey labcoat. "Veran, watch the corners, seriously."

The labcoated man - Auxier - stepped back and took Xexan's slim hand, lifting it to kiss the signet ring. "Ficial Ynhrodepst."

Xexan extracted their hand, unable to suppress a hiccup of laughter in their throat. "It's crazy, I could be a prince the way I'm treated. I won't get a big head though, I promise."

"I'm sure I was accusing you." The Auxier crossed his arms behind his back and gazed philosophically back at the androgynous Deltan ficial with dusky eyes. "So you're here for a reason."
First Administrator Repair of Ship Propulsion And Defense Effects
"How is FARSPADE progressing?"

"Slowly," said the Auxier, sighing. "I'm not there, so I can only send a few suggestions and specific instructions. It's only you-know-who who're still there, and they can only do so much technical work by themselves. I'm going to have to switch out with one of them eventually if we want to get the job done best."

"Obviously we need the Composite Gods to cooperate before that can happen." Xexan gave the Auxier an ironic look. "Keep on hoping for a magic ocean road. I'll leave you to your, uh, stuff here."

"Onroads, Exy."

As they exited, Xexan was sure the Auxier had just turned away from them to rub his eyes. The man never stopped tinkering and reading, at least not until he was too exhausted not to sleep.

But in any case, the day was a beautiful one, and Ficial Ynhrodepst didn't intend to waste it.

IC:


"Not... really -" Haruhi twisted back to make sure the door had closed completely without trapping her cloak. "- Then again... Where can I find a book of myths?"




Far, far away, so far that it must be kio away over the ocean, a thunderous cloud of night was roiling and boiling towards shore.

With a nasally hissing sigh of anger, Darralessus withdrew its molten-colored eyes from the secondary eyepieces of the Great Spyglass. After looking around in the dark of the observopticory, it finally rose double-jointedly to its metallic feet with a shake of its rather ordinary argent head.

It had been sure that such a storm was going to arrive sometime. Here by the ocean, Yabe was not an unlikely place for the tail end of large weather systems to sweep over. But then this was a storm of a different sort completely.

Daralessus spun around for a half-revolution to reach the observopticory's dome-closer crank, and proceeded to turn it until the hemisphere's opening clicked gently shut behind its back. Its duty was to warn the fortress's inhabitants now.

The citizens had the right to know what was coming.

IC:


"Thank you, this one will do well. I'll have a look at the others too..." She took the volume with a nod and spun to approach the other bookshelf.




"Ravine Quail. Montigallus vallicola."

"Yes," said Sherman Exeter, but the look he gave his colleague was one of concern, not interest.

The hissing undertone in the voice of Bernhard Azout grew stronger, a scraping foreboding current. "Do you remember naming the species? We found a pair foraging, when we were in an eye valley... I said it was a good sign, so we looked elsewhere for a holotype, even though it was only a PGNR that I had."

"Bernhard, please don't accost any locals, we're nearly to the town proper. We're already out of protection - he told us we'd need to get in before the blizzard." Exeter rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "And we both know that Ravine Quail are common enough."

Azout shook his head and rose from his crouched perch behind the high jagged rocks. "Once, they were common. Now I won't let this pass, not anymore. Can't the villagers just eat the domestics they have in town?"

"At least don't -" began Exeter, but the other man was already scrambling downhill.

A long sigh and a longer moment later, Sherman Exeter descended. At least he knew Azout wouldn't do anything too crazy.

Then again, "too crazy" was a shifting line.

IC:


Markus looked down from the parapet, glaring into the graying distance. It was about 21, FD, and the brief evening was already grading into night. On the darker pole of the horizon, the stars glittered, and overhead more were shining. All was calm, and he was absolutely certain that the Lord Saturn was out in the near distance, unseen but present.

So he was waiting unmovingly for minutes on end, barely blinking, leaning on the stone walltop until the edge pressed uncomfortably against him. He couldn't afford to miss any movement out in the darkness.

Already, the semibarren jumble of the desert was completely covered by night and the members of Z1NE B were out of the dark streets, before the first warning sign caught Markus's eye - a brief sharp gleam, like a shard of glass catching the light.

But there was no second warning sign.

"Markus Bendire."

As Markus straightened and turned, he suppressed a troubled hiss of breath, knowing it was over. A spiky silhouette loomed against the marginally brighter western horizon just down the parapet from him, its mirror-like tan eyes alight.

"Lord Saturn." Markus clasped his shaking hands behind his back, hiding them from view. "What have you come to tell us?"

"You assume much." The flat sound of the Composite God's voice rang out from the wall of Z1NE B, and the echo clapped against the streets and forum walls before crumbling. "Had I not come to say something, you would be out of luck."

With a shiver, Markus mustered some defiance. "Y-... Yes, Lord Saturn. You're obviously here to say something, though, so say it."

A second layer of shine arced through Saturn's eyes. "The winter must be survived, Bendire. You have only its span. When you are done, you will be done."

"I will be... done?" Markus did his best to seem confused, and the words were perfectly confusing, but he knew what Saturn was telling him. "What do I have to do by the end of the winter?"

"If I knew, I would tell you." Saturn held out his armored hand, proffering a small flattened object to Markus. "I will return for you."

Silently, with more astonishment than trepidation, Markus took the object from the god's hand: a miniature metal discus. The discus was the symbol of the Lord Saturn... and carrying it with him would make Markus Bendire, by logical association, an ambassador of the Composite Gods.

