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[yutzen]

The Ironbound Keep, Where Seven Meet

Ah, the Clans. Perhaps the most intriguing of the open nations[1], in all their proud yet conflicting traditions and methods. Even keeping in mind these are essentially seven sub-nations in one, as competitive as ever in spite of their ample cooperation to present a single front to the caverns, the Bannerbound’s ways can be quite baffling to others. Even I’ll admit to being taken by surprise every now and then, be it by clashing tendencies I did not expect or simply unusual methodologies… and alterations, admittedly, seeing their unevenness goes down to their very biology. Yet, as I said, they do what they can to present one front to the caverns, to every other nation that might want what they’ve got one way or another. Their territories are open to one another, in spite of every rivalry, and an attack on one is an attack on all, to be answered as such [2]. And even as their divisions remain and are enforced at every turn, their unity is similarly reinforced, Bannerbound one and all under a single flag, even if that flag may be made from seven others. Each pulling double duty of being a proud member of the Clans as a whole, and a proud member of their own and none other, no matter how contradictory it may seem at times to those outside it all.Nowhere is this more apparent, and better symbolized, than in the Ironbound Keep, the very nucleus of the Clans’ territories, the one city that (officially) belongs to all seven at once. It starts with the very name, in fact: Research on their pre-Refuge mythology showed me that there was no single Ironbound Keep back in the Peaks, and it was instead the name of a class of fortification of immense size, meant to be unassailable and the true staking of a claimed territory by a Clan. If an Ironbound Keep was erected somewhere, they expected that no one would ever move them from that place ever again, no matter what assailed them. Thus, it’s only appropriate that one would be the crux of their nation in the Subterraneum, now that the Seven have to cooperate. They’ve taken to it enough that, by all measures I could find, this one is the single greatest of the Ironbound Keeps, both as a symbol of unity and as a message to everyone else in these caverns.

They found such a construction important enough that it’s one of the first things they did down here – or rather, got started on, seeing construction took almost a century, even as the city proper grew around a mountain of steel and stone that grew just a little every year. And of course, they found it important enough to name the then-town after said Keep before the foundations were even finished. To their credit, its walls fended off some fairly vicious raids before construction was even halfway done, so I can hardly call such a construction an act of hubris. And even now, with techniques in both siegecraft and defense having advanced so much, it stands as impenetrable as it did on day one[3]. And so, finding myself heading towards the city for the sake of a different project, I decided I may as well indulge, and have a closer look at what the Bannerbound consider the heart (and brain) of their nation. Riding the train across the Gyre’s sands, the city itself pops into view quite suddenly; one moment it’s just the rolling dunes and plateaus that still stream with sand from the last storm, all with the faint background glow that lets you know this is no place to be caught bare in… and the next moment, after one last dune that looks just like the last hundred, there it is, a scant few minutes away! You find yourself looming over all the slanted, stilted structures that form its wind-battered architecture, with their roofs that are little more than singular slabs of sandstone, as the train lowers itself into the city proper… And lower it does. The core of the city was built back when the Bannerbound weren’t quite so used to building on the sands themselves or the storms the Great Dust Gyre had to offer, and hadn’t quite developed the high-riding stilt architecture they’re known for nowadays. So they scoured the sand out until they found rock, and built there instead; they’ve kept it that way all these years, with all the old architectural styles, even if it means digging them out whenever a sandstorm lingers a little too long. The Bannerbound are nothing if not obstinate, after all, it’s one of the biggest reasons they yet exist in these depths. Even if sometimes that obstination manifests in such things as trying to imitate styles born from the use of timber[4] using the far more present stone and iron, with results going from the merely interesting to the genuinely absurd.Which now makes for an interesting connection, seeing iron had to be far more scarce in their old land than it is here. Perhaps that’s why they felt so encouraged to go for broke with this Keep. Nevertheless, the Ironbound Keep itself stands far above all other structures in the city, with both the old, blocky towers and the far slimmer ones that followed thoroughly outsized, especially in width. For the Keep itself is tall, yes, practically scraping the ceiling of the cavern with its myriad, fortified towers, but it’s the volume that truly impresses. Almost a whole city core by itself once you do the math, and even without such calculus it’s easy to see one could fit an entire town, respectably sized and populated, under its roof. And by its staffing requirements, the Banner-Bearers likely did exactly that in terms of numbers and habitation. Perhaps it served as a decent lesson in planning a city in all three dimensions, even back then…

Of course, if you can take your eyes off the Keep and architecture – a more difficult feat than you’d think – you’ll quickly notice the locals are quite a bit more varied around this place, with members of all seven Clans milling about in plain view. This may sound less than remarkable, before you realize this is the first time you can actually see sorts from all seven, at once, in one place (if not one eyeful). No matter where you arrive into the city, even in the very transport you take, it can be hard to see more than two sharing their place, with one or two members of the rest. The city itself is even more neatly divided, to the point you can pinpoint which block belongs to which Clan by architecture alone, and confirm it by sorting through the local pedestrians and noticing the clear majority[5]. On the other hand, the closer you get to the Keep, the less likely you are to find anyone that’s not of the Bannerbound. Tourists can only get so far, and other locals are quickly crowded out, with those that moved in often far more welcome with one of the Seven in particular rather than here. And once you’re at the Ironbound Keep itself, the only non-Bannerbound you see are entirely hypothetical; you’re left to wonder if any of the more eclectic shapes under the clothing are, in fact, a different kind of citizen and not just a particularly altered Bannerbound. You simply cannot know, at such a stage. Fortunately for me, that goes for them as well. You announce who you are through attire and accessories, and they shall all believe you, as they do with everyone else. It’s the way of the Clans, whether you’re part of them or not. It’s only fitting that this applied twice over in the very heart of their nation, where the Seven must cooperate most, and thus where it’s the most important for them to know who is who. And so, with my papers in relative order, and thankful I didn’t need to wear quite as much clothing as my Zau guise showed, I made my approach. I will readily admit this was not one of my easier outings. Everyone knows the network of inter-Clan relations is something that’s already difficult to navigate, even to the Bannerbound themselves, but what they don’t tell you is that intra-Clan relationships and codes are a different beast entirely, hidden in the dark and waiting to pounce as soon as you tread in its territory. I found myself keeping away from “my” own Clan as much as I could without seeming suspicious, and getting far closer to the others instead[6], to their occasional surprise; all I could do was keep said surprise pleasant. Of course, I foresaw this, which is why I took a route into the city that dropped me off at a Norrish quarter; their Banner demands focus, their helmets hardly offer much peripheral vision and they’re fairly distant from Zau, so I got to the Keep’s exterior with very few glances and fewer questions still. A few spikes of eccentricity to stay “in character” were more than enough to cover said questions in turn. All bets were off in that regard once I made it there, as I mentioned, since every Clan gets equal representation. It was made even more difficult by the simple fact that standing before these enormous iron walls, staring up at their full height and realizing there are carvings in there[7], from top to bottom, with enough engraving space to get an entire library’s worth of history… it’s easy to forget you’re supposed to not be awe-struck, that this is something you’re assumed to see every time you wake. The novelty has long rubbed off for your eyes… Either that, or I just stared at it like a tourist would, and even through layers of disguise that slipped right through; it’s admittedly a very particular look. Either way, I was snapped out of my little trance by one of the guards – one from Vesnor, to be specific – who made a joke about how Zau never stop to look, that I might be the first one to actually care. All I could do was laugh at my own expense, and mutter that I thought I’d seen a figure I somehow missed every time…

