#plot and prose

[merrygams-blog]

Public speaking was obviously included in your tutoring, but somehow standing in front of a room full of highbloods puts all that training to shame. The piercing eyes scrutinizing your every move, the judgement that you know waits behind them. Nothing could have prepared you for this, and yet here you are, draped in white and gold, a microphone in your face and what seems like a million highborn trolls staring up at you. You’re above them, you have to remind yourself, squaring your shoulders and mustering your confidence.

Leaning just a bit closer to the microphone, you part your lips to tell lies.

“First and foremost, I would like to thank each and every one of you for allowing a troll of meager standing such as myself walk amongst you. The title of Matriark is an honor beyond compare, and the status it gives me unparalleled. I find myself a bit overwhelmed when I ponder it in my spare time. It’s a mantle of honor that I will wear happily, and with humility,” You put your head down a bit to accompany that sentiment. Someone snaps a picture. “However, it is also a great burden. The responsibility which accompanies my privileged status is daunting; to represent the jadebloods of the empire, to lead and shelter them, to provide a voice where none was previously heard. This is what I must do, for the sake of my caste siblings, and I intend to fulfill that role thoroughly. I have been granted the means to make a difference, and I will not fail to grasp at whatever straws I must in order to give my caste what they truly deserve in this life.”

You pause to clear your throat, then shoot an inviting smile across the crowd. “And of course, a door must allow one to pass two ways - any who wish to learn more about my charges are always welcome to visit the caverns and gain firsthand experience in our lives. The sharing of information and experience should always be open.”

There’s a small murmur at that as you bow and recede back to your place. That really wasn’t so hard, after all.

[legerdeman-blog]

You spent two days staking out the drow palace, watching the goings on inside its walls through infrared while suspended from the ceiling and slowly shaving away at the wards. You had quickly discovered that the top of the castle was the most vulnerable, which was convenient as it would also afford you the best vantage point. It didn’t even take you very long to determine the pattern of your mark, and the best time to strike.

Finally, it was time. As she sat alone in the courtyard near the back of the palace, you descended upon her, landing in a crouch with sword in hand. The look of shock on her face did nothing to help her head sliding from her neck in a clean slice.

Retrieving the head, you cast a levitation spell on yourself and begin floating airily toward the front entrance. You snag a flag with a spike on the way, for good measure. Once at the front gates, you drop to the ground with a small burst of sparks, and plant your flag in the cobbles of the path.

This message would be clear: the head of Sara Neadie, who had assassinated the High Priestess, cut and mounted on a spike. You also take the time to leave a short message, a couple lines of Elvish shimmering in the air above the gruesome sight.

Strider is here. Your shit is wrecked.

Short, sweet, and to the point. You don’t linger to watch it get discovered.

[contemporanealitical-blog]

m!a ur a god of space instead of time for three days! have fun w ur new powers

You’re in a garden in 17th century France. With one hand tied behind your back and the other tied to a fencing foil, you have only just enough time to sweep your eyes over the message before someone removes your shades and replaces them with a blindfold. The man you’re about to duel, a viscount of something or other that he said earlier and you forgot immediately because you weren’t listening, calls to you from across the small area you’d marked out. He asks if you’re really quite certain you want to do this. You tell him you’ve never wanted to do something more in your life. He says it’s your funeral.

The message you read brushed from your mind instantly, you assume a stance and lunge - and for a moment you almost feel as if the ground has been moved under your feet. You stumble forward, and you can hear your opponents sword audibly cutting through the air.

Then your perception shifts. You’re simultaneously disconnected from the timestream and shoved straight into the middle of it, no longer an outside observer. You contract in on yourself, and then explode outward. Expanding, expanding. You’re everything. You’re a meteor hurtling past a sun millions of light years away, and you’re the sun itself burning eternally. You can feel all of your atoms humming in resonance with everything else, and you’re acutely and painfully aware of every single thing contained in your physical form.

The sword connects with you, but it doesn’t. You feel your body warp out of the way, shifting from solid to gaseous to ions in the wind. Nebulas explode in front of your eyes. You fall backwards onto the ground, feeling the rotation and orbit of the planet in every cell of your body. You’re combusting endlessly but you feel cold. So cold.

You don’t know how to contain yourself.

[legerdeman-blog]

“That’s it, then.”

Dirk’s gaze was transfixed on the man at the head of the table, as was nearly everyone elses, though for different reasons. His own father’s voice was surreal in this moment, in this context, although perhaps the most grounded thing he’d encountered since arriving home early that morning.