"Is it all this important?" he whispered.

"Do what you must," said Saturn, and was gone without anything to mark his disappearance.




The grizzled bartender absently wiped the glass in his right hand with an old, soft white towel. Today was an average day for business in his bar, the Roaring Log - which meant a poor day. It'd been years since he'd had any good amount of customers, though at the moment a fair assortment of people had come in for a drink or meal, or to avoid the chill of the outdoors. And it was unseasonably cold, as if the winter had lost control of the snow. But he had no quarrel with the weather, and he gave a grudging shrug of his shoulders as he stared out at the bright white snow falling.

After a moment, he scratched his unshaven chin and looked around, noting that one of the people scattered through the booths and tables was apparently a traveler, judging by his thick bundle of clothing and several bags. And the traveler was unusual, catching the bartender's eye more specifically: it was a smiling man in a turban, tucking into his shepherd's pie - he must have just been served by the lone waiter of the Roaring Log. It only took a moment for the bartender's curiosity to overcome his bored inertia, and he slipped out from behind the shelf-laden wooden bulk of the bar to approach the turbaned man.

"So, you're a traveler then?"

The man looked up at the bartender, the motion seeming perfectly natural despite the dark tan turban on his head. "I thought someone might ask me that. And yes, I am."

"I used to get a lot of travelers through here..." The bartender pulled the most conveniently located nearby chair vaguely towards the turbaned man's table, resting his elbow on the other table adjacent and sitting back heavily. "You've probably heard the story from other business owners, not to mention almost everyone. How do you get around, if I may ask, or are you traveling locally?"

For a few moments, the turbaned man finished chewing a bite of his shepherd's pie. "I... The odd thing, I guess, is that nothing much has changed for me specifically. I've never been stopped by a god or anything. I don't seem to bother them."

"There aren't many who can claim that." Leaning forward slightly more, the bartender rubbed at his cheek, mussing the bristles of his muttonchop. "A traveler who's never seen a god. Would you mind telling me of your travels?"

"I will," said the man in the turban with a laugh in his words. "Just be warned that it's not much of a story."

And the bartender leaned forwards as the man began his tale.

IC: They may have taken the same paths he was taking now, these enemies of his. They had infiltrated the fortified walls of Chanvale, weapons in hand, and the guards had simply nodded them through. It had been a clever ploy.

Ventimancer could infer from the fanatics’ ranting who they were. Ages ago, Chanvale had been ruled by a Guild of mercenaries, which had led the only alliance of fortresses in the region. The Guild had needed to maintain a massive army to enforce its brutal policies; thus, it had also needed to keep that army occupied, for a stalled army might turn against its governors; thus, the Guild had rented out its regiments to infighting fortress across the Outlands, gaining a reputation as the most skilled group of mercenaries for hire.

During the chaos of the Sundering, the Cryomancer had seized his opportunity, and led a revolt against the Guild here in Chanvale. However, descendants of the Guild still remained, a shadowy order operating in the mountains, occasionally ambushing those who wondered too far from civilization. And, believing that the Composite Gods alone stood a chance of defeating the Mages, the remnants of the Guild had recently established some form of relations. The details of this pact, and what gods it had been forged with, were entirely unknown to the Mancers. Rumors warned that they were growing in power, and witnesses had claimed that they had discovered and tamed a vicious creature to fight alongside them, a creature resembling a large, white-coated cat, although it had only been seen at a distance.

Over the years, Chanvale had grown overcrowded, and, despite government grants to private companies to install new technologies, its infrastructure had become severely outdated. Ventimancer and Cryomancer had been discussing the establishment of a new outpost and a better-defended trail up in a higher region of the mountain, securing the area before beginning construction of a new fortress. Hopefully, the addition of a new fortress would help thin the population, and the competition of organizations using the modernized procedures might force Chanvale’s industry to upgrade. The latest scouting party from the area was overdue to arrive, which had been as disappointing as it had been concerning; Cryomancer had planned for the party’s report to be turned in before Ventimancer had arrived to discuss the expansion project. Ventimancer assured his old friend that they had enough data to work with for the time being.

As they had begun to discuss the semantics, however, a messenger had come in to inform them that the patrol had returned. Their numbers were thinned, as they had been attacked by the Guilders; however, they had confirmed rumors that the Guild had begun fighting alongside some sort of war-beast. The patrol had claimed that they had captured the animal, restrained it, and brought it back to Chanvale, urgently requesting audience with the Cryomancer.

The guards had rushed them through, believing the news they brought was too important to bother with the usual precautions. Five armed individuals and one panther-like creature had entered the fortress, without being asked to log into their accounts. They would not have been able to. Although they had been able to steal the scouts’ uniforms and weaponry, they had not been able to torture out their passwords.

The Mages had rushed out to greet the party. After they repeated their story to the Cryomancer, he had hailed them as heroes. Militiamen had arrived to escort the animal to a holding facility and begin examinations.

“I need to go with you!” one of the infiltrators had exclaimed.

The officer in charge had raised an eyebrow. “Why so?”

“I’ve seen things ... the creature, he isn’t only flesh and blood. He has power. I think it came from the Sundering,”

“I don’t think you should come with us,” the officer had shaken his head.