Nevertheless, in I went, through smooth and steely doors that haven’t shut in well over three centuries. No history is written there, except perhaps in the scratches and gouges left by those who tried and failed to knock them down throughout the Keep’s existence. Marks of old axes, the dents of several battering rams, and one deep mark made by a seven-point claw at a thoroughly worrying height[8], were the biggest standouts in that regard.Now, the outside of the Keep is impressive in an imposing, outright intimidating way, making the caverns know it shall not be broken, let alone moved. But the inside is where the Seven get to impress in terms of elegance, even if their design and architecture fight to stand out at times. Little in the way of statues and armors, mind you, the needs of the Keep demand the hallways stay wide open; the only sculpture I found was a single fountain thrice the height of most Bannerbound standing in the Great Hall, with the Seven that took the reins of what became the individual clans during the Refuge portrayed in fine marble around the rim. A little vainglorious, perhaps, but it’s only proper for a monument to the founders, especially when it’s the only such monument in the Keep. However, it’s the walls and columns that truly offered the artists of the Clans a chance to ply their trade, with each telling their old stories in the depths of the corridors, and giving their own takes and points of view on the events they were later forced to share. The pillars themselves were both artwork and guiding marks, as each individual Clan’s wing had a different carving pattern to follow (quite helpful in finding one’s bearings if you’re not sure which wing you’re in), with abstract symbols sculpted together into the stone that holds them up. The walls, in turn, were left smooth, polished to a shine, but strung with hanging tapestries in the seven respective styles, depending on the wing. And these weren’t abstract in the least: Each of them bore a wordless scene upon it, with recurring figures marked by certain symbols having their stories told along each hallway. And these symbols repeated even between different wings, and different Clans, so that one that had walked enough of the Keep’s interiors could piece together the whole tangle of tales! Ah, it would’ve been exciting, but I couldn’t linger that long. Not this time. For what I sought was far deeper in the Keep. Indeed, rather than willingly and happily stranding myself across the Clans’ sub-domains, my search led me deeper in, and higher up. Ambling towards one of the central towers, taking any passages up I could find on the way, a meandering route that let me both avoid any groups, and make sure I didn’t linger in anyone’s sight for long. Just another Bannerbound passing by, surely in a hurry as Zau-bound often are, likely late to something with that sizable stack of papers in his hands[9]. Watching as the decorations that surrounded me became sparser, yet portrayed far more fundamental events, with each of the seven styles taking turns in telling their most ancient tales. Why, when I was truly closing in on what I came for I started to recognize some moments, some figures, from before their Refuge. Back when the Clans were seven nations, properly, in a world that now lies frozen. I will readily admit they slowed me down, even as I did my best to trudge forwards without looking, without giving myself away, without delay… Unfortunately for me, I would not find what I was looking for. Instead, and with some frightening and inconvenient fortune, I found something – someone – else. I found myself in an encounter that I would leave without the secrets I came for, yet shoved many others into my unsuspecting hands.

There I was, rounding on one of the towers, briefly distracted by the legend that surrounded me[10], when I felt eyes on me. Lingering, and very persistent eyes. And even before I turned around, the sense one cultivates when avoiding pursuit for long enough, that little alarm in the back of one’s spine, was going off fiercely – enough that, thankfully, I realized it was a little late to run, and simply turned around, intending to play the clever fool… And, well, the sight before me, it made me realize I had been a genuine fool, in never noticing these particular hallways were far bigger than they needed to be, tall enough that a crowd of Vezarym could fly down them without issue and wide enough for a loaded train. In never stopping to think what this could mean.The one staring me down was one of monumental stature, with barely any exaggeration on my part. Why, I’ve seen actual monuments ordered by prideful and even megalomaniacal rulers that were smaller than her. And comparing her with a statue was only proper, since the armor that covered her was all a manner of greyish, featureless stone almost like polished concrete, in great and thick angular slabs that looked like they should weigh literal tons, yet burdened her little. Her steps rattled the floor beneath me, slow but methodical, and as she made her approach I could see an unusual prosthetic where her arm should be, a four-pronged metal claw at the head of a greater contraption, with a spool of thick chain clearly visible inside it. And in spite of the helmet, I could see those ruddy eyes staring at me within, with just a glimpse of thick, scowling scarlet eyebrows above them… Moldaf Scatterlimb. The Great Besieger, Titan of the Gyre, Pride of Clan Heese[11], Champion of the Clans and unofficial Bearer of the Seven Banners.She got the first word, of course, pointing a finger that could flick my skull off at me and demanding to know what I was there for. None of the others I found before this, even shortly before her, made any such demands, so I can only guess she’s either more paranoid than the rumors say, or – more worryingly – she saw something was off from the very moment she laid eyes on me. I personally, and with some bias, lean towards the latter, whether it’s augments or simply an instinct, I got the feeling she saw past the surface of my guise. Thankfully not right past it – I would be a thin smear otherwise – but deep enough to start asking questions… After quickly balancing intimidation, to seem naturally put off by an earth-shaking giant yet not actively scared (lest I give myself away), I answered that I was on official business, and then attempted to disorient her, even just a little, by starting to present the more complicated documents on my stack and asking a few questions on whether I could find certain individuals there (that I knew would be away). Throughout it all, I gauged my options, and adjusted them as I saw more irritation than any confusion in what little I could see of her expression. And thinking quickly, I turned deferent, and perhaps a little starstruck, and “admitted” with little detail that I had always found her an inspiration. After all, I was playing the part of a Zau-bound, standing before a monument to what the Radiance can achieve…