He’d tried to maintain some measure of levity, for Roxy’s sake. He knew she wasn’t nearly as keen on all of this as he was. She was too forgiving. Too gentle. He knew from the beginning this wouldn’t lead anywhere she’d like.

Of course it would’ve been easier to take her mind off of it if they hadn’t been in various incarnations of senate meetings all day. Listening to the senators talk themselves in circles had been taxing. He didn’t care much for politics in the first place, but watching the so-called leaders of his people spin their wheels when the answer was so clear to him was a special kind of frustration.

His father had been one of the strongest advocating voices. The High Priestess, Roxy’s mother, one of the strongest in the opposition. Most of the others at the table had gone back and forth a few times by now. They’d called up several humans during the many debates. Ambassadors, generals, philosophers. At that exact moment, the human king himself was projected before the elven senate, a silent observer.

“The alliance stands.” His father continued, “King Egbert has promised his assistance. We have no better options.”

The Priestess, standing to his left, was clearly upset with this decision. Her lips pursed, arms folded tight against her chest. To his own left, Dirk knew Roxy sat, staring at the marbling of the table. Sitting stock still in his chair, arms folded, he waited for the verdict.

“The drow, whoever they are, have made an act of aggression against us. The vote has been cast.”

For a moment, the two Striders at the table made eye contact. Dirk knew he didn’t exactly want this. He knew it would lead them nowhere good. Somehow, he believed his father knew that, too. But they had no other options. Every recourse had been explored, debated, drilled into the ground one by one while he watched his best friend grow ever more sullen as the meetings dragged on. He didn’t want it. But he wasn’t entirely opposed to it, either.

“We, the senate of the elves, in representation of our citizens, must declare war on the drow.”

Dirk finally moved, slipping his hand over to grip Roxy’s. He knew this wasn’t what she wanted. It’d be hard for her. He also knew that he would personally do all he could to lessen the burden and shorten this war. That empress wouldn’t find his threats amusing for long.

[legerdeman-blog]

Today was the day he started his most important experiment. But first, Dirk took a moment to wash his dinner dishes. Not because he was stalling, but because he knew he’d have to do it anyway, and it would be more difficult to do so afterward.

With the dishes drying on the rack next to the sink, he proceeded to thoroughly wash his hands before heading back into the study. On his desk, he had already gathered the required items. Obtaining the needle and other required tools were easy enough. The mana stones were significantly more expensive, and had taken him a while to accrue. Crushing them into dust had been even more laborious than buying them.

Taking a seat, he took stock of his other items. Rags, for the blood and other humors. Extra needles. A piece of paper with his painstakingly chosen sigils illustrated on it. Half of his research time had been spent on those damn runes. Picking up the bottle of ink, he swirled it a bit to watch the mana stone particles go up in a storm of blue sparkles. Mixing it would also be important.

He turned in the seat to remove his shirt, discarding it on the floor, then turned back and laid his left arm on the desk in front of him. The left side had been randomly chosen by a coin toss. He knew either would be fine, as he was ambidextrous. His hand would be steady.

He decided to start on the palm and work his way down. The arm would be the easy part, but he’d probably have to get Sawtooth to help with his chest. He was nervous about assigning such an important task to a golem, not because he thought Sawtooth couldn’t do it, but because he knew it would have to be perfect. He only had one shot at it, after all.

Plucking the needle gun from the table, he checked that the stone powering it was still in place, and then loaded the jar of ink. He had promised Roxy he would be careful, and he would. He had lotions and poultices at hand, just in case, although he knew the pain wouldn’t be a problem so much as the thought of infection. Home tattooing was a dangerous sport, let alone tattooing with mana infused ink.

Positioning the template in front of him, he set to the formidable task ahead. He’d have to go slowly if he wanted it to be just right.

[merrygams-blog]

> Kanaya: Be questioned.

You’re standing in the middle of your very small office in the caverns, remaining stock still as it’s searched. The troll sent for your inquiry is actually being decently unobtrusive. As in she’s not making a mess out of the place and she left her guards outside, which is really about all the courtesy you can expect.

She’s a seadweller. Violet. Wearing the mark of the Empress’s private police on her uniform. You feel almost honored that they thought enough of you to send someone so important.

You’re careful not to fidget; hands clasped loosely in front of your hips, staring straight ahead, impeccable posture, chin slightly upturned. Stone faced.

