82 White Chain Born In Emptiness Returns To Subdue Evil. Angel, Concordant Knight, Peacekeeper of the Red City of Throne, Licensed Transgender Disaster. Associated with Aldebaran Seas.
The Hanged Man in Reverse: When has your charactertried to avoid making a major decision?Â
White Chain forces herself to be more decisive than she feels, so she generally does make a decision quickly, even if itâs one she might later regret. She knows what path her life should be on, and she refuses to let herself stray.
The World: When has one of your characterâs dreamscome true?Â
When she was accepted as a Concordant Knight in full standing, if âsomething you were told you should want from birthâ counts as a dream.
The Tower: When has your character lost an idealor relationship?Â
Hard as it may be to believe, White Chain used to be even more idealistic about the Law. These days, she clings to it as a life raft in dangerous and uncertain waters; a moral system she can mostly believe in, when she can no longer believe in herself. But before the Universal War, she believed in the power of the Law; its ability to create and maintain just societies even in the face of unscrupulous actors.
Temperance, the star, The High Priestess in Reverse,
Temperance: How does your character balance theirlife?
Poorly.
...
Okay, slightly longer answer: White Chain is completely devoted to her work (IE protecting Heaven, enforcing its laws, and destroying the evildoers that make their home there). There is no âbalanceâ because she does not allow herself to do anything else. And, yes. This sucks.
The Star: When has your character been mosthopeful?Â
Honestly? Probably right around when she incarnated, when she could still believe that the Law she would devote herself to was a perfect system that would ensure peace and justice forever. Itâs pretty much been all downhill from there.
The High Priestess in Reverse: When has yourcharacter felt betrayed emotionally?Â
A number of her friends (though she wouldnât use that word) among her fellow angels have joined either the Thorn Knights (genocidal fascists) or Petal Knights (lawless mercenaries), and it always hurts.
The Fool: When has your character been excited to start a new journey?
The Magician: How does your character unleash their creativity or resourcefulness?
The High Priestess: When has trusting their instincts paid off for your character?
The Empress: Who has been a positive female figure in your characterâs life?
The Emperor: Who has been a positive male figure in your characterâs life?
The Hierophant: Who has served as a mentor to your character?
The Lovers: Which of your characterâs relationships has been the most positive? (Romantic or otherwise)
The Chariot: What goal is your character determined to reach?
Strength: On what issue is your character persistent?
The Hermit: Write about a time your character did some soul searching. What did they find?
The Wheel of Fortune: What are your characterâs proudest successes?
Justice: When has your character felt satisfied with the conclusion to a major dispute or concern?
The Hanged Man: When has your character needed to step back and look at things from a different perspective?
Death: When has your character had to let go of something in their life?
Temperance: How does your character balance their life?
The Devil: Does your character ever neglect their wild side?
The Tower: When has your character lost an ideal or relationship?
The Star: When has your character been most hopeful?
The Moon: When has your characterâs path been unclear?
The Sun: When does your character sit back and enjoy themselves?
Judgment: Has your character ever been given a second chance?
The World: When has one of your characterâs dreams come true?
Bonus: Major Arcana in Reverse!
The Fool in Reverse: When has your character acted recklessly?
The Magician in Reverse: When was your character manipulated?
The High Priestess in Reverse: When has your character felt betrayed emotionally?
The Empress in Reverse: When has your character felt dependent on another?
The Emperor in Reverse: When is your character inflexible or stubborn?
The Hierophant in Reverse: When has your characterâs personal beliefs been challenged?
The Lovers in Reverse: Â When has your character experienced heartbreak?
The Chariot in Reverse: When has your characterâs pride or arrogance been their downfall?
Strength in Reverse: What are your characterâs doubts or insecurities?
The Hermit in Reverse: When has your character felt the most alone?
The Wheel of Fortune in Reverse: When has your character felt their life was no longer under their control?
Justice in Reverse: When has your character been treated unfairly or cruelly?
The Hanged Man in Reverse: When has your character tried to avoid making a major decision?
Death in Reverse: When has your character tried to fight change?
Temperance in Reverse: When has your character felt overwhelmed?
The Devil in Reverse: When has your character suffered from refusing to break off an unhealthy relationship?
The Tower in Reverse: When has your characterâs actions led to disaster?
The Star in Reverse: When has your character lost faith?
The Moon in Reverse: When does your character mistrust their feelings or intuition?
The Sun in Reverse: When does your characterâs goal seem just out of reach?
Judgment in Reverse: When has your character found it difficult to forgive themselves?
