Nine Billion Names

[Zeth]

As the steamy, shrieking discharge cooled, veiny blue lines were becoming more prominent over her form; they snaked across the head of the Unmaker and over the spiky length of her arms. Despite apparent distress, however, the metal demon-engine did not seem disturbed. If anything, judging by her animated movements and frequency with which various gasses escaped her - she seemed elated!

Quickly she took to one knee, shaping the remaining liquid as it cooled over the flat of her thigh. She used her leg as an anvil, occasionally supplying additional molten discharge from her mouth-vent before prodigiously hammering it with her hammer. The weapon always shrank down or grew up to the required size for the moments need, displaying a rather versatile aspect of Imzada despite her yearning for a more static ideal.

As the item cooled in her hands, it started resembling a gourd and with an occasional bang of the little Maker, the item in question seemed finished - if devoid of any real artistry. From all the gathered steam and smoke, one could barely see the glowing container in her hands, but as she turned it around, inspecting it - one could see its metal skin was of the same burnished, dirty yellow as the demon-engine itself.

With the taloned tips of her fingers, she scraped the uneven surface of the gourd bringing the container close to her face and judging from her half-shut oculars, she seemed pleased. Within the gourd, she deposited the rest of the gaseous rock that she did not manage to assimilate, before clamping the gourd down at her waist.

Standing up, she appeared from out of the cloud, stomping forward, barely arresting her momentum as she abruptly stopped to Beaten Dog's right. Standing next to the Chained One, she looked over its shoulder as it held the Great Scroll. Looking at it and the material it was composed of, she had the impression of small flesh-eating things that burrowed as well as giant ones that ate dead things left on the Rust Dunes.

She shrieked in approval, barely sparing a glance at the many-arms courier. She simply presumed it was one of the latest to join her growing group of companions and so she waited until it introduced itself as all fleshlings do.

In a movement of uncharacteristic consideration, she spared to look down at each of her companions before exclaiming:
"Pandemonium!"

 

[Spiderheart]

Ahh, the abbess. Such a spectacular exemplar of dominion over self – and so paradoxical! The humility of namelessness shackled to the arrogance of a title; a monochrome aspect concealing a mind of unknowable subtlety. Beaten Dog does not love her – he cannot love anyone who wields the mace of authority – but oh! does she inspire them.

"Is it a burden?" The quasi-Brute bows, holding its hands out to accept the scrollcase. "It is weighty, to be sure. But its weight is that of a spearhead in flight; I only hope that my arm is good enough to let this spear fly true." Beaten Dog's whole form quivers with excitement. How she has waited for this moment! All the names of God, exquisitely captured in the nets of language. It takes the scroll and cradles it in their arms. "This will reach its destination." He doesn't add alternatives, or bother making a promise. The words carry such confidence that failure seems impossible.

 

[Grey]

Her final duty discharged, the Abbess next turns to face Patrjulf.

Golden swords manifest in her hands, delicate and sharp. She holds one out to the surly Demon.
"No other arm will suffice, Patrjulf - please assist me in my final task."

 

[ThaDruid]

The Beaten Dog's simple yet complex question resulted deserved a simple yet complex answer from the sour-faced demon. Deadpan silence, furrowed brows and a stare that could be mistaken for rudeness or disbelief. As if the monk had asked to hold Patrjulf's blades, to know his deepest secrets or some other ludicrously impolite request. In part this reaction came from Beaten Dog's unexpected upfront curiosity, and in part from Patrjulf not truly knowing the answer to the question. He did not follow a true logical thought process when about his business, his existence was simply centered around the primal instinct of wreaking havoc. Destroying the natural order, especially when that order was a caste-system of power. Yet it was not a Brute's bloodthirsty rage, rather a finely-honed edge of focus that struck at the heart of what it sought to bring down. Or, as Patrjulf knew it, life.

As silence gave way to awkwardness, the demon grumbled, as he was wont to do. "None of your business, monk. You should be thankful of my blades protecting your spindly form during this time, and leave it at that." He really did have a way of staining any conversation with his foul temper. Sometimes he did it to provoke, but often it came naturally.

The abbess' arrival did little to faze him any more, and in his time hiding at the monastery he had even grown to enjoy her voice like a cascade of embers. Patrjulf gazed at the scroll with detached interest as it exchanged hands, he could not deny himself a modicum of curiosity for the thing that, as the monks proclaimed, held the infinite names of the Creator. He briefly considered plucking it out of the Dog's hands in order to give it a read, but ultimately decided against it. He didn't care enough to put in the effort. What he cared about was that it stood whole and intact through the entirety of their voyage.