The Ventimancer had gritted his teeth. To him, it had seemed as though the officer had been ignoring a valuable source of information. “Why ever not?” Ventimancer had inquired, a charade of formality failing to mask his agitation, “Tell me not ‘for security’!”

“Not ‘for security’, maestro,” the officer replied, smiling slightly, “I think these men have done enough for their fortress. They should return to their families,”

The Mage of Wind had smiled back. It was always a pleasant surprise when somebody cared.

“We have a duty to our fortress, officer. We cannot rest until we have seen it through,” insisted one of the Guilders, determined to enter the Administration Building.

Cryomancer had nodded in approval at the perceived loyalty. “Who am I to get in your way?” he had asked, holding up his hands in mock defeat.

The officer was still apprehensive. “Haven’t they done enough already, maestro?” he had asked.

The Mage of Wind, although he had respected the militiaman, had dismissed his concern.

“Maestro, you call us! Maestro, one who conducts, one who controls! Maestro, a title which I daresay the Mages have earned. I assure you, officer, I know what I am doing,”

The officer had saluted smartly. The alleged scout had shifted his way near the animal’s escort.

The other four had then agreed to join the Mages in the Administration Building to discuss the threat to security these developments implied.

Ventimancer had turned again to address the officer.

“After your men have examined it, I’d like a copy of the report,” he had requested.

The officer had again. “It’ll be my pleasure, maestro,” he had confirmed.

The Mage of Wind had given a weak salute back. The group had then parted ways.

They had then entered the Administration Building. It was a pagoda-like facility that the Mage of Cold had attempted to nickname “The Cryomansion,” although it had never really caught on. It housed the offices of numerous government staff, as well as Cryomancer’s living space. Beneath it laid holding cells, laboratories, and forensic centers, to which the animal had been taken. All of the military research took place in the same facility that held the Cryomancer’s private bathroom; it was good to know that the Mage of Cold was nearby when such investigations were being conducted. The two Mages had returned to their pervious meeting room, the maps they had laid out earlier still out on the table.

During the attempt to narrow the search for the Guilder’s hiding places, the Mages’ suspicions had finally been aroused. The most vocal of the infiltrators had only suggested that they search new areas, and had attempted to divert their attention from areas of heavy activity. His story had grown less and less consistent. As Cryomancer had grown frustrated, one of the other Guilders had begun sobbing.

Ventimancer had swiveled on his heel. “What’s wrong?” he had cooed.

“My family, maestro ... ” he had whimpered, “I haven’t seen them in so long,”

The Mage of Wind had nodded, understanding. “Why don’t you head on out?” he had prompted.

He had nodded and thanked him, and he had headed towards the door. As he had turned, the Ventimancer had grabbed his wrist and, with a jerking motion, pulled a stack of papers from under his coat. The Guilder had been trying to sneak them out; he had chosen at random, but he had hoped they would contain information helpful to their cause.

“Checking these out for some light reading?” the Mage had asked, grinning.

The would-be spies had been no match for two Mancers, especially in the Cryomancer’s stronghold. They had been detained within a matter of minutes. Aware that their cohort remained downstairs, in the floors beneath Administration, Ventimancer had personally gone down to apprehend him. He had been confident the threat posed by the party had been quickly neutralized, and he had been glad the militia would have had five new prisoners to interrogate.

As he had reached the Administration Building’s lobby, however, he had heard the sounds of crashing and screaming. The cat was out of the bag.

The Mage had been able to tell from the clamor that the beast was wrecking havoc outside. However, he had continued his descent into the floors beneath Administration, letting others deal with the problem. The stairs to get down from the Cryomancer’s offices and into the lobby were entirely separate from the flights taken to reach the basements. Perhaps this was ‘for security’.

The panther had not taken these stairs. Ventimancer had not had to wander far before he had found the path it had taken, however. Following the trail of damaged equipment, he at last found the room where the beast had been held in captivity for all to brief a time.

One of the guards had been left standing, although he had been badly scratched on the animal’s way out. He had looked up as the Mage had entered the room. He had been crying.

“I’m sorry ...” he had whimpered, “I couldn’t stop it ...”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Ventimancer had shaken his head, “You were courageous to ever volunteer,”

He had scanned the wreckage; the beast had torn through the room with a vengeance, but oddly enough, the restraints that had contained the animal hadn’t been damaged.

“The scout ...” the guard had explained, “He had this ... crystal. It glowed, and the cat dissolved, it just disappeared, and then it reappeared out of its chains,”

The Ventimancer registered the phenomenon as teleportation, although he had barely been listening. He had been bending over another guard; a body limply slouched in the corner. He had been brutally injured, but the Mage had still recognized him.

“Maestro ...” the officer had whispered.

“I thought I knew what I was doing,” the Mage had croaked, “This is my fault,”

The officer hadn’t replied. He had died then and there.

And so, Ventimancer had snapped at a sentry he had passed by, for using the words of a dead man.

And now, he stood outside the local library, believing said sentry to be inside. He wasn’t following her; he was on his way back to the Administration Building, a path which had coincided with hers. Well, he had been following her; there were many routes that led where he was going, and he noticed that she had been walking in the general direction.

Cryomancer had been busy handling the loose panther when he had last seen him, but it had looked like he had the situation under control. Now that it had almost certainly been taken care of, the Ventimancer was returning. It was time for the Mages to resume their conversation.

This latest report would give them plenty to discuss.

OOC: Long posts come from long waits.

Although it might actually be the other way around.