Shescoffed at me, stopping just short from an outright glare. Of course I would say that, she muttered, sounding unpleasantly unsurprised. I only needed the slightest of pushes to get her to blurt out I was very, very far from the only (apparent) Zau that said such things, that admired her just for something she was born with and had thoroughly troubled her throughout the years. That felt like something to note, so after a bowed apology, I pushed ever so slightly, with an educated guess: Was it a matter of uneven growth, or simple physics reasserting themselves even against Radiance? For I had little idea – and this was true for mask and I alike – but one could still speculate. And while her answer was practically a blowoff, abrasively questioning how I could even think it was the former, it was still very much an answer I could use. Rising from my apologetic bow, I mentioned how much harder the latter would be to deal with than any kind of irregular growth. After all, her sheer size would mean she might well be crushing herself under her own weight at all turns; the laws of physics aren’t generous to those trying to upscale. But surely the Clans found a way to steer the Radiant changes towards something better, something reinforced, so that she wouldn’t just keep going until she crumbled into a pile of broken bones. And beyond that, still! Something glorious had to be done to turn something that’s practically an ailment into the foundations of a true champion of the Seven! Oh yes, I laid it on thick, letting my (supposed) starstruck state overtake all the rest, push me into outright fawning. Unwise, but provocative enough to move things along, I thought… And move things along it did, just not quite in the direction I expected. She did not strike a triumphant pose, though I got the feeling she wanted to. Still, she took the triumphant tone in telling me I was right, but it was strangely marred. Uncomfortable in a particular way, the way of liars that would rather not be so. I could tell, a stone-faced (pun not intended) champion like her could hide it from most in the city, but not from me… so then came the matter of sifting for the lie itself, for its size and shape, so that one could find the truth hiding right behind it. So I kept going, fawning a little more, in order to buy time for a better idea, and perhaps push this potential, awkward guilt (for lack of a better word) a little deeper. Glory to the Seven and all that, that would never let one of their own even across Clan lines suffer like that under the Radiance. And then it came to me: Out of impulse, on a patriotic whim of my mask, I went and ask her if it’d been Zau that had aided her so, that had ensured her body would be grown in such a way that it wouldn’t crumble under its own weight. And I struck a nerve with that. Silence stretched after that, as she glared at me and I shrank under her to keep up the act. Her answer, once she mustered it, was a calm, but very resounding “No” with little in the way of elaboration. And yet… it was both a Zau-bound’s job and mine to continue to be curious, and wouldn’t it be good to bridge between Clans by learning which one made sure she could become the Besieger? So my mask would’ve thought. And so I straightened out again, and innocently asked if it had been Norrish, armoring her within and without, or perhaps Heese, as it was only appropriate – and besides, with devices like theirs, they had to know plenty! Or perhaps not. Perhaps Sofize knew something, and this was a little more esoteric than I thought! Ah, I whipped myself up into a frenzy of speculation, so easily distracted I’d pretend to be that a jumping, zig-zagging thought process could come out loud, just like that. I wasn’t just feigning interest, I was showing it! I’ll admit, I crept into the mindset almost too well…

And then, a twist, a quick chance to take now that I seemed so wrapped up in hypotheticals. I got back up, and went to take a quick but deep look at her prosthetic, at the claw that had torn down entire castles… I was putting myself inches away from death, I knew it, but it was hardly the first time I’d been there. All in the guise of praising the expertise involved, with a direct example! Who wouldn’t take the chance for a little inter-Clan unity? Some exaltation of the Seven, knowing she represented them all? And what I saw… threw me off. It threw me off enough that I forgot about my mask, forgot my initial objective, forgot all of it, and just grabbed the machinery for a closer look, a closer dive, barely keeping enough attention on the rest of her as I got too close for comfort… Already there was something about the materials that was meshing in ways I didn’t like, to my eyes, my mind, and other perceptions of mine. I could notice it up close. The outside was as expected, but the shafts, the motors, all that would be most strained when reeling in, when her monstrous strength would tear stone and steel apart, they were alloys I knew the Clans rarely have. All shining, all silvery, rather than the brassy tones one is used to here. That’s what hooked me, what sparked this… foolhardy dive into the topic. What practically made me stick my head in between the metaphorical gears. And then, a hunch guided me as I practically hoisted myself onto the prosthetic, and even her booming voice didn’t rattle me enough to get me out. I got as close as I could to the point of connection, where metal joined flesh, the part that’d need the most expertise to actually achieve, and knowing she’d be pulling me out in moments, I touched the metaphorical seam… ...and as my facade faltered just so I could take the deepest look I could, as whispered to myself the puissant words I’d need, I saw it, felt it. The alloys used, the type of insertion, the way the energy flows were arranged, all signatures by themselves. And guided by reflex, by the recognition sparked by what I already saw, I turned my eyes deeper, to an exact spot beneath flesh and stone, where only sights like mine could pierce. The Sodden-Silver[12] glittering in my sights should’ve been an indicator by itself, nothing else would’ve meshed so well with a body, to the point of being outright welcomed into her very bones.But that could’ve been taken, or simply traded in a lesser deal, it’s just metal after all. The true giveaway was deeper in, right where the radius would usually begin. A symbol. A signature of sorts to confirm the patterns I saw. Two elongated triangles meeting at the bottom, like the needle on a compass, hidden right beneath the meeting between her nerves and the augment’s wires. The Lodestone Sage. Of course, she almost swatted me, I backed off but a single moment before she could smear me over the nearest wall. The breach of personal space alone should’ve gotten me killed, and I will not begrudge her that. I cannot begrudge Moldaf anything, in all honesty. I doubt she just walked North until she found a vault and knocked on it, willing to pay any price to fix her pains. So I told myself, as I apologized with a stutter, and just fled, throwing away all pretense as she thankfully prioritized raising the alarm rather than simply chasing me down… she would’ve caught me. Once her pursuit began she damn near did, she’s frighteningly quick even under a mountain of (apparent) stone. But even the inner walls of the Keep weren’t made to contend with Moldaf Scatterlimb at a dead sprint, so one tight turn around a corner later, one her boots had no traction to stop, I had an escape route readily made, one she could not follow as I threw myself off the hole she’d made and disappeared into the dark, leaving the alarms and her threats well behind. Without even thinking of looking back at her, or the Keep, or at the city as I fled…

…Custodial dealings, at the heart of it all. It lingers in my mind still, after catching me so deeply by surprise. With this tale, I’ve already given away that, at some point, the Clans (or at least Clan Heese) must have made some kind of accord with the Tower, in order to get the damned Lodestone Sage of all people to put her steely claws to work on this issue. It must’ve been a conundrum she would’ve been happy to tackle for free, yet her ego just wouldn’t allow her to leave things be, and she went and stamped her signature in her work. In her. But I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? Not when talking about someone who manages to keep an ego like hers after shedding so much of her very own body in favor of one she built herself. Even I am not sure what she once was, and I could perfectly see her liking it that way, making sure the world knows her only for the body she built from scratch rather than the one she was born in. No, of course she’d sign it. It’s one of her masterpieces, the world has to know it’s hers, doesn’t it? Even when she’s done it for free, just for the challenge, even just out of whatever goodness is left in her long-discarded heart, she just had to sign it. And she’s probably laughing now, as she reads this, finally someone found it! Finally someone recognizes it was her! Finally the world can settle doubts it should’ve never even had! Yes, thinking deeper, the conundrum alone would’ve been payment enough for her. But the Tower? They won’t let this slip unpaid, believe me, that wouldn’t be like them at all. I know them, they latch their hooks deep and promise the very worst for those who’d try to be free of them. At least one Clan is indebted to them now, with all it could mean. Be it secrets slipped, be it an intervention on their behalf, or perhaps the lack of one, forced to repay it by standing back and watching helplessly instead of taking action. I do not know. Perhaps it’s even been paid already, or perhaps it’s piled on further interest still, I do not know that either. Not yet. And so, I’m afraid, I, and the caverns at large, must consider one of the Seven is unfortunately compromised, if not all of them. I know what some of you will say, that perhaps it’s not so. That a mere operation like this, to aid someone, cannot extract too high a price. That curiosities and even altruism would play a part, especially knowing the Sage herself would’ve done this herself. I am not convinced of such. I cannot even see what’d convince me of such, right now. That’s not how the Tower operates. The Sages may have their agendas, their quirks and oddities, but the ones in charge are as cold-hearted as it gets. Theirs is the sort of vile “pragmatism” that comes up with atrocities malice alone cannot even conceive, and sees them as necessary. They simply don’t do altruism, they just don’t. They’re holding it over the Clans’ heads as I write, I assure you, waiting only for the right chance to bring it down upon their heads when it would further their blasted plans the most, no matter who else gets caught in it. I guarantee you they would gladly have Moldaf sent to what they knew was certain death without so much as flinching; this being the price for aiding her in the first place, this cruel irony, would not even register as such. They would call it yet another “lesser evil” and move on to the next without so much as glancing at the bloody consequences. I apologize for the above. I considered crossing it out and not including it in this publishing, but it felt like too much of an omission about matters I had to mention, even if I fail to be as objective as I’d like about the matter. Suppose you can all take it as a reminder that even with my own attempts, I am but one voice, with all the failings and biases that may imply. On my end, I may need to actively ponder what I otherwise wouldn’t, seeing how I eagerly barred myself from more than one conclusion, when in my field I should know better than anyone that unlikely doesn’t mean impossible.