The World in Reverse: What is your character holding back?Â
The Contrarian canât help the feeling of guilt when he sees White Chain drop to the ground, at least, as much guilt as he can possibly feel over winning an argument. WellâŠperhaps a bit more guilt than usual; heâs not about to examine it at the moment.Â
He reaches out and, with as little awkwradness as he can manage, pats White Chain on her shoulder.Â
âThere, there,â he says. âItâs alright, sometimes thatâs the only answer one can and should give.â The platitude feels forced, but it is no less true for it.Â
White Chain canât help but laugh, despairingly, at the absurdity of the situation. âNow that,â she says, with a tired smile, âis the last thing I thought I would ever hear from you.â
Mikhailaâs steps carry her past White Chain before she slows to a stop, feeling curiously off balance, gaze focused on the horizon. âI see,â she says softly, before turning. She doesnât face White Chain directly- she looks at her out of the corner of her eye, and takes a moment to breathe. Breathe. Her lower jaw trembles, teeth threatening to chatter, and she canât tell if itâs anger or grief or just pure emotion, a vast and raging pit inside her that she didnât realize was there until this moment.
âI see,â she says again, drawing the words out, letting them linger in the air. And then she gives a harsh, bitter laugh and says, âYouâre awfully self-important, arenât you, to think you know a damn thing about what I do or donât think?â Emotion is thickening her accent, now, and she doesnât resist the urge to slip into Russian, tone turning spiteful. It will translate into whatever language White Chain knows anyways, but it feels better, more authentic, to spit these words in her mother tongue, to let the acid drip off of them.
She didnât know she was still capable of being so angry.
âAwfully self-important, to think that your suffering is worse than anyone elseâs.â And she feels her eyes go flinty cold, her lip curl in a sneer, her breath release in an audible scoff.
âIf you are so intent on wallowing in your own self-righteous martyrdom, then please, do not let me stop you. But consider this- you exist to fight that battle, to protect all of creation? Since when is the bodyguard ever worth more than what she guards? She is not. If she were, she would not be expended on the battlefield to protect the continuation of someone else.â
She takes a sharp breath, shocked at her own cruelty, but her voice doesnât waver as she says, âPathetic,â and turns her back. The anger is a comforting fire licking at her heart, masking the crack the hurt has caused, and it allows her to keep her shoulders and spine straight as she begins to walk again, not bothering to wait for a response. If the angel has one, she can damn well chase Mikhaila down, or yell it after her.
Sheâs not running away. She just has no reason to stay behind and speak to someone so incredibly and intentionally ignorant.
An icy sensation trickles through White Chainâs chest, strange and painful and unknown. A thousand responses buzz around her skull, a thousand emotions fighting for dominance, flaring up in a halo above her head, pulling her taught and fit to snap. She clenches her fists, her jaw, her whole body, trying to hold still until she can control herself, until she can retreat to cold logic and hard truths, until she is sure she will not betray the storm in her heart, until she knows that she will not open her mouth and say --
âDO YOU THINK I DONâT KNOW THAT?â
The words come out like a roar, like a gunshot, not only breaking the silence but irrevocably changing its nature. The sound echoes through the forest, back and back and back again. Leaves rustle and fall with its passing; a flock of birds burst from the canopy with a chorus of indignant caws. White Chainâs halo sputters out.
She closes her eyes and turns her head away, not wanting to see if Mikhaila is listening, and says, quietly, âYour insignificance is a gift from G-d. Be sure to cherish it.â Then she turns on her heel, and vanishes into the trees.
The shop is loud. Not audially - not especially, at least - but itâs cluttered and busy, like a strange painting. It reminds him almost of a carnival, and itâs about as busy as one, and its wares just as fantastical.
Some things are obviously weapons, or at least usable as such, and he makes note of them, and tries not to reach for any. Even now his conditioning pushes him to get a new sword, first priority, you are defenseless - but he pushes back.
He keeps an eye out for something sturdy enough to busy his hands without worrying about breaking it as he leads White Chain to a corner of the shop that looks reasonably out of the way of its patrons. She was right - itâs not really more private here.
âWhat do you know about this place?â
âFrustratingly little, Iâm afraid.â White Chain clasps her hands behind her back and begins pacing back and forth. âWe have all been abducted from across numerous distinct universes, but - as far as I am aware - I am the only one who was aware of the existence of other universes before coming here. The Ark is ruled by a mysterious group known as the âArk Administration,â but they seem content to leave day-to-day matters to the Protocols. My best guess is that they are attempting to inure us to the indignity of captivity through politeness and,â she gestures around the room, âpositive reinforcement, but to what end, I do not yet know.â
âI am afraid of straying from the right path. At all times, I can hear the paths of Thorn and Petal calling to me - the rage against the humans who corrupted paradise, and the disgust for the stagnant traditions of angelkind. But the Thorn Knights sacrifice compassion for single-minded genocide, and the Petal Knights sacrifice compassion for hedonistic self-interest. So I am afraid of those feelings within me; I am afraid of the evil I know I am capable of.â
âI have not,â Jessamine admits, and she shifts, then pushes herself to sit up properly, lifting her hand to her head preemptively. To her distinct pleasure, it neither swims nor attempts to slide off her shoulders, and she sets her feet in the sand, contemplating standing.