IC:


When he opened his eyes again, Biomancer knew it was late morning. He had spent more time in meditation than he had thought he might.

He swept his roughspun brown cape out behind him and rose from his cross-legged sitting position. The sunlight of the morning was streaming through the Ki-Nui-shaped windowglass, and still just a bit obliquely - so the day hadn't reached noon yet.

In the Life Mage's rather spare and Spartan soundproofed room, there was no hint of the rest of the fortress. In one of the cold metal walls, there was a large recessed trough-like shelf in which dozens of plants were growing. More plants grew in crates arranged randomly around the shiny floor, catching the light with their fronds and leaves. The meditation area near the window was one of the few bare spots on the ground, and the only piece of furniture was a lonely-looking driftwood chair in a corner with books stacked near it.

It was only a shadow, a sobering shadow, of the rooms of the Fortress Manceri that was once and sometimes still the Life Mage's home. Biomancer trusted the solitary mage he had chosen as the keeper for the remote Fortress, but he still missed living there himself.

At the present moment, it was time to descend into the fortress he oversaw.

Biomancer stepped delicately over the plants, slipping diagonally out through the inconspicuous door. From the outside, the entrance to the room was nearly invisible - it lacked a handle or keyhole, and was the same metal material as the rest of the interior of the fortress - and he pushed it closed, making sure the knifelock clicked at its base.

It was a short descent through the curving hallway and an off-branching stairwell to reach a balcony that overlooked a huge vaulted-ceilinged portion of the self-contained fortress. The Life Mage walked to the very edge, leaning up against the railing, and stared down from under his brown hood.

"Behold," he said resignedly to himself. "Codrexia."

The immense metal arch of the upper half of the sphere only allowed small amounts of light in, through a wide-spaced arrangement of lighting holes near the apex. Somehow the vast area of the floor below was adequately illuminated, though, and the Life Mage could easily see the dozens of vendors as well as the cubicled expanse of the open-roofed Blogs section.

Members of the spherical metal fortress came and went through the doors at the side of the central flat space - concentric hallways and a few stairwells leading to the lower half of Codrexia were out of sight behind the bordering walls of the partitioned central plaza.

Unlike other fortresses, the entire scene was enclosed. No other fortress rivaled Codrexia in its self-containment, although it was necessarily not a very large fortress. Its original construction was a mystery, but its history was storied - attested to by the giant statue of the fortress's two greatest administrators that stood in the very center of the middle section of the interior space.

Biomancer turned away from the overlook to finish descending the stairs, emerging a few moments later near the bottom of the stairs through a door that led into the interior space. After looking around to make sure that the busy forum-area on his right was indeed the one that focused on general storylines, he pulled his brown hood lower and proceeded on his way towards the central double statue.

The people that passed by him barely noticed he was there, which was certainly the Life Mage's preference. He had never wanted to be known as a governor of any sort, certainly not in a place like Codrexia: an artificial, often sterile metal sphere, not a haven for life other than people (and their ideas). It was his duty, not his pleasure, to watch over and possibly understand the strange fortress.

Of course, Biomancer was already a remote figure. Everyone knew the Mancers, but few knew they answered to him. He was not beloved like the Cold Mage and Sun Mage, nor respected or feared like the Wrath Mage or Shadow Mage.

And even if the members of Codrexia knew that the Life Mage ran their fortress, he would never live up in their eyes to the figures immortalized by the central statues.

He reached the hewn plinth of the double statue and gazed up at the stone figures with his oilslick eyes. The carving was masterful, especially the depiction of the fabric of the figures' clothes - the curves and creases in the one's robes and the other's shirt and pantaloons were realistically arranged.

Biomancer lowered his eyes slightly and circled around to the front of the figure that faced northeast. The face was of course stone, the open eyes blank gray, but an expression of sharp determination was written clearly and permanently across the slight, shortly pointed features. It was a dynamic pose, the distinctively bizarre configurable knifepole held in a position somewhere between attack and defense. The robes were caught in a swish of motion.

Perhaps the statue was just very flattering, but Kaze Azure seemed suited for battle, Biomancer reflected emotionlessly. There was no need to read the copper commemorative plate at the base. He continued past her larger-than-life stone likeness around the final arc of the pedestal disc, and backed up to take a better look at the other of the two statues.

On the face of the statue, a look of both concentration and wry superiority showed: the detailless eyes were evidently frowning, but a smirk seemed to be playing over the mouth. The arms were a bit askew, their spiky shoulder armor turning with them, and the staff in the right hand was held in a way that suggested an imminent lunge to sweep the weapon forward. With knees protected by more spiked armor, the legs were both bent forwards at the ankles of their hard-booted feet.

In the shadow of the statue's outsized extdora hat, the Life Mage knelt to inspect the simple metallic blue plaque attached to the stone plinth.

"In Honor of Walter M. G.,
to whom we are grateful."

A voice from behind him invaded his thoughts. "What'd'you think of him, then?"

Biomancer turned to look up at the young blond man behind him. "Of Wally?"

"Yeah."

"I... do not know."

"Never met him, then?" The blond man looked at the Life Mage strangely. "Funny, that... you can't have come here too long- Well, anyway, I'll tell you about him: overbearing, sometimes distant, and always late... a forceful personality though."

"I take it you and he were not friends."