And to my faithful readers, all I can do is apologize. I leave you now with what I’ve written, scratches and all, since I believe I’ve penned far more than I should on the matter. At least for today.Yours truthfully, the Ever-Restless Nirrhamidh.[1]As opposed to the occluded nations, which as far as I know (and I believe I would) include only two of the four hives, and none other. Contrary to what some would say, the Pact’s individual “halves” don’t count for this, you can clearly and openly visit them; those who’d call that “occluded” should try calling the Seven Clans individual nations, and see how such a claim turns out. [2]Unless, of course, a given Clan started it, in which case they’re often on their own until matters enter Clan territory once more – but not always. Part of why the Seven’s relations with other nations and entities in the caverns are so flighty and more hostile than average is the inconsistency this can present; with Norrish, Issouf and Zau being nosy at best, outright larcenous and aggressive at worst, it can be tempting to retaliate thoroughly, yet it’s never clear what will get the others, especially the usually sedate Sofize and Vesnor, to come down like a cracked stalactite on the attempt. [3]Century’s worth plus one. You know what I meant. [4]Not the fungal timber we are all used to, mind you, though the more forward-looking Clans hardly have an issue using them instead. Rather, these pre-Refuge styles were born from actual wood, of the sort we only see in minute amounts in the ferns of more luminous or volcanic lands. I’m told the untamed West no nation has yet claimed bears far greater and sturdier logs of such, but I’ve not seen them for myself. [5]Assuming, of course, you have the basic education to tell which Clan is which by their attire; they all cover themselves as thoroughly as they can, but each Clan sticks as best as they can to a given style. It’s the least you can do to learn the differences, it’s a minimum of respect to be paid, but I won’t get into it here; a decent travel guide will set you straight if you’re in a hurry, but I don’t recommend learning it the hard way. It’s embarrassing in the extreme in the best of cases. [6]I will admit to finding some unexpected rapport with Vesh in particular. I usually relate to Zau’s relentless drive for self-improvement and the testing of barriers and law, but with intra-Clan relations involved this was only made harder, reaching uncomfortable extents at times. Vesh, however, showed some pleasant surprises, in that their drive to self-impose, to make sure you know who you are before ensuring the world around you cannot deny it, it had some unexpected resonances I found relatable, and even pleasant. And I suppose it helped that they saw a Zau making such attempts at bridging without shame, and approved of it. Also their fashion sense is admittedly enviable, much as I couldn’t go with bandages like those here. [7]Not the sculpted, high-relief carvings of Voska, mind you. Rather, they’re very low relief to the point of being almost two-dimensional, indented lines into iron likely hammered in to paint the whole, unexpectedly-geometrical picture. Older Bannerbound styles seemed to have clashed enough that, for this first cooperative effort, they ended in a thoroughly blocky compromise that I rarely see replicated anywhere else. It’d look almost brutish anywhere else, but this is a fortress. [8]I’ve yet to dig out the truth of what caused this one. There’s nine fairly-defined, yet utterly contradictory versions on when it happened, how it came to pass, and what manner of rampaging cthonic monstrosity left it there; all agree that the thing came from below, but descriptions vary so much I am genuinely considering the creature in question simply didn’t have a defined form. [9]One part identification, two parts backing for my guise, and seven parts gibberish to be rewritten on the fly.

[10]I do wish I could specify, but if I ever intend to reach the original objective, I believe it’s best that I don’t give it away. Not so soon, at the very least. [11]Particularly remarkable in that Heese has neither the militarized bent (or armor designs) of Norrish nor the propensity to especially wild Radiant alterations of Vesh and Zau, yet she’d be a perfect example of both. Presumably she saves the expected mask and hood for special occasions. [12]One of the famous “silvery triad” of alloys that form the bulk of the Tower’s nonstandard and unique metallurgy, alongside Sallow-Silver and Searing-Silver. Known for being mildly cold to the touch and always looking, thanks to odd tricks of the light, like it’s been splashed with water, with plenty of lingering droplets that aren’t actually there. Sturdy, but quite yielding, and very useful for biotechnology since most bodies react to it like just another bone.

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hey uh new type of ao3 spam comment just dropped. (I know it's spam because the fic they left this comment on . doesn't have chapters. lmfao). Report this kinda comment as spam and don't take it personally it is literally recycled bullshit

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An attempt at whipping up a drawn version of the Histiotus macrotus that forms my PFP, for the sake of making something my own and just practice. It didn't turn out so well, it looks busy as hell to the point of bothering me when shrunk, but still might be worth a look normally.

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Midnight Alight

In an upside-down forest of lichens and mold, clinging tightly to the dangling, dripping flora, a swallow and a skink crept their way from one stalactite to the next, with one eye always fixed on the rolling, dusty expanse below. One flew between them with ease, a streak of red and blue that flitted from one to the other and dug her spurs into the moss to survey the next flight, while the other practically submerged into the mass of lichen, with little more than their turquoise crest poking out from underneath. There was half a mile between them and the dunes, and they knew not even the “sand” that shaped them – a deep, sodden layer of fuzzy spores and other drifting detritus flowing from the forests to the North – would soften their fall if they slipped off the ceiling… But they hardly worried; even the one that couldn’t fly had a grip that would hold tight on bare rock, let alone these gnarled, overgrown fronds. “Don’t start slipping now, I don’t wanna have to catch you.” Even the Cheli’s whispers were shrill, almost unwelcome in this breezy silence, and her sneer only made them worse. “You and that rifle of yours that’s gotta be half your weight. They’re gonna hear you all the way in the fucking Lakes with that thing!” “You’d be surprised” was the Troxi’s reply, calm as they could manage under the strain of moving upside-down. “Besides, isn’t this a distraction, miss Chitwy? Better for them to hear the shot, make them realize it?” Chitwy hung from her talons to face them, fixing them with a scowl before she deigned respond. “If you actually nail the shot, you don’t need the noise, it’s a bigger giveaway than anything else! You’re lucky this place barely has any echo, we’d be found real quick if it did.” “Again, doesn’t that make the distraction better? We’re not the ones piloting a whole airship through the stalactites, looking for two little figures scrambling through the moss.” The skink was barely even looking at her, their eyes wandering all over the land beneath, admiring a landscape they’d never seen.