You hear a drawer close a bit forcefully, and watch as your interrogator saunters back into your range. She didn’t find anything. Obviously.

“So...Matriark. Tell me one more time.” She has the cadence of someone who feels incredibly self important and more than a bit bored. This should be easy.

Keeping your eyes level, you make your response to the wall. “I don’t know where he is. He left while I was asleep. He didn’t tell me that he was leaving or where he was going.” Not entirely untrue.

The officer nods. “Right. And you know, I just have to ask; you had nothing to do with this, right? You didn’t coerce him into it or hire anyone to take him?”

Now you look directly at her, eyebrows knitting together in a concerned expression. You clasp your hands a bit tighter. “No, of course not. I could never do such a thing, even if I wanted to, which I most certainly did not. You don’t really mean to imply that I of all people -”

“I just have to ask, Matriark. Obviously you couldn’t be involved, but. Well, you know how higher ups can be.”

“I really don’t see how questioning me is at all necessary.” You heave a small sigh. “Don’t you feel this is a waste of your time? No doubt an extremely valuable commodity for a troll of your station."

The corner of her mouth ticks upward, and she adjusts her uniform cuffs. “I’m glad you realize that. That’s exactly what I told the brass. There’s no way a jade could be involved in a scandal like this - your caste doesn’t have the brains or the resources. No offense.”

“None taken,” You’re already thinking of fifty ways to break her nose. Lowering your head, you place a hand on your chest. “I’m sorry, officer. This has all just been so much to take in. In truth I’m feeling a bit faint. I must look a terrible mess.” You reach a hand up to fuss with your hair, which you know looks just as impeccable as always.

She snorts. “Yeah, alright. This is a dead end, so we won’t take up anymore of your time. You jades need to sleep at night anyway, don’t you?”

You give a small, ever so concerned smile as she turns and starts toward the door. The picture of matronly innocence. “I do hope you can find him. The Agonarch has no business being about on his own. I’ve been so worried ever since I heard.”

Opening the door, she turns back for a moment with a hard expression. God, she thinks she’s so cool, doesn’t she? “We’ll find him, ma’am. Thanks for your cooperation. Go hive and get yourself some rest.” Then, with a gesture to her compatriots, she leaves.

After counting out a few minutes, enough time to allow them to get a fair distance away, you let out a heavy sigh. You walk over to the open doorway, check down the hall, then close it before turning back to your disheveled office.

“And who’s going to clean up this mess?” You mutter to yourself, “Fucking hell.”

[contemporanealitical-blog]

Thanks to Davean shooting you your own coordinates, you’re able to somehow get back to your condo. This doesn’t really make you feel better, but you realize that if you’re going to pass out it’s better to do that somewhere familiar.

You feel like you got slipped some bad acid, like you got existentially broken to bits and then built back up the wrong way. The stars in your eyes won’t go away no matter how many times you blink and rub at them. You manage to stumble down the stairs from the balcony containing the transportalizer, then give up somewhere between that and the couch.

It’s not so much different from how you normally feel. You’re still infinite and wibbly and everywhere at once. It’s just completely different in every single imaginable way. And your jacket changed colors. So that’s just great.

You decide to just lay there for a while and try to work out this new form of existence.

[merrygams-blog]

> D8(te)

The trip to the town where Vriska’s ship was docked was long and boring. Your usual transportation couldn’t be expected to be nearly as nice as what the palace sent for your last trip, after all.

Of course it’s dark when you finally do arrive at the port city. That’s to be expected. You would almost regret wearing the wide brimmed hat on your head if it didn’t pull your outfit together so nicely. One of your usual guards, a large man with sharp horns, tells you that they’ll be driving you directly to the dock to meet the Curateur. You can tell by the tone when he says her name that he’s curious, but trying not to ask.

Watching the streets pass outside your window, you can’t help but wonder what this city is like. You only go into one town for typical excursions because it’s the closest and thus easiest to get clearance for an outing. You’re definitely not used to coastal areas and the ocean remains somewhat of a mystery to you even though you’ve seen it once or twice already.

As your car pulls up to the dock, the two guards disembark first to assume their posts. You turn to gather your things as the tall man from your side comes to open your door.

Gripping your basket of goodies and gently pinching the brim of your hat so it doesn’t blow away, you step out of the car and straighten up to take in your surroundings. Which would be easier if you weren’t a daywalker with absolutely terrible night vision. The gentle lamps at the end of the dock help a bit, though, and you blink a few times as you look around, surveying the dock and the large ship at the end of it.