Startlingly, the young man laughed, the dry sound catching in his throat. "Oh... he's taught me everything I know. The more time you spend around him, the more you'd talk like him and even act like him."

"I see," said Biomancer, turning back to the plaque. "But you still didn't like him."

"No." With a shrug, the young member turned away, a neon-colored hammer swinging from his belt. "But when his time came, he fought for us... and he died for us."

"They say he -" Biomancer began, looking over his shoulder, but the blond man was already gone, vanishing into a faraway crowd.

After a pause, the Life Mage simply rose and departed as well. The story served as a reminder of his other duty in Codrexia.

It took him a minute or so to wend through to the other side of the cavernous bright metal central space, past the flimsy-looking forum walls that served to partition it. Really, it was impressive that the fortress and its members were still so orderly. But then again, they had a Life Mage watching them.

Once out of the bustling main area, down a quiet hallway, Biomancer pulled out a knife from the back of his belt. Its design was not a common one: it was referred to as anpyramidal, the blade widening towards the lateral "tip" rather than tapering. But it served the Life Mage well. He knelt on the metal with one knee and pushed his knife gently under the base of an unremarkable section of wall, sliding it left and inwards. There was a delay, but the wall section soon produced a click, and swung inwards at the bottom.

Biomancer resheathed the knife and ducked under the door into the darkness beyond. The searing blue-tinged glow of the overhead lights only activated once he pushed the door back to its locked close. He was lucky he had not tripped when entering. The staircase that lay directly in front of him, leading down to the Arthurian Hall, might be in the shape of a gently unwinding spiral – but it was steep enough.

There was no echo off the metal stairs to answer the Life Mage's footsteps as he descended. Much like his own room, the Hall was part of the mysterious and unchanged original layout of the Codrexian Sphere. It was solid-walled, soundproofed, and a perfect refuge… a perfect refuge from death.

But then, the last Codrexian Administrator had fallen here.

Despite feigning ignorance when speaking to the young member in the central plaza, Biomancer knew the story perfectly well. Here in the heart of Codrexia, in the shining Arthurian Hall filled with sealed stasis pods, was where that tale had ended.

On the black day when the Sundering reached Codrexia, the two administrators were ready, but unprepared. For the first and only time in their lives, Walter MG and Kaze Azure fought side-by-side in glorious battle, abetted by their moderators. Chain lightning and molten metal rained from the sky as they sought to repel the emerging Composite God Vazrhánsar from the very doors of their spherical metal fortress.

Tirelessly, the staff and the god battled for days. But in the end, the champions of Codrexia knew no triumph. Vazrhánsar unleashed a shockwave of unknown composition that merely weakened him, but mortally wounded every Codrexian moderator. As his co-administrator Kaze pulled the moderators out of the way of further harm, Walter Morpheus-Gudmunzsun used the Codrexian Sphere as an auxiliary battery and entirely burned out his body, giving his own life to electrocute and destroy Vazrhánsar.

The end of that battle also saw the end of the Codrexian staff. The moderators, immensely injured, were placed into stasis pods and sealed inside, to sleep forever on the brink of life in the hidden Arthurian Hall. And the energy drain required to activate their stasis – restarting the Codrex from its drained state – was the final act that consumed the life of the already-wounded Kaze Azure.

His face unreadable, the Life Mage gazed across the sleek steel stasis shells that patterned the hall's gleaming walls like sarcophagi. The members of Codrexia, though they were unaware of the location of the Arthurian Hall, still believed that the moderators would awaken again in the coming years. Biomancer knew better: unless he helped the comatose moderators to heal, they would be utterly without hope, trapped in their pods for eternity.

But he would have to wait to attempt to heal them. Codrexia was a store of power, perfect for restoring the moderators' health, but the Life Mage would need to be able to harness it properly.

All he could do was learn… and wait.

OOC: HEY GUISE I HEAR IM FASHIONABLY LATE

IC:

The Cryomancer liked to consider himself many things, and claimed to have a strong grip on many of life’s subjects; He was an inventor, a scholar, a scientist, a naturalist; a politician, an enforcer of the law, an authority; a judge, a jury, and a noble friend. Unfortunately, he had not claimed the field of biology under his belt, so quite frankly he had no idea what in Saturn’s name he was fighting. For the most part, it shared similarities with the long extinct niveanix Culmus, a species of arctic-inhabiting large felines, or ‘Leopardi’ as the ancients had named them. Much to the displeasure of the amiable mage, the differences were far sharper and angrier than the similarities. Dagger-like spikes grew out of the beast’s spinal column, going down the length of it. Its front and back claws were much sharper than those of any other beast he had seen, and the aura of spite surrounding the creature made even the Mage of Cold shiver.

He now realized how foolish he had been to not send armed escorts with the beast to holding, but also knew anything that had transpired in the cell was beyond his control now, and the wheels of time could not be turned back. Now, as he did best, the Cryomancer was prepared to live in the present... and hopefully survive long enough to see a future. The mannerisms of the creature struck him as particularly eerie, as it calmly strolled around valley, the small clearing between tall rock barriers which formed a natural front lawn for the Cryomansion. The creature and the Cold Mage had been barred from the exit tunnels by the militiamen, determined to contain the threat. The cat stalked around the pavillion at the valley’s center, as the sparse onlookers edged towards the security of the administration building. The two opponents had their eyes locked on one another, waiting for the other to make the first move.

But cats are not known for their patience.