This is a far longer story than usual, and I'm not sure it's gonna fit in here in its entirety. You may find the rest in: -AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66111994 -Dreamwidth: https://yutzen.dreamwidth.org/9271.html

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A shitpost with way too much effort, also probably the only piece of Heart of the Machine fanart as of this writing. But since this is an actual meta tactic in the game it was necessary.

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If you're wondering about what build I mean, it's the following walking warcrime

"Live and drink, traveler..." Been practicing drawing for almost a year, this one's from a few months ago. An attempt at drawing one of by Caves of Qud builds, at least my interpretation.

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"Live and drink, traveler..." Been practicing drawing for almost a year, this one's from a few months ago. An attempt at drawing one of by Caves of Qud builds, at least my interpretation.

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this is from a "manipulation advice" video and it's just so fucking funny to me. why didn't I think of responding to insults like this

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people are bad at all hobbies

i kinda think the main reason fanfic gets shit on so much isn't because it's actually more 'bad' than anything else but because as a hobby it is uniquely accessible to outside audiences.

there is no local club, you can't post it on insta, you don't share it just on discord to a dozen people like other hobbyist writing. no, you post it on one of the largest websites on the entire internet, and then it's indexed there and tagged on other sites via fandoms it gets shared in.

and this isn't an extra step like posting crochet on reddit. instead, fanfic is online and massively visible by default. it's not normal to not do that. the clubs & zines there used to be are dying or gone.

so what does this do?

it exposes every level of a hobby to scrutiny. add in that comparisons to professional work are automatic, that people are anonymous, and people get so vicious, so quick. but this same range exists in all hobbies. dave at the men's shed gets ribbed for his wonky chair then gets advice on making it better. meanwhile caitlynswife53 gets instant, anon hatemail for kinda mischaracterising her blorbo.

but that's the secret. people are 'bad' at every hobby, you just don't see them, and when you do it's in an environment where being an asshole is far more difficult and far less socially acceptable.

obviously, all hobbies are online'd to some extent now, but i definitely think fanfic is at the extreme end of this.

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not gonna sugar coat it

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there was a great study a few years that went into the whole "ppl online are bigger jerks than irl cuz theres a virtual wall and no repercussions" and the researchers were expecting to see that be the case but it turns out that people who were really angry or argumentative online were also found to just be assholes in person and people who were pretty patient and nice online were found to be patient and nice in real person as well

and it just debunked that whole cynical idea that people will naturally be mean if theres no punishment for it

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From Dust to Dust

Once again, I return to the Burnt Hive to retrieve and compile the tales that precede us. And once again, the Hives’ oft-occlusive nature ensured it was a proper ordeal for me. No ideological squabbles this time, thankfully, and nothing I needed to prowl every Hive for, either. No, this time, what got in the way was the simple fact the average Shumhaq is irritatingly apathetic to their own history, even beyond the usual day-at-a-time Subterraneum citizen. As if looking at their founding, or the past beyond it, were a waste of time, or worse, an admission of defeat. A focus on the present is all fine and good, but I feel the need to request they cultivate some historical curiosity. Thankfully, however, some do care. Much as their historians seemed to save their tales in an oddly resentful manner, as if writing down their grudges… And then, there were the One-Hivers. They had an abundance of useful scraps in their more incendiary material, but stripping the virulent biases off them was less than pleasant. But a source is a source, whatever their reasons to preserve may have been. Here, the result. Do you know what death is?

It’s not an ending. A spirit might leave, or it might not, it might never be there to begin with[1]. The body stops moving, stops reacting, stops doing, but it doesn’t stop being. The only difference between a corpse and a body is what’s alive in it. But it ain’t really the start of a cycle, either[2]. Spiral, at best. That body won’t start moving again, you’ll just have it rot and get eaten up. The spirit, if any, it’ll move away from it, from us, from everything, never to come back. It’ll bring life to others, but you won’t have what you had ever again. It’ll never be the same.

What death is, then, is a split. Just like everything else. As time goes, everything splits, one thing from the next, and two things into many more. “To dust we return”, as they say, but they don’t cover just how many tiny fractures and splits it takes to bring a living being back to dust. But you might ask that, now that you’re aware of the question. And the answer is always “more than you think”. There is no true way to mend every cut to its fullest extent, something is always missing. There’s always another cut you missed. From something as simple as shattered glass, to death itself, you can never put it all back together to the way it was. Not completely.

One of the biggest reasons for that is, someone out there’s making sure those cuts stay that way.

Every separation, every severance between one thing and the rest, is looked over. Surveyed. Accounted for, along with the pieces it creates. Because whoever put it all together in one place once is done with it all, if that one ever existed, but someone needs to oversee it as it comes apart. Make sure it comes apart when it has to – not one moment before the cut, and not one moment after. And most of all, keeping the most important separations, all the important splits, the way they are. Let nothing be rolled back. Make sure it’s all dust in the end, the thinnest of dust, when all is said and done.

Why? In a way, it’s simple. Because the closest thing to where it all began, to the great pile of everything that started it all, is the thinnest, most basic, most finely sieved dust of all, where even size and weight and distance have been sliced so thin they’re hardly even there anymore. Where every last component has been separated and reduced to its minimum expression, until there’s nothing left to shed. Get all that dust together, gathered as tight as something so tiny it barely has a size can be, and all of a sudden, you have… everything, together again, at once, in a single place.

But it’s not the Surveyor[3]’s job to do that part. The Surveyor’s job is to make sure it gets there. Neatly, cleanly and properly. And most importantly, evenly.

The biggest reason why every split must remain as such, every cut unmended, is so that no one piece is bigger than the other in the end. Not one mote should outsize the other, and none of them should clump back together into something even resembling a greater, singular mass. The process is not over, and the Surveyor’s work isn’t done, until every particle, every amalgam, has been trimmed back into its separate parts. And what is an amalgam but a mass of particles that’ve tried to mend the cuts between them, in the end? Even those you’d never consider cuts because they were seemingly always there, or those that are too esoteric to consider them such at first. They may not count for you, but the Surveyor knows. The Surveyor watches, making sure even now, such mendings don’t happen.

