[1] Leaving The Monastery

The stone cap snaps upward on undetectable hinges.  Only oily darkness within, an oubliette that defies the Hellsun's rays. 


All is silent but for an ominous hum - and then a long, near-inaudible shriek as a pillar of darkness erupts from the prison.  The crater is enveloped in Second Circle shadows; hair drifts as if underwater and sounds echo too long.  


And over the three of you looms a figure of deeper darkness, only their great round eyes and grinning teeth visible two-hundred hands above in stark white. 


"At last.  Step forward, loyal supplicants," it booms with unusual cadence, "I would reward you for releasing me."


Harrow would recognise this creature as a shape-shifting tyrant who name is struck from record, but was oft referred to as The Poisoned Chalice. 
 
Harrow Thirdwatch


Harrow's eyes coldly take in the towering sight before him.  He will admit, he did not expect so great an occurrence from so small an aperture.  While not a consistent thing, scale is still certainly an important thing in all the Hells.  "We are very sorry to disappoint you, oh great one.  We are merely humble travelers, passing by."  The monk's eyes gleam with anticipation at the disappointment he is about to level upon the titanic demon, ending its newfound liberty all too soon.  "I am afraid your Warden is not here.  It may be better if you return to your immurement until they release you."


The Monk, of course, very much doubts that The Poisoned Chalice will take him up on that suggestion, but there is something to be said for respecting the wishes of those who could seal away a tyrant.  It seems a wiser course of action than seeking out a tyrant which would let itself be sealed-away, after all.  Now they will see if it was imprisoned for lacking a sense of humor.  If so, the titan must be removed from the path - this journey has only just begun, after all, it will not do to be detoured so quickly.


Just as importantly, it will be delicious to see the look in the demon-lord's eyes when the first words he hears upon being freed are a polite suggestion to stuff himself back into that tiny hole.
 
Vivian had never seen a demon summoning, but the dark, towering figure was more or less exactly what she'd imagined. Much less these two other demons who...were preparing to fight it, for some reason. Maybe things were more complicated down here than she understood.


The monkish one spoke, calmly suggesting the demon go back where it came from. It was so poetic, Vivian almost smiled.


"I doubt I have much taste for what you'd pass off as a reward, Dark Tower" Vivian said, making up a name for it on the spot. It seemed wrong to address it generically, or with any honoring title. "But I like the robed one's spirit. For now, at least, I'll side with him." 
 
Gharkia, The Wandering Sergeant


Gharkia let a hand drift to the hilt of his axes. Well, someone so big and apparently dangerous as this demon did need to go back where he was kept - but would object to Harrow's suggestion, violently. "Yes, and since I'm in the company of the wise monk, well, a simple soldier like me would have to agree. I'm sure it's a soothing solitude."
 
There is a sound not unlike ice cracking.  The great Demon's mouth forms a perfect O of suprise.


"FOOLISH RABBLE!" he booms, a limb unfolding from his bulk to point accusingly at Harrow, "I am the Thousand-Faced Warlord! The Shogun of Sorrows! With this temerity do you beckon your own annihilation."


He pauses like a statue for a long second, resumes his earlier, more composed stance. "If you will not accept my mercy and swear fealty to me, then die!"

Combat! 


Harrow can now trigger that expression to pre-empt Kua's enagement action.
 
The titan's stillness is a pleasure and his outstretched arm is a useful gauge for height and distance.  Harrow does not respond with word but action as he answers the monstrous demon with a thunderous report from an arm which was not fully extended a moment ago.


Knees slightly bent for balance, one arm splayed behind him to serve as counterweight and to service breathing, the monk performs his miraculous trick.  It is one he has practiced for centuries, pondering that which is no longer, meditating upon the reality and oft-times engendering it with this little ritual.


Harrow's palm is nearly flush with the sky, two smallest fingers curled in like the intricacies of fine shadow-puppetry while the larger two and thumb flex upwards with resolute stillness.  Deep inside him muscles churn and pistons spasm and Karnya is expressed: the warding of obstacle, the defiance of foe, Banishment of the enemy without ego or malice or joy, only stillness and confidence - Loss Freely Given.


His arm reports, and a bullet streaks implacably towards The Poisoned Chalice and his gruesome, horse-sized face.

Spending the whole dice pool on this shot.  9d12.  (12 +10 +8 +4 +10 +8 +2 +7 +7)
 
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The gunshot resounds in the dark, confined space like a bell's toll, and the towering Demon recoils as a deeper blackness spills from his head, his face plunging inward like flotsam into a whirlpool. He compresses on himself and spins and reforms about three quarters of the size.


Now he has taken the shape of some ape-like thing with powerful limbs and broad, squat frame.