The creature’s tendons stiffened as it leaped forward an amazing distance, almost gliding over the pavillion towards the mage. Cryomancer put a gloved hand out in front of him, drawing on his reserves of magic to bring time almost to a halt. The air thickened, yet the beast continued forward, with claws that looked a whole lot sharper up close. Sidestepping, Cryomancer muttered under his breath that it would have been ‘too easy’, then drew his sword. The Ensis was a beautiful and elegant weapon, but the Mage rarely had opportunities to display it outside of ceremonies and fencing practice. Now, the denizens of the the fortress--scattered already from the terrifying monster--really started to flee, knowing that if the Cryomancer deemed it necessary to engage in actual combat then civilians should probably stay clear.

In a shower of sparks, claw met ancient steel. The mage was almost knocked back by the brute force, but dug his heel into the ground and pushed forward. The creature danced around a lunge, and in turn, the Cryomancer narrowly avoided getting a shave slightly closer than his usual. Realizing the futility of his efforts, the Cryomancer quickly retreated to the center of the city square, scanning his surroundings for anything he could use to hopefully hit the cat over the head with. Preferably, something large and incredibly deadly. As it was, there were no incredibly large and deadly objects to be found; however, there was something slightly more interesting. Tucked away in an alcove, the maestro noticed a figured huddled around a glowing crystal, staring intently at the fight below. Remembering the face from his office, just shy of an hour ago, the mage shifted his attention. Quickly hurtling up the icy face of the mountain in which the traitorous figure was perched, the Cryomancer thought back to the monster prowling the ground below. The beast seemed to have its head tilted towards the shadowy figure, who was no doubt its master.

The figure himself had some explaining to do, even without the beast causing havoc below. Only a few weeks before, a scouting party had been sent out to survey the land for possible fortress expansions and outposts. The Cryomancer hesitated to send so few without a Mage’s protection, but the fortress needed a vigilant protector. With a weary heart, he sent a handful of brave souls journeyed past the fortress walls--carrying a decent supply of weaponry, of course. When they had returned with the beast below in chains, the Cryomancer was in such a hurry to have them bring it to the holding cell that he hadn’t even bothered to make them go through proper security, or check under their protective masks to see if they were actually the scouting party. Alas, the Cryomancer had learned that his Militia’s uniforms were easily stolen, and easily worn by these... Guilders, he suspected.

The Guilders--remnants of the once powerful Guild that dictated Chanvale before the Cryomancer’s return--remained merciless in their attempts to numerous reclaim “their” fortress. Their attacks had increased over the months, another reason why the maestro fretted over protecting his denizens. This particular Guilder had a stern expression commonly found on those set out for revenge. No doubt he was a descendant of one of the original Guildmasters the Cryomancer had slain all those years ago, finally back and probably hoping to avenge his ancestors.

The Cryomancer finally scaled up to the Guilder, and grabbed him by the arm. Keeping a firm grasp on the crystal, the Guilder spat in the mage’s face and tried to break away. The Cold Mage, however, knew his way around a dojo and quickly disarmed the impolite infiltrator. The crystal nearly dropped down to the quickly approaching beast who apparently discovered a new usage of his claws, but the Cryomancer sheathed his sword and barely managed to save the crystal from breaking. The beast, undeterred, continued scaling the rock face after the mage, more intent for blood than the Guilder. The mage whipped around as the beast lunged forward a final time. It met some unexpected resistance as it was punched in the snout by a crystal-gripping fist, and the Cryomancer in return was surprised when the Beast disappeared in a flash, into a now steaming gem. He turned around back to the Guiler, hoisting him by the collar, and whispered into his ear.

“You’re going to get out of my fortress.”

The guilder shyly nodded in agreement, and desperately tried to run away. Unfortunately for him, the Cryomancer wasn’t quite done. Smirking, he tossed him down the cliffside like a sled, shouting down to the speeding guilder, “I hope we’re crystal clear!”

Cryomancer’s gaze didn’t leave the Guilder until he managed to finally fling himself out of the Fortress gates, into the snowy hillside below. As the intruder finally took his leave, someone who was more than welcome stepped back in. It was the Ventimancer, making his entry with a sarcastic wave.

“I take it you handled things well enough without me?”

IC: In darkness so complete that he was not even a silhouette, a stranger stood, half-heartedly hidden behind an outcropping, gazing at the might and stature of Z1NE B. He was always struck with a nostalgic respect as he approached a Fortress, and Z1NE B impressed him more than any other. To reach it, one had to pass through miles of consistent, flat landscape, only to watch the horizon itself shatter upon approaching it. Even though it was dwarfed by the mountains, the traveler knew that it owned those mountains; the manmade structure seemed to harness the natural power of the rugged slopes, as though it was controlling the subterranean forces which had pushed them from the earth.

On this particular occasion, his respect was mixed with a feeling of indignation; it was mellow, but present. The events he was about to set in motion would throw him into more danger than he had ever experienced – since his initiation, anyway. There was a method to Z1NE B, even before the Sundering, a great infrastructure unlike any other Fortress. Most forced the divide between the trustworthy and the outsiders in order to obtain an illusion of security, but not even the shaking of the foundations of their universe brought the inhabitants of Z1NE B much closer. Even among neighbors, distrust remained.