You might wonder now how this one takes care of such things. How things are kept apart, or separated if they risk being gathering spots, focal points for one such amalgamation. You might think the Surveyor has a blade, or shears, to be wielded when something is stubbornly resisting its moment to split at last, or worse, actually mending a cut that should’ve been complete. And you would be very wrong for that assumption. Not every knife can split a stone. A knife that could do that, cannot split dust from air. And a knife that could do that, cannot split a city from its fortune, or a mother from her child, or an idea from its believers[4]. And a knife that could do that cannot split a stone, and we’re back where we began.

More importantly, a knife cannot stop most of those from coming right back together either.

So what’s the Surveyor use? Something that’s tailor-made for the split that must be done. Something forged from the materials available, which is everything. Something that will remain, and keep things split, even when it’s in a subtle way you can’t quite see. A chisel.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? It is, yet it isn’t. Let me give you an example.

Once, it did happen, or try to. Something, someone, tried to clump things back together into one, and it was working. A grand agglomeration. One mind, barely even a mind, with an ever-growing body that just couldn’t be taken apart by those it was pulling in, devouring, assimilating. Not fast enough. Or maybe it was several bodies, joined together by a mind like strings? It was close enough to a singular thing, and it was growing quickly. Learning how to pull in everything, too. Material and immaterial. Maybe even started pulling in spirits, too. Thought as well. But it was all coming apart and becoming more of it. More mass, more of that singular mind, if you could even call it that. And when distance was there, it just stretched across it to reach what was next, and dug in too. And the bigger it got, the more it figured out how to pull in…

Nothing that was trying to survive in there, keep itself from being pulled in, was getting much done. It was just too big, there was too much of it, and anything they could take out, it’d pull right back in. Nothing to reason with either, it was just one thing, barely thinking, wanting to grow. Like a mold, if it was just a single creature, with just enough thought to reach out and grab things yet to die. And none of the cuts were deep enough to work with. All superficial, all barely trimming…

So the Surveyor went deeper. Reached into the thing’s mind, such as it was. Gathered it. Sharpened it. Made a chisel of pure thought, pure reason, pure sentience.

And drove it right through the center of this amalgam[5].

It split like glass. Cracks spread throughout it, as it started to think. As parts of it joined by these idle strings of mind started having their own thoughts. And the cracks spread further. One, to several, to millions, as whole segments started to disagree, then sub-segments, then actual individuals within the whole. And just like glass, it didn’t stop until it all came apart, as a grand amalgam, a grand thing, became nothing more than a mass of… people, with little in common between them other than some biology, and a shared experience where they couldn’t even think. No gods, no flag, no nation, just that.

And the Surveyor stepped back and looked upon a job well done. All schedules had been thrown off, things would take longer. But it was progressing as it all should. Barely even needed to intervene after that, these new peoples would do the rest of the splitting. And they did, too.

You’re wondering now why the Surveyor is so adamant. Why these splits must happen. Maybe things can’t restart properly if the balance is off. Maybe one giant amalgam of everything, biased to one side, to itself, a lattice or a blob rather than the dust it ought to be, just ain’t something you can start again with. Maybe it’ll be predictable if it’s done anyways, if it can be done at all. But we don’t know. All we know is, that’s how the Severing Surveyor works.

[1]I took care to keep the older versions of these tales and their scraps for this, and while their date was entirely uncertain those passages that alluded to spirit were entirely speculative, indicating this was before the Subterraneum made it clear such things exist. Mainly when they have nowhere to go. [2]Soldiers of the Resurgent Hive (SRH) material actively used the word “rawark” for this, the Pact’s word for (life) cycle, and took the bother to add an immediate translation, as if to directly aim the following refutation. Every other source I found simply used the Shumhaq word. [3]Here, terminology differs between regular and One-Hiver sources. The former uses the word “Nasharuq”, an old word descended from one of many terms for “master (crafter)”, which spawned a verb for “supervise, for approval or denial” and got retroactively altered in turn. The latter explicitly use “Druvhryk”, the word for “headsman (executioner)”. On a less charged note, all versions referred to the entity by name every time, going out of their way to avoid pronouns, and so I’ve replicated the effect here. [4]All direct examples from the sources I had, but I had to trim them down significantly, as most of them used several more, not all of them especially functional in my eyes. SRH materials on the matter (from which I took the middle example of mother and child) seemed to delight in elaboration here, with some bitter undercurrents I didn’t find proper to include. [5]The tone used in this and the following segment was one I tried to balance, between the stories from Shumhaq historians often taking a tone either awed or even triumphant, and those from the SRH who seemed to twist it into some manner of injustice. Not a tragedy, but seemingly something to resent the culprit for.

-Excerpt from “Who is the Lord Below? A Treatise on the Radiant and Cthonic”, authored by ‘the Ever-Restless Nirrhamidh’ (assumed pseudonym; author not yet identified and under active investigation)

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This is one of those moments where I'd ask if anyone would have questions for any of the characters I've written, but I have a feeling I don't reach enough people for that yet. Eh, what the hell, I might be wrong. Ask away.

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Behind Every Scar (Part Two)

Somewhere beneath a green plateau, in a dark and sodden crack far from prying eyes, far from a train whose alarms were yet to die down, a mole and a badger took the time to rest and hide, with nothing but the dripping water outside to break the silence. There was no light, with neither fire nor lamps to break through the murk as they made themselves as comfortable as they could within this half-natural, half-carved tunnel one of them had found and grown.

Then, a sigh from the mole, as he got up, reached out and nudged a rock towards the exit, just to make wholly sure they wouldn’t be seen. “Suppose I’ve stalled on this long enough, haven’t I?”, he asked, finding a stone to sit on at last. But he knew he was the only one that could answer. “Where to begin, then, you might need some context for it all, Askal, though if you’ve ever been to the Kingdom, perhaps that’ll… help”. Askalim himself could tell he hardly believed anything would help, from his tone.

But the badger just said, in the most reassuring tone he could muster: “Just take your time with it. Start earlier, even, might help to work up to it. I’ll just make myself comfortable. Much as it gets in here at least…” Finding a spot to actually sit or lay down was a challenge, especially for a Toskar of his size; ceding his armor to the Ferigozi hardly helped, either, as he found pebbles digging into his skin no matter where he tried to lie. But there’d be time to brush them off. Right now, there was one question in his mind, besides the obvious. A question to actually begin with, that he’d had in the back of his mind for some time. “Vi, I know you served, but as what? I know you were prospecting, part of a team, but you never did bring up your rank…”