Well. While she thinks about that, White Chain is still speaking.
âOh, not at all,â she says, âif one considers it an isolated or rare occurrence. It can even be quite enjoyable, though it drastically lowers oneâs inhibitions and makes it quite difficult to keep oneâs tongue from running away with them.â She smiles, thinking about all the nobles, their loosening tongues as they became more and more soused at this dreadful party or that.
âHowever, it can become an addiction if done too frequently,â she adds, âwhich is not only a pain, but deadly. The stuff can cause your body to simply cease functioning. Not a problem here, of course, but⊠Regardless. I have seen Bi Xiu, but I have never been to the very bottom of it. Will you show me?â She stands, then offers her hand, every inch a lady waiting to be escorted.
White Chain turns the bottle over in her hand, expression inscrutable. âI am not sure I can imagine being without inhibitions. Are the choices we make not what define us? If I gave in to my basest instincts, what would separate me from a devil, or a beast?â
She stands, with a shrug, and takes Jessamineâs arm. âIt is a moot point, I suppose, as such intoxication is forever barred to me. Shall we?â
Kneeling in Kossâ Workshop beneath the light of the tree of the Law, as her master hands her her badge of office to roaring applause.
-
[content warning: celestial apocalypse]
A battlefield. 6,000 years ago, at the height of the Universal War. The light of this worldâs sun growing brighter and brighter, the dot growing larger and larger; screams of horror as throngs of soldiers desperately rush for the Kingâs Gate back to Throne. The whole world is washed out. The sky is a solid mass of celestial fire. White Chain saves as many civilians as she can, but it is not enough, it is never enough, and when the world finally crashes into its sun, over twenty billion die in an instant. For the people who lived on this world, it is the end of days; for White Chain, it is merely another day, another battle, another unspeakable atrocity that can never be undone.
The Concordance of Demiurges, where the greatest kings of the multiverse hold court. As a junior angel, White Chain has been given the vestigial task of maintaining order between beings who are wise enough to know the folly of wielding their powers for violence. Today, the Demiurges are holding a great debate over the nature of beauty. Despite the intensity of their arguments, the philosophers are all given the stage, and their speeches are applauded politely. In this way, the opposing sides allow each other to use this sacred space to reach the most sublime enlightenment mankind has ever known. Even when the speakers grow tired, and the hour grows late, the debate rolls on, unstoppable. White Chain watches all of this happen as an insignificant observer, and feels great joy in her heart.
-
The Concordance of Demiurges, where the greatest kings of the multiverse hold court. As a junior angel, White Chain has been given the impossible task of maintaining order between beings who cannot be stopped from wielding their powers for violence. Today, the Demiurges are holding a great debate over whether to conquer the rest of Creation. Despite the depravity of their arguments, the warmongers are all given the stage, and their speeches are applauded politely. In this way, the moderates allow them to use this sacred space to plan the deadliest war mankind has ever known. By the time they realize their mistake, it is too late, and the war rolls on, unstoppable. White Chain watches all of this happen as a powerless observer, and feels great sorrow in her heart.
Dear 82 White Chain Born In Emptiness Returns To Subdue Evil -
Congratulations on having successfully completed the requirements to achieve the Rank of Waxing Moon! As a special one-time thank you for your cooperation, you have been awarded one (1) ⥠Buyback Voucher, which may be exchanged at any time for the full use of any one (1) of your restricted powers. Please come visit me at the Commerce Hub for more details.
The Aldebaran Administration thanks you again for your assistance in making the Aldebaran Ark into the wonderful community it is today,
Your friend,
- Commerce Protocol âĄ
White Chain sits on a rooftop in the Sea of Crises and rereads the Commerce Protocolâs message for the seven hundred and sixty seventh time. Rain pours down around her in thick, heavy sheets. Each droplet alone has enough size and speed to be painful - and there are thousands of them every minute. They play a frantic staccato drumbeat on her stone skin, which echoes through the hollow spaces of her armor. Blinding flashes of lightning fill the sky, followed by booms of thunder that are barely loud enough to be heard over the constant roar of the rain itself.
And through it all, White Chain never moves, never flinches, and never looks up from her phone.
... As a special one-time thank you for your cooperation, you have been awarded (1) ⥠Buyback Voucher...
Even up on the rooftops, puddles have begun to form, tar-slick and treacherous. White Chain steps around them gracefully without sparing them a glance, and rereads the message for the seven hundred and seventy first time.