A modern, thirty-hour silver pocket watch vibrated with each tick in his hand. The background lit up, allowing his eyes to trace the movements of the hands. It was a bit sloppy of him to use a light while on reconnaissance, but then again, if he started fretting over every little thing, he’d do himself in. He would enter during the strokes of midnight, partially for the benefit of the guards, but mostly to satisfy himself. He was a superstitious sort of man.

The appointed time arrived, and the watch was tucked away. He had done no research, and had no idea how the gates of Z1NE B would be guarded at this hour. Perhaps the procedure was simply not to open them at all; but that had never stopped him before.

Pleasantly, he found a guard waiting for him at the gates, or some other authority. The walking stick implied that he might be more than the average watchdog, but even from the parapet the traveler could see that he was weary from a long night. “Name and business!” he called down, sounding as though he had other things on his mind.

“Pseudomancer,” the figure in the shadows answered, just loud enough to be heard, and without a hint of grandeur. The only introduction he needed was the sound of a bell tolling midnight.

A new day had begun.

OC: I have no idea how Outlands time works, but I assume it runs on a 24 or 25 hour day. If we like, I can edit this to reference the time, FD (?), for consistency.

The guard is most likely Markus, unless he isn't.

Edit: Some changes for consistency (thanks, Wally), and a few other, minor changes. We are still unsure about Markus.

IC:


The guard hefted his walnut walkingstick nervously, considering while the bell sounded off the end of the night's final hour. Z1NE B would welcome a Mancer's visit, but... Pseudomancer? He had never heard of such a thing, and there were no multitudes of Mancers.

He knelt briefly to pull a tinted metal sphere from a receptacle in the floor of the walltop, and dropped it into a hole beside its resting place. His counterpart guard below would have to summon Markus Bendire for him. This Pseudomancer would not go uninvestigated.


Nine hours since Saturn's visit, and still Markus could not sleep.

He flexed his shoulders impatiently as he bent over the miniature discus on his desk. It might have been unmistakable as a symbol, but it was an utterly plain object, and he could not find any other meaning to it than what had been immediately obvious to him upon sight of it. Why would Saturn want him as an emissary? Why would any Composite God need to deal with him?

Long before the Composite Gods and the Sundering, he had had a bout of amnesia, and he had forgotten much of his adult life. Perhaps he had done something back that the Composite Gods would now take note of? But surely they couldn't be omniscient, and they certainly weren't around at that time...

"Markus Bendire," hissed a voice at the door.

"... yes?" Markus turned to see one of Z1NE B's perimeter guards, who'd apparently just skidded into view - the young man shifted anxiously, out of breath, and set his hand diagonally edgewise across his chest in a salute.

"Sir, we seem... seem to have a visitor. One of the guards from the walltop requested your presence."

Markus stared at the guard, then rushed past him and down the hallway towards the street. "It could be anything... come on, then!"

In normal times, Markus would have asked the guard further - what kind of visitor? who would come to Z1NE B at this time? - but Saturn's arrival was a reminder that it was best to see for oneself. Occasionally they would have an ordinary refuge-seeker arrive at the fortress at a time this late, but this particular night was so dark that it seemed impossible to imagine someone attempting to travel now. At least, any ordinary someone.

Markus's shirt flapped slightly as he pelted through the shadowy streets. There was no moon, and having just come out of his lanternlit room he could only see a hint of the brightest stars. But already he had left the winded guard behind him - he knew the streets of Z1NE B well.

He reached the wall and began pulling himself up the ladder two rungs at a time, pausing to toss his walkingstick onto the walltop. The guard above him glanced anxiously down before staring back out at the apparent visitor.

Soon enough, Markus reached the top. In the darkness below the outer fortress wall, there was the suggestion of a figure's outline - longhaired and longcoated. The guard leaned over and whispered, "He says he's a Mancer, Pseudomancer."

Even though the figure below (Pseudomancer?) surely couldn't see him particularly well, Markus frowned and folded his hands together on his amulet-topped stick, before finally calling down. "Pseudomancer, you say, but you are no Mage I know. Do you wish entry to Z1NE B?"

IC: “Do you wish entry to Z1NE B?” the authority called down.

“No, sir,” Pseudomancer chortled, “I have made the many-mile trek through hostile and inhospitable desert, only to turn around at the gate.”

And although he could not see the expression on the fellow’s face, he guessed that he was on the last nerve of an impatient and insomniac individual of considerable influence within ZINE B’s walls.

Still chuckling, Pseudomancer removed his fedora and wiped his brow. Keeping the fedora in his hands in a partially genuine gesture of respect, the Mage of Falsehood spoke again before the guards could respond:

“The days ahead of you shall be rife with opportunity, to help your fortress and the greater good, or to cripple both, beyond recovery. I have served as an advisor in such days before, and I offer my service to you now.”

“Be aware that I give my best advice when not required to shout towards the top of a guard tower.”

The Pseudomancer smiled to himself. His favorite deceptions were those which came from giving the truth in a misleading order.

No good would come of his stay in ZINE B.

OOC:

Spoiler:

IC:


Markus saw no great amusement in the Pseudomancer's disruption of the night. Compared to those who really did flee from the Composite Gods to Z1NE B, people like this fedora-bearing man were just annoyances, the cocky few who the Gods saw fit to ignore.

"A refugee, then... very well, you may come in. We have little need of your service now, but we welcome and will not turn away one seeking shelter." Markus gestured for the guard below him to open the left sets of doors for the Pseudomancer. "I bid you a new day."