A bitter chuckle in the dark, and Askalim could almost see that bitter smile in spite of it. “Heh. I never did tell anyone at all, did I? Suppose it didn’t feel right to say it, as if even saying it would’ve been an improper boast. A rank pull, rather than anything worth speaking, if it makes sense. Ah, but it’s as good a point as any… I was a knight, a proper Prospector Knight, by the time it all happened, and closing in on a promotion, for that matter. Though perhaps I was technically a Knight-Captain already by the time it all happened, I never… asked, at that stage.” He sighed, and as the badger’s eyes adjusted he could vaguely see him shake his head. “We’ll get to why in a moment, there’s some context right before it all that I should finally address.” One last shift in the darkness, as pebbles plinked against metal and cracked under its weight, and he continued, his voice lower both physically and in volume. “This little talent of mine… It showed fairly early on, though not early enough to steer my tuition much. Then again, at that stage, being the fifth son of eight, I doubt anything much would’ve done so. I was treading tracks that had been carved long before me… Hardly the most fitting tracks, all in all.” A clink of one of his claws against the iron of his breastplate, before he continued. “The crafts weren’t my forte, and in all honesty, they still aren’t. Not when compared in any way with my siblings… before me or after. Weaponry, armor, art, even bloody furniture! I could hardly compete, never going beyond middling…” There was a shift in the dark, and Askalim could barely see two glints in the dark, utterly tiny. “As it turns out, said, ah, talent was playing a part. I hardly know the specifics, but it seems whatever it is that seeps from my claws into anything I work is a little… different, from the usual. No strengthening, no infusions of the usual ambient energies, but rather…” The mole trailed off, spreading his claws in the shadows, before he sighed and finished in a bitterly amused tone. “It seems I just make iron and such malleable. As if I were filling it with all the same… properties, that make clay ever so reshapeable. It fades quickly, of course, but it leaves a mark, a… spoiling mark. Something only a crucible can get rid of, I believe… A perfectly ruinous little gift for one in a family like mine, heh. Heh…”

“Which is when you instead went into the Knights Excavant.” Askal thought it better to cut in early with that one, since the mole was already in a mood thinking back before whatever incident sent him down this path, and right into this crevice. And besides, may as well probe, and learn more; he always did find it a little odd that they had a straight-up knightly order just to prospect. It sounded… lofty, even by Ferigozi standards. “That’s what they were called, right? The formal ones, rather than the usual pebble-kickers just digging into cliffs and hoping to find things. We, ah, used to chase those off the borders sometimes, on slower days. But they didn’t have your… airs, I guess?” Damn it, he really needed a better word for that. By the chuckle that followed, far less bitter, it seemed close enough. “Ah, I made the push, yes. If I couldn’t be a dignified ironworker, I thought, I’d instead be a dignified iron procurer, I’d be the part of the chain the others never looked at. At least that’s what I was telling myself at the time… often avoiding the thought that I’d need to be a proper soldier, with the bloodstained claws that implied.” Then, Velardi was back to the earlier tone, after a sigh. “Not quite what they would’ve wanted of me, but at that stage, I could hardly give them what they asked. I’d tried, but it was very clear by then that I’d only be treading old ground and leaving nothing worthy in it…”

Askal cleared his throat. Time to dig him out of it again. “You wanted to be you, yes. So you pushed to get in, and I’m guessing it worked. Did they have their tests, did they let you take tries at it, or just a one-or-forget it deal? And were you already bending iron like putty by then, or did you pick that one up on the job?” The Toskar shifted his body as he spoke, restlessly brushing off the pebbles that stuck to his thick quills, and the occasional one digging in his underbelly. He might need to ask for Vi to clear a bigger spot later, at this stage, but that could wait. This took priority. The mole perked up at that. “During, actually! I had a greater interest in usage than making, when it comes to weapons and armor, so I felt perhaps if I dedicated myself to that instead, I’d stand out, I’d be someone worth the look. And so the tests began, battle and digging alike.” He idly sank one of his claws into a nearby boulder, dragging it down inch by inch, punctuating his words with the cracking of stone. “I proved myself fairly deft at the latter, sorting ores and carving earth was something I’d helped some old family friends with before. Quite often, in fact, it was almost restful, compared to being in there…” Then, a pause. He stopped speaking and carving alike, and let the seconds tick by until he finally sighed, and let himself continue. “Fighting, however, was… rougher. I hardly scraped by, at the time, barely passing the evaluations, coasting at first on the excavation results. I needed to push myself, strain myself even, to pass each test, each spar, each evaluation they threw my way. And it still wasn’t looking especially good, much as in retrospect I could never be sure if I’d pass anyhow, or not… There is a need even for the lowest of squires, yet I wondered if I’d even make it so far, at one point.”

Another pause. A clink of armor… and the tell-tale groaning of iron sheathing itself around his claw, forced into shape by energies neither of them fully understood. “And then, during a spar I was losing, I grabbed my instructor’s hand through his shield, and almost cost him fingers that way.” The newly-“forged” clawsheath was flicked away, clinking in the dark, as the mole’s tone got back its previous energy. “That certainly interested them. They wanted a closer look, of course, so after I found I had a hard time redoing the feat, the tests were extended, redoubled… they hardly told me I’d passed until I failed a test some time afterwards, and they let me know I was already in. That I’d been in for some time, in fact, the moment I showed I could actually control this little talent of mine, but that things like these need a little ‘tension’.” He put heavy emphasis on that last word, clenching one claw. “...now, troubled as I was by this deception, I suppose they had a point. It was only through the additional pressure that I could push myself into making it work consistently. Still, victory felt a little marred, by the idea I had won the moment I molded a crude blade together with my bare claws, when I’d kept going so much further than that.” Askal couldn’t help but sigh, breaking the silence Velardi had seemingly expected. “Real typical of ‘em. The more any army unit prides itself on what it does, the prouder it is, the more you see them pull stunts like that. And I bet they didn’t even stop after it, either. All the Cobalt Guards I met, and all the Palace Keepers I ever heard about, got it just like that, and as soon as you got past the pride and the glory it showed.” Then, a moment after realizing this came less like a comment and more like an outburst, he tacked on, in a softer voice: “Though, honestly, you handled it much better than any I knew of…”

The little chuckle he heard from the mole was of genuine amusement, to his surprise. “Ahah! Aah, it does get like that, doesn’t it? On my part I heard some strange business about the King’s Claws, hardened as they were. I never did meet one, but Torrialde had his share of anecdotes…” A pause. A whole half-minute’s worth of pause, in fact, where they both laid in silence, their breath so quiet only the gentle flow of water through stone could be heard. Askal almost forgot there was a search outside, he heard nothing of the sort. But eventually, the mole found his words. “...Torrialde. I tried not to get here this soon, yet this whole story led me there anyhow… But it’s about time. I’ve… stalled long enough, I’m afraid.” Already Askal felt a tinge of dread settling in – if that scar on his back had an actual name behind it, then the wound went deeper than it seemed. After a deep breath, the Ferigozi continued, in a sullen tone. “They found a spot for me in one of the newer squads, replacing one that cracked under pressure. Would be a recurring theme, as I later found out, Torrialde and I were the only ones that lasted more than two years in there. But he’d been there from the beginning, he was already a little seasoned by then, with some missions under his belt… he showed me the ropes, let me hit the ground running. And from there, we excelled… even in our failures, even when there was nothing left to do but flee, we were outstanding…”