It is true that using this voucher would be forbidden by the Old Law. It is a form of currency, however illegitimate, and angels are prohibited from making purchases. But that law was created to protect against bribery - and this is not bribery.
Oh, it is meant to be bribery, of course, just like everything else the Commerce Protocol offers. Weapons and vehicles and eggs of wild beasts, all incentives for, if not cooperation, at least... complacency. But this offering, this Buyback Voucher, is a return of powers that were illegally taken. She would have every right to demand its return, or to secure it by force. If she has found another way to right this injustice, why should it matter that she would have to play along with the Protocolsâ fake money in order to do so?
... the full use of any one (1) of your restricted powers...
Water has begun to seep into the cracks in her armor, flash-vaporizing as soon as it touches her true body. It is as if one of the clouds has descended from the heavens to cloak her in its softness. White Chain wipes some of the condensation from her phone screen, and rereads the message for the seven hundred and seventy fourth time.
It never should have been possible to take her so-called powers in the first place. They are not like Devilâs Kisses - parasitic gifts that can be removed - nor like a sorcererâs Arts - clever lies that may be countermanded by anotherâs rebuttal. Her strength, her speed, and her mastery over the 47 Empty Palms are all martial techniques that channel the blazing heat of her Will. Even her armorâs resilience is fueled by the force of her devotion to the Law. They are emanations from her soul itself, and cannot be separated from her.
(When she first arrived, there was a part of her that became convinced that it was not her powers that had deserted her but her conviction, her surety of righteousness. Sometimes she fears this still. To accept the Commerce Protocolâs gift would be to discard the fear and know, one way or the other --)
... The Aldebaran Administration thanks you again...
A cold wind speeds through the canyon of the streets below, sending umbrellas flying and street lamps rattling like bones cast in a divination. White Chain tightens her grip on her phone, and rereads the message for the seven hundred and seventy sixth time.
And the truth is that accepting is probably the right thing to do. The Protocols are Class α criminals for having kidnapped an angel, which gives her the right - nay, the duty! - to apprehend them by any means necessary. And the return of even one of her combat advantages would be a great boon in her fight against them. Her speed might be enough to avoid the Enforcement Protocolâs punishments; her armorâs resilience might be enough to resist them entirely. Her strength or her Empty Palm strikes would be enough to crack open the seams of this false world. And if she were ever to return to her full capabilities, she might have the chance to take the fight to the Protocols themselves, wherever - or whatever - they are.
She has a chance to do something truly good. And all she has to do is say yes.
... Your friend,
- Commerce Protocol âĄ
The heart of the storm has arrived. Thunder and lightning speak out with one voice, brothers united at last. The dark clouds above perform their ancient dances, and harsh winds carry the raindrops nearly horizontal, speeding through the streets of the city below. White Chain stares blankly at the phone in her hand, unseeing, uncomprehending. Because she has not only been looking at the phone.
She has also been looking at what is behind it.
There is a scar across her palm; a jagged crack in her armor, glowing with the light of her inner flame. It is the echo of a Law broken in the gale of her rage, a reminder of the unjust murder she committed with this very hand.
She could accept Commerce Protocolâs offer. It would probably be legal, and it might even be wise. But - how can she trust her own conscience, when it is clouded so easily by anger? How can she trust her own heart, when it yearns for unforgivable softness? How can she trust her own judgement, knowing that she will never be judged?
And all that is left is the Law. All she can trust is the Law.
Very slowly, very deliberately, she swipes open her phoneâs menu and selects delete message. Then she turns her face to the heavens, and lets the rain wash away her doubts.
Mikhaila jerks like sheâs been shot, and her hand comes up to her chest, pressing down hard before she says, âYou make such cold judgments,â voice quiet, âwithout knowing anything.â Her voice isnât hard, isnât unfriendly, but thereâs a note of censure in it, displeasure.
âI come from a world where a population of eleven billion humans has been decimated to just under one million, not even touching the loss of lives of livestock and pets and wildlife, and that was only at last count, at least a year ago. Almost eleven billion lives lost, in the span of three years. And my own mistake is a large part of what caused it to happen when it did. So please, donât assume that you are the only one with mistakes to grieve, tragedies to feel guilt for. Donât assume, just because your responsibilities are great, that mine matter any less.â
White Chain stops in her tracks. âEleven billion is nothing,â she snaps, expression carelessly cruel. âYour world, your tragedy, your life - you cannot comprehend how small they are, how common.â
She raises herself to her full height, cold and imperious. âI carry the fates of a half a million universes on my back, and clash against false gods who could obliterate everything you have ever known with a thought. So do not fool yourself into comparing your suffering to mine, little human. I am vaster than you could ever know.â