IC: A pair of human guards opened the gates for Z1NE B’s newest uninvited guest. The Pseudomancer inclined his head towards them, maintaining his smirk, and began to stride into the fortress.

“We’ve converted several of the courtyards into refugee camps,” one of the guards half-yawned, having explained the situation to dozens during is career, “The apartments are getting crowded, but things are much nicer than what we’ve heard of some of the other – Uh, maestro, you can’t go in there!”

It was the Pseudomancer’s policy to find figures of authority and earn their respect, and whatever captain or chief the watchmen and dragged out from bed now had his attention. He wouldn’t be dismissed so easily, especially not by someone already involved in Z1NE B’s security.

“Maestro, you called me,” the Pseudomancer grinned, turning to the guards, “I know what I’m doing, gentlemen, and that’s getting involved.”

He headed up the passage which he could easily infer led to the guard tower, hoping to catch a potential ally before he slipped away. A reluctant ally, it looked like, but those were the most fun.

Let all the king’s men come after him if they wanted to. Security would be chasing him by the end of this, anyway.

The expedition into the mountains would proceed unfettered by the Guilders, and security measures would be escalated to match the threat. The Ventimancer and Cryomancer could both agree to that much.

Now, they stood over the charts and maps spread out over the Cryomancer’s desk, considering where construction might begin.

“I like this cavern,” Ventimancer suggested, “Large enough to build a sizeable settlement, pretty easy to defend, and not too far away.”

“Or there’s this plateau…” he considered, unfolding another map.

“That’s a two-hundred foot ravine.”

“Oh.”

OOC: We might have to do some coordinating to get Pseudo and Markus actually doing something, but I think Z1NE B is a story thread which we can and should pursue. I'll talk to Arty about getting something moving in Chanvale, but those are the only two Fortresses that I can nudge.

IC:

Markus limped down the last few rungs of the ladder, hearing the footsteps of an eager approacher.  Either an overexcited guard reporting, or the newcomer seeking to speak with him.  Perhaps both.  Whatever the case, he strode preemptively toward the doorway.

The person in question - and it was the newcomer - stopped short of colliding with him, but didn't back off upon Markus's uninterested question: "I take it you wish something."


"I recognize His Sovereign Lordship the Wrath Mage Iraemancer, Supreme Financier and Overseer of United Deltán." Exy made a precise bow. "This is your appointed Ficial, Xexan Ynhrodepst, speaking.  I present for your Lordship Wrath's attention the briefest facts of your requested economic report.

"United Deltán continues to experience a period of stability in population and currency value, and thus local services and housing remain of good quality and no change in quantity.  Unemployment in the seaside Architect's Fringe has been down thanks primarily to your Lordship's hiring for your buildings' design and construction.  However, may I humbly note that I have been asked to recommend your Lordship continue to support the entire water Fringe by continuing your maintenance of boatbuilding for a naval defense.  Other than that you may read further public matters in the full economic report that has been delivered to you."

Exy lifted their head again, their hair falling into their purple eyes. "As your Ficial I must ask you if you have any special requests for me to perform for United Deltán at this time.  I am respectfully at your Lordship's service and that of the Mancers."

IC:


It was 9:42 FD when Hesan looked up and saw the fire on the eastern horizon.

Even in his fatigue-dulled state, the gloom in his mind quickly gave way to fear, and he caught his crawler in step. Fire in the distance, from a direction without a fortress. A lightning fire? an asteroid, even? He dearly hoped it had a natural cause.

But he knew it couldn't. A natural fire could never bloom in the shape of a crown.

Hesan was a trader, one of those lucky few who persisted in the face of the threat of gods and still stayed safe. He still had some of the trappings of the Sdkadthosh, the Second Age Past - clockwork things like his watch and crawler that allowed him to keep to his trade circuit-routes on time. He hadn't particularly expected his luck to run out, mostly because he didn't pay much attention to luck.

As the fire brightened the eastern evening sky, Hesan bowed his head in resignment. Luck and prayer were useless to him now, for the very gods themselves were hostile.

He would move on. The fireball was not in his path, and he hoped only to reach the next fortress. There was to be no safety in the Outlands that night.


:.weak is the winglet that bears the stone to earth.:

The voice was the whisper of a stream that had left a waterfall - silence after a roar, a trickle that said nothing of the scream of thunder that birthed it.

A gauntlet reached for the rim but never touched it, preempted by the warping of the crater itself. Silence fell as the ground swelled and the great fiery gash in the ground flickered out.

In a minute, all signs of the destructive arrival were gone, if there had really been an arrival at all - the crater had disappeared, its destroyed caldera restored to grassland ground. Behind the faceplate of the figure who rose to their feet, coals exploded like little suns, and only flames shone where the god's face might have been.

:.nine ways went the descending light, and one shall i go until i have found my own again.:

The whisper of the flame-faced god was soon lost in the grass, their silver shape gone from sight.


It was 10:10 FD when Hesan glanced over his shoulder again. There was no sign of the crown-shaped blaze on the horizon.

He had been looking over his shoulder, despite his dread, and it was still there at his last glance. That meant it had to have flickered out in the last two minutes, or perhaps it had been deliberately put out.

"Leave the gods to their own," he mumbled, and kicked the crawler up one gear. He would reach the Library of the Mask before 13 FD, if he kept up his speed.

And he would not look back for the quenched fire again.