The abbess' ivory face turns to him, and he welcomes her peculiar request. The light handle of her sword feels unusual, but not forgotten in his rough hands. As a fellow Lightbringer, he knows his way around a blade, be it broad, long, curved or broken. A few swings confirmed his expectations, the fine weapon cut air like any other. Patrjulf appreciated the fine worksmanship, and looked with new eyes to a demon whom he considered his equal. Yet not even a warrior he respected would be spared his bluntness. "Will it be a final dance, worthy of a Lightbringer, or an execution?"

 

[Grey]

"A favour," she replied.

She turned to face the Hellsun, and knelt.

An expression of sublime peace on her face, she held her sword out before her, then pointed it at her heart.
Copper-green blood stained her robe as the blade sank into her. She wrenched it first left, then right, with a cracking of ribs. Still, her face remained unmoved.
She leant forward over her wound, stretching out her elegant neck.
Waiting.

 

[EbonChevalier]

In a movement of uncharacteristic consideration, she spared to look down at each of her companions before exclaiming:
"Pandemonium!"

Despite his companion obvious hatred for him, her enthusiasm was infectious. He was dead set on reaching the Ur City despite what the circles threw at him or his companions.He was determined to complete this quest and return to his beloved. Or die. And be mocked by her of all eternity. So the single mindedness of the machine woman was to be admired for in a way it was similar to his own. He may have been a bit deep in his wine-skin but he had to show solidarity with another single minded fool like himself. He raised the wine skin in salute and swaked. "Or Oblivion!" And then took another long pull on his drink.

 

[ThaDruid]

"Hmph." Wisps of smoke framed his face. In solemn silence the Lightbringer waited, following every minute movement of the abbess' self-mutilation. Such grace even in suicide could not be expected from anyone but her.

He held the sword at arm's length with both hands, visualizing the trajectory of his slash. For once, he could not permit himself a messy cut. The blade was slowly raised over his head.

One foot forward, bent knee.

The other slides behind, for support.

Tight core, straight shoulders.

Arms high.

Hands strong around the hilt.

The executioner keeps his form for one second, eyes locked upon the smooth ivory of the abbess' neck. The runes adorning his body suddently light up with golden power, brightness reflecting off of the sword.

In a blur, he brings the weapon down.

(Patrjulf uses 5 Essence to activate "Brilliance", further increasing his control of the blade for a perfect cut.)

 

[Grey]

The blades flicker into nothingness at the passing of the abbess. Her blood turns to vapour and coils away in the wind. Her body remains like a statue, her head still facing the centre of Hell from the step at her knees.

This place is now empty in a way that curls eerie tendrils around the hardest heart.

 

[Spiderheart]

Though Beaten Dog's eyes or eye-analogues are hidden by iron, it's clear that her attention is locked on the abbess from the moment she makes her request of Patrjulf. Of course this is how she ends. This project was her entire identity. Dying now, her purpose at an end, on her own terms... Beaten Dog absorbs every minuscule detail of the scene. Even in death, the abbess continues to teach by example.

It steps forward and draws a grey, long-fingered hand along the corpse's cheek. "You might as well have cut down the tree." There is no admonition in their voice; if anything, it comes out as praise. "We should go, before this whole place falls – with us below it." He pulls its rags closer, the wings she briefly manifested long gone. Whatever uncertainty he felt before about coming back here is gone – this place is dead, even if neither the monks nor the stones know it yet.

The Brute's neck turns without its shoulders following, and it sets off at a brisk pace directly away from the monastery. Her guards will follow, or be left behind.

 

[EbonChevalier]

Finishing of the last of the wine the alluring screamer notices his charge taking walking forward in the direction of the Ur City. He follows it at leisurely pace that nearly matches it's own speed. A spring is in his step and a song is in his heart he follows her toward what could be his doom. In a sing song voice he calls back to his companions. "Onward! My sworn companions! Onward! The Ur City awaits! Let us trod the nigh infinite roads of hell and spill the blood of those who would stop us! Pandemonium or Oblivion!"

 

[ThaDruid]

Even as Beaten Dog stepped away from the monastery, Patrjulf stood a bit more to appreciate the headless statue left behind, closing and reopening his hands as if searching for the comfort of a lost weapon. When he felt satisfied, the demon began following his companions at a leisurely pace off of the temple steps and into the blasted plains. He kept a reasonable distance, staying behind as a sort of rearguard. The lightbringer wasn't fond of loud, rambunctious company, and there seemed to be plenty of that among the other demons. Patrjulf kept a certain rhythm to his step, and if they were to listen, the others would distinctly hear the low hum of some foreign marching song, punctuated by plenty of grunts and stomps.

 

[Zeth]

As the solemn scene played out, Imzada's attention was solely focused on Patrjulf. The purposefulness with which he endowed each motion was something that resonated with the demon-engine, capturing her attention.

A head thudding onto the stone steps was merely an afterthought. The 'courier' it seems would not be joining them.