I believe Viv has next highest initiative? I'd have to double-check, but either way, anyone with 10 or higher goes next.


Roll and paste; I'll tell you if you hit.
 
Gharkia, The Wandering Sergeant


Gharkia whipped out both his axes, the light glinting off their metal heads. The Warlord may have reformed, looking firm and solid, but Gharkia knew that sort of body held weaker guts lower down. He chopped the right hand axe forward, while keeping the left hand back.

Combat Pool: 5/10


Attack: 5D12 = [8, 6, 7, 11, 2]
 
The ape-formed Unseen raises a fist to smash Harrow when Gharkia's axe strikes it under the arm - had not it moved to strike, it would have been severed entirely.  He recoils with a shriek, but the wound is less devastating than Harrow's shot.  He rears up and prepares to bring both fists down on Gharkia like a hammer.

Blackadder, you should either roll to defend or embrace the horseshit tankiness of Second Circle powers to get a slash in while he's striking.


I'd recommend not eating this whole attack, honestly.


Wixard, Viv's up to bat soon.
 
The Demon's fists smash against the axes, driving Gharkia back across the sand a few handspans and throwing up fine rust. The blow chimes like a bell and the Chalice echoes it with a snarl of frustration. Little sparks of red and ribbons of darkness billow from the point of impact.

Viv's up.
 
The robed demon shouted thunder and struck down the dark tower. That gave Vivian pause. How had he done that? Had he used some kind of hidden weapon? What kind of weapon did that? Next the soldier demon struck, wielding a pair of axes. That made more sense to her. He seemed skilled. He'd be a worthy opponent.


Vivian steps forward to strike. She is unrelenting judgement.

First attack: 3/14+1 dice (1, 4, 2, 4)

She is inevitable justice.

Second attack: 3/11+1 dice (9, 7, 2, 9)

She is silent, righteous fury. 

Third attack: 3/8+1 dice (11, 5, 2, 7)

She flips her sword around to crush with hilt and blade, Mordstreich.

Final attack: 5/5+1 dice (11, 12, 12, 5, 4, 4)

She is steel forged in blood, blood spent for duty, and duty bound in steel.


 


(Rolls attached, brother's voice. He was filming for me)

View attachment video-1480474318.mp4
 
The first blow passes through his ephemera, a graze that still elicits a cry of pain. The second is more deadly, severing limb from shoulder. The third grazes again as the Demon's lost balance frustrates Vivian's aim - but the final blow is the truest.


The Demon screams in agony, a sound crippling to Vivian's enhanced senses and merely painful for the other Demons. 


"That sword!" He cries, fading to a shadow of himself, essence bleeding away. "The curse... of a betrayer..." His voices fades last, followed by the bubble of darkness burning away under the Hellsun's power.


Three strangers stand in a crater of rust.
 
Harrow Thirdwatch


A tendril of smoke lazily fades under the light of the Hellsun as it curls around Harrow's long, thin fingers.  Harrow's eyes track smoothly from the great demon's absence to the new stranger they have met on the road.  She is most-definitely skilled with that sword, whomever she is.  Or whatever she is.  Harrow is no stranger to coincidence, of course - something like Serendipity often finds its way into the incense-cloaked halls of sages and the empty corners of Hell - but this smacks of more than mere chance.  This being fell upon a lock to which she held a suitable key at the very moment that they chanced to cross her path?


The monk parts his hands, and lifts one, fingers stiffly held together and palm angled upward, at waist height, in polite welcome.


"Greetings."  He says simply, while his eyes take in the cloaked figure and the sword - the sword which possessed a bite that the fallen Tyrant felt so keenly as to spend his last breath wondering at.


Was there something special about that sword?

Sword-Lore-ing:  5D12 [COLOR= gray]=>[/COLOR] (9 +10 +4 +9 +7) = 39   (and Hyper-appraisal yet to be factored in)
 
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Vivian grated her teeth as Dark Tower's dying scream echoed painfully through her helm. When it was over, she shook her head to clear her senses and turned towards the strangers.


"Greetings," said the robed one. 


"What manner of weapon did you use to strike Dark Tower?" Vivian asked.
 
Harrow Thirdwatch


The demon responds with an enigmatic smile, his eyes moving across the cold metal of the warrior's helmet but finding no inflection or hint of emotion to subscribe their words to.  That was hardly a polite greeting from the woman, but he will remain calm.


And perfectly still.


"I carry no weapon."  the monk replies, honestly.  "Will you please sheath yours?"
 