He was sounding a little too wistful now, time to poke him with a question. A genuine question, ideally, which took a second for Askalim to come up with. “What was this ‘Torrialde’ like? You’ve never brought him up before, and I’m guessing I’ll find out why, but just to know from the get go, and with… hindsight in mind, what kind of Ferigozi was he? I mean, if he was one, though I’m assuming he was.” That’d work… Torrialde, then. He wouldn’t have guessed Velardi had his own Captain Valkut, he seemed… too weathered, too stable for it. But there you have it. Another sigh, just a little dramatic. Vi began again, with a voice that was hard to get a read on, as he reached for a pebble on the ground. “Definitely more of a… people-watcher, I’d say. Someone who never said he prided himself in how he could read others, but it was fairly clear he did. He always tried to… play along with others’ quirks, to read them and their traits, sometimes even… tried to teach me by example, on it. Even pushed to say things in his stead, knowing the reaction would be different, when it would be more welcomed.” Then, a huff, and the pebble cracked in his grasp. “Oh, I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve seen it, that someone that was so immersed in the whole… in webwork, and so openly at that… ah, I should’ve seen it for what it was, called it for what it is. But NO. I took him at his word. The right word for every occasion, he said! And when I had doubts, I remembered his guidance, and how he… stood his ground, how defiant I thought he was, and… a-and the way he looked at me…” Askal heard a flick, as the dusted remains of the pebble were cast away. “Suppose I just got lost in it all. Carried away into the little tale for himself he was weaving...”

The badger could feel those beady eyes in the dark now. “He… always looked at me like I was a bit of a puzzle, you know? Like he couldn’t figure me out. And that… intrigued him, I believe? I used to think I… fascinated him. And it… it was a pleasant thought back then, as you can imagine. To have someone so deeply… interested in you…” Again, the mole sighed deep… before stopping suddenly. Those eyes went wide enough to see even in the gloom, almost like they had the tiniest spark of their own. Then, the stammering, as his words began to fail him and his voice turned to a hissed, startled whisper. “O-of course, nothing of the sort that’s- it was by no means a- I mean, pleasant in a wholly-” Pressing down on his snout like a silence button came almost natural to Askalim, he found himself doing it before he was even aware, before he’d even thought of any words. He’d have to ask himself why later, but right now… damn it, might as well. If he couldn’t in this company, then who? So he took a moment to gather his thoughts, and began. “Vi, you don’t have to hide that kind of thing from us. Not from me at least. I promise you, on my honor, not from me. If you’re drawn to males, you’re drawn to males, that’s that. Hell, I’ve been drawn to more than one, that hasn’t gone away with time… unlike what some idiots think.” That… was apropos of nothing, now that he thought of it, but whenever this little topic came up he couldn’t help but think of his ex-sergeant back when he was but a recruit. That was the least of his idiocies though.

Still, it worked. Velardi let out a held breath, and gently laid his hand on the one that’d shut his snout. His voice wavered a little more with every word. “That… saves me time. And so many worries. So many worries, Askal! Here I was, thinking I’d trapped myself into a corner with something I should’ve never said, after telling myself I’d have to dance around it, twist the details to bury it all and still offer something close enough to the truth, and…! And here I am, the fool, having tried, and failed, when I never had to… Ah, I never get this right, do I…” The badger offered a smile. “It’s complicated, ain’t that easy to be rational about this. Lords know our nations have a hard time with it… still, much as I suspect Zee’s fine with it too, same with the others, still safe with me, won’t tell unless you do. Hardly changes much, honestly.” After a moment, he had to wonder if that last bit was the right thing to say. It didn’t change his opinion much, sure, but this was still a promise, trust on each other, even if a little one-sided since Askal’d confessed rather casually to the point he didn’t even know if Velardi noticed. Though with that in mind, if he knew the mole had his preferences, part of Askalim did wonder if he was in any way eye-catching to him… But he brushed that off as best he could. He couldn’t think of that now, this was a terrible time to start looking at Vi like that, and an especially awful time for any realizations that might come from it. No, this wasn’t the time! Back on track, where were they, what to ask? Something came quickly, something useful, if a little tragic: “Though with that in mind, I’m going to guess this Torrialde wasn’t just a brother in arms…”

No, very tragic. None of those who turned their backs on Askalim were this close. Valkut himself – Worm take his ass – had always been a bit of a bastard at best, he’d never opened his heart wide to any of the involved, especially not him. That might’ve been too heavy a swerve back into the topic. But then again, he needed to hear it, and Vi needed to say it, so… And so the mole resumed – not with a sigh, but with a different, uncomfortable little sound. “I’ll… get to that, it plays a part in this matter. The answer to that is, in fact, the crux of the matter. But if you’ll let me get there, cover a little context on the way, first…” After a motion in the dark from the Toskar, he took a deep breath, and continued. “It was complicated. We locked our steps fairly quickly, working with each other in battle quite well, in fact, though outside it things were murkier. Still, when you have to face battle with another by your side, there needs to be some trust, and that little seed always grows a little beyond once steel stops singing. But… I suppose neither of us knew exactly what was growing.” A sweeping motion of his claws that briefly touched the ceiling above preceded his next words, as his tone turned wistful again. “But grow it did. And oh, how it grew… On his end, I can only imagine what he thought, piece it together from what I saw then, and know now. But clearly he trusted me to have his back, to aid him as he’d aided me before and since… but beyond that, in retrospect, I cannot say. I can hardly guess. Because one thing I do know, is he seemingly trusted me enough to get in my personal space. He was a… touchy one, you could say. Not a hugging sort, of course, but… at first, he just had no real qualms nudging me, even for the mildest things, a hand on my back or my side, unexpected, just to turn me towards what he needed me to. Not just on the field, either, even for something like a sign on the wall, his hands would be on me.”

Then, Velardi’s tone got… stranger. Distant. “…that deepened, just a little bit. He had this… habit, of getting his arm all over my shoulders, and pulling me in to tell me something with my snout inches from his. He did that… often. And the… names, too, the sort you’d expect from… from…” It took him a second to continue, to actually gather his thoughts and skip ahead to what he could say. “Not at first, obviously, but soon enough, months in, after it became clear we were the closest thing to the unit’s veterans, and maybe earlier, when I hardly noticed… with this… tone he had, too, even slurred the Rs a little bit just to… sometimes he called the whole unit that, when addressing us all, but only if I was there, and the slurring was only with-” “Slurred the Rs on what, Vi?” Askalim blurted out before he could catch himself. He’d been drawing it out long enough, he thought, right before he realized there was probably a reason for that. The mole’s next word came with actual difficulty, like pronouncing them was an ordeal. Through teeth so gritted each sound was practically extruded through them by his tongue. “Ulramai”, he finally said, letting out a held breath after that. Askal tilted his head, and Velardi sensed that enough to elaborate, now that the worst for him was out. “It’s an… archaic one. Back in old times it was something you said to the King alone. But it means ‘my king’ if you just translate it directly, and it’s… it’s…” The badger could feel those beady eyes on him again, as his voice rose and cracked. “Askal, I’ve heard couples say that to