However, as the monk's form changed so did something fundamental in the local environment. Blind to everyday minutiae and social nuance she may be, but Imzada was always quick to pick up the essence of locally broadcasted resonance. It even affected the Dog, her words solidifying into a cohesive form as if even he was certain of the things he said.

In truth, if the others did not want to move forward, Imzada would probably remain at the monastery. The thought of watching an entire realm crumble under the weight of its own purposelessness was enticing enough. The prospect of scavenging whatever remained - even more so.

As the group moved on, Imzada was right behind the Brute for the time, but the easy pace frustrated her mechanisms so she shifted into a higher gear. With a chug of steam and smoke from the many vents, she stomped ahead of the party, acting as a scout and vanguard of sorts.

 

[Grey]

The road winds like a great white snake, crossing out of the rust desert to empty wastes of volcanic stone and roiling storms. Imps of liquid mercury fallen from above frolic in the shadow of the furious clouds and dissolve when they pass into sunlight. You are regarded with idle hunger by a magma drake from its bubbling pool, but the creature is insufficiently peckish or curious to bother you.

Ahead, where the faintly tremorous earth gives way to stiff, crystalline grass in a carpet upon marshy ground, sits a waystation for pilgrims or other travellers.
It looks empty. This is not surprising. It's six metres square, with real walls and a gently curving roof. Tiny imps in glass cages hang three to a side, to fend off the Dreamfall when it comes.

No doubt inside is comfortable enough to rest, and stocked with food.

 

[EbonChevalier]

"Courier a waystation lies ahead of us. Will you stop for a quick respite? Or will you keep walking?"

 

[Spiderheart]

Beaten Dog is in no hurry, but nor do they have any interest in pausing. This pilgrimage is precious for its moments, as well as its inevitable conclusion. And it is inevitable – no matter how freely the Count bandies around words like "oblivion," that is not an option. To die before the scroll has been read is forbidden, and therefore impossible. So sayeth the Dog, unto herself.

The caged imps, however, command its attention. He slows to a stroll as the band approaches the way-station, observing the lantern-cages. "I am content to continue on our way. That being said, if any of you would like to rest your feet, simply speak up and we can pause." The little imps' behavior draws the Dog's interest. Are they content in their little cages? Are they struggling to escape? Or are they simply resigned to their fates?

 

[Zeth]

Being in the vanguard of the party, Imzada approached the waystation first. Lowering her head, she moved inside the room, checking the interior with Unmaker resting casually on the right shoulder. The term 'extraordinary' held meaning only insofar as so the subjectivity of the locale it belonged to, so Imzada looked for anything that might not be harmonious to the function of the waystation.

Moving outside, she waited in front of the little station for the rest of her companions to arrive. With her black oculars she spied their Dog looking at the imp-cages that hung from the waystation walls. She looked at them also before speaking up, in her usual curt manner:

"Wards against the Unseen. Wards keep us from losing our Function. We move out - we move out prepared."

Her manner was jarringly accompanied by a voice that is a mix of both screeching metal plates and reverberating waves of her power core from somewhere inside the demon-engine's form. With that said she pointed at herself and verdigris blue that spread over her arms and hammer, before sitting down by the room's entrance. Whatever changes happened upon her form, is seems to have taken a toll upon her.
Perhaps surprisingly, she crossed her legs as she sat, achieving the lotus position and doing so both nimbly with little sound and with no difficulty. Unmaker rested across her lap. Something, very close to feline purring could be heard coming from her.

[Imzada needs rest in order to recuperate her lost Essence. She will need two hours in order to recuperate it to full.]

 

[ThaDruid]

Patrjulf was the last to arrive in front of the waystation. He planted his feet wide on the ground, arms crossed over his chest. "I'd rather not dally..." His scowling face turned first to the sitting demon engine, then to the monk captivated by caged imps. "... But I see you've already decided."

With nothing else to say, the demon strode up to the waystation's entrance, not bothering to knock or announce his presence. He barged within the building, looking around for anything he could peruse to pass the time. He wasn't hungry, he wasn't tired... Perhaps they had books, or dice. A quick game could do no harm.

 

[Grey]

In the cages are creatures like imps, but on closer inspection they're dull little things. Like malformed and degraded Messengers, scattered with mismatched, resigned eyes that barely have the energy to orbit their bloated skulls.

One, at least, clutches the bar of its cage and locks a single, trapezoid eye on Dog. There's a feline curiosity to its sickly motions.



Inside, there are no signs of life. Numerous plush chairs, beds, cushions. Boxes of enchanted ice, probably containing food. A bar of intriguing bottles.
A modest bookcase, and a book laid face down upon a board, surrounded by carved bone figures. Looks like an abandoned game of regicide.

Spoiler: Roll

ThaDruid, if you wouldn't mind, add a roll to your last post - d12s equal to Patrjulf's Intuition.

 

[EbonChevalier]

Following his bronze burning companion in to the way station garutik see's a bookshelf and grabs a tome. He then sits on a cushion and idly reads it, with the courier fascinated by the imprisoned he may as well look for ways to kill time.

 

[Spiderheart]

Originally, while still under the impression that the creatures were true imps, Beaten Dog was going to offer them a cruel bargain: if one of them allowed itself to be eaten, he would release the rest. Let this waystation fall to dreams; any who rely on the mercy of Hell's environs are doomed anyway, sooner or later. Looking at the creatures now, however, all she can feel is disgust. These pseudo-imps can't even muster the intellect to resent their slavery.

One, it seems, at least has the mental wherewithal to feel curiosity. Even if it can't reason, it still warrants their attention, but perhaps a kinder sort than the Dog had originally planned. The protean demon's throat bulges like a bullfrog's, then recedes, leaving only a large, gleaming lump just under the skin.

(Forming a five-point glowy-secretions organ, as discussed; producing a 2-Essence light)

The skin over the lump pulls back to release its treasure, a sickly-orange pearl that gleams in a mockery of the imp it will replace. Beaten Dog opens the creature's cage, deposits the nodule – and simply leaves the door open. If the imp desires freedom, it will take it. With that, she heads into the waystation, clambers onto the ceiling, and suspends himself from it with a newly-grown pair of adhesive patches on the soles of their feet.

(Meditating to recover essence)

 

[Grey]

Patrjulf sees the danger first, part killer's intuition and partly the unusual layout of matching items in the waystation.

Garutik is fortunate to sit on the only safe cushion. He is less fortunate when the book shrieks, opens itself up to reveal rows of teeth, and clamps down on his hand.

Dog adheres to the ceiling, out of reach, just as a majority of items in the room reveal themselves to be howling, drooling Mimics.

 

[EbonChevalier]

Garutik looks down at the book gnawing at his hand with a bemused look. "Poor creature, if you wanted to feel the caress of my claw you need only ask....." Garutik digs his captured claw into mimic and then brings his other claw down on it. (First time attacking Grey so what do I roll)

 

[ThaDruid]

Patrjulf stood motionless in the middle of the room, hand outstretched over the game table. He was just about to pick up one of the pieces, when the eerie placement of items in the waystation made him pause. For a moment he felt as if within the maw of a gargantuan beast, razor-sharp teeth ready to clamp down on him. Somewhere a book shrieked, the pieces on the game board started rattling. The demon's skin began lighting up, ready to explode in a blaze of radiance, but then he remembered - the monk and the peacock were both in the room. He'd have to get used to acting with a group. His bronze flesh sizzled as the brightness faded, and he decided on a more conventional course of action.

Patrjulf's off-hand unsheathed a blade, impaling it through the table's top, staining the wood with unnatural blood. He put a foot on it, leaping upwards in a whirlwind of steel, slashing at anything that shouldn't be moving in his way.

 

[Zeth]

The sudden noise coming from the inside of the cabin was enough to awake Imzada from her meditative stupor. Unwilling to break the lotus position just because her companions decided to get rowdy, she leaned in with a groan of protesting metal, spying the inside. The mimic's attack surprised her for she checked the cabin beforehand and so she spent a moment looking at them, admiring their forms with which they have tricked her so well.

She wondered whether she should help her companions as Garutik tore one effortlessly with his claws. Deciding to act anyway if only to test her newest modifications, she stood up and walked to the nearest Mimic that dared to attack their Dog.

With a shriek of ungreased gears and rumbling of an engine awakening, Imzada walked in with the Unmaker held sideways, ready to catapult the enemy with a deadly sweep.


[Time to test the Crucible! Considering Imzada's position and Initiative, she probably attacks last - though she does gain higher Initiative then her foes if the enemy has their Composure lower then her Resonance.

Attacking Mimics closest to Beaten Dog. Attacking as many times as there are enemies around him (Her Dex is 4). If two or more are bunched up together (3ft or less), Imzada will utilize Unstoppable Whirlwind. Grey should I include anything else?]

 

[ThaDruid]

The table mimic shrieked, emitting its shrill death rattle just as Patrjulf leapt off of it. He spun in mid air, twisting his body and delivering a devastating kick to the animated chess-board, sending pieces flying everywhere and crushing the offending mimic into a gurgling mass of flesh.

He rolled to a halt just behind the tentacled footstool. The beast's savage appendages shot out, quickly fended off by the demon's right blade, while the other chopped at the mimic's core. More blood stained the pavement as its tentacles went limp.

In another feat of acrobatics, Patrjulf crossed the room with a cartwheel, engaging the looming icebox as its maw came dangerously close to Garutik. With determined purpose and quick slashes he dismembered the monster's spindly body, before thrusting his knives within its mouth. It twitched twice before dropping dead.

"Hmph."