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(Viv has her helmet visor down)


Vivian considered his request. Perhaps he meant to fool her into dropping her guard--he was a demon. While she felt great satisfaction from the destruction of Dark Tower, she was coming to realize that she had no wish to fight each and every demon that crossed her path. This was hell, after all. They'd be everywhere, like rats in a sewer. Furthermore, she would likely require aid navigating this place, and who else could she seek for it?


"If you are capable of such destructive action unarmed, then you can hardly say that what you have asked is fair," Vivian said. 
 
"And yet I am confident I mean no harm to you." The monk points out, unperturbed by her refusal.  "I cannot say the same of an armed stranger."


Harrow is not one to belabor a lost cause, though. As fascinating as the vampire blade's wielder may be, he will not be tempted to delay.


"If you will not palaver peacefully, we will  happily leave you to the road.". Harrow takes a slow step back, then another sidestep perpendicular to his first, meaning to give her a wide berth before continuing on his way.
 
Gharkia, The Wandering Sergeant


"We don't have any reason to fight you." Gharkia assured her, putting back his battleaxes. He remembered her falling from the sky. "I think you'll have to figure out how to get back to where you came from." An idea struck him. "You might be able to find out in Pandemonium! Come with us then!"


Gharkia realized she wouldn't know what he meant. "Oh. Pandemonium is the great city at the center of Hell itself."
 
"Pandemonium? The capital of hell is aptly named. Chaos, din, disorder. Break three letters off either end and you have demon. Take the prefix pan and you have all, or entirety. The suffix ium is describes the happening of a verb. 'all-ness of demonhood' perhaps, is one way to interpret the word, if one is a poet and not a strict linguistic scholar."


Vivian realized she was getting carried away, but the beginnings of a poem were forming.


"Dark Tower...allness of demonhood...Thunderhand..." she mumbled.
 
Harrow Thirdwatch


Harrow blinked curiously at Gharkia.  Both because there was a certain....  lack of appetite on his own part for their travel to be shared with someone who seemed so unequipped for such a journey, and also because of the rather sudden and mercurial shift in her dialogue.  Perhaps the war-demon knew something about this one's kind that he did not?


"May I at least ask - do you have a name you would share with us?"  Harrow asks, taking another side-step in his slow orbit around the woman to get back to the road.  Perhaps beings from beyond the Hells merely chose to speak differently to different souls, and Harrow had drawn the unfriendly one?
 
Vivian was more or less talking to herself at this point, needing to address her current circumstances but preferring to pursue the poem about them that was coming along. She'd barely even responded to the axe-wielder, though she had been talking in his direction her mind was busy exploring a word.


"Apologies, I was distracted," she said. "Hold a moment."


She thought about what the axe-wielder had said, and decided she didn't trust his apparent eagerness for her company, and much preferred the robed one's wariness of her. Though perhaps the axe-wielder wished to have her along for her sword. Hell was most surely a dangerous place. Finished with her considerations, she spoke.


"I am called Lady Vivian Ardent, a knight in the mortal realm. And what of yourselves?"
 
Gharkia, The Wandering Sergeant


"Oh, I am Demenio Loso Gharkia, formerly Sergeant in the forces of the Demon Count Monasterio!" Gharkia gave a salute in prompt order. "Well," he amended, "as I said formerly. I chose to seek citizenship and fortune in Pandemonium. Except - I probably took a wrong turn at Avalqurque and wound up lost. Then I stumbled on the Monastery of the Name - the order which Harrow belongs to... since I owed them and Harrow is going to Pandemonium anyway, I agreed to escort him, Lady Vivian."
 
Harrow Thirdwatch


"Harrow Thirdwatch, of the Order of Loss Freely Given.  The Monastery of the Name, That-Which-Was-But-Is-No-Longer, called us family for that in our philosophies which we shared.  I bear the last will that remains of them."


Harrow's voice softened with thoughtfulness as a long thumb brushed the strap on his shoulder, casually adjusting the burden which weighed and pulled at him like the corpse of a star. "We are unfamiliar with the nobility of your realm. I hope we have not given offense to you or your holdings, Lady. In a place such as this, to claim a title is no mere nicety. It will be seen as a challenge to test the mettle of those who wish it for themselves."


Perhaps a word of advice - and warning - would suffice to pay for their passage down the road? Gharkia was disappointingly still for one who intended to accompany the impatient monk.
 
"I carry all my holdings with me," Lady Vivian said. "My sword and armor are not with the trouble of taking. My knighthood is no mere title, it is a sacred and honorable duty. It also cannot be taken, even by death. But it may be earned. Should someone try to take it, they will be destroyed by their own foolishness."


All this talk of monastic orders and armies and nobles was starting to confuse her. "What manner of monastic orders do demons form?" she wondered.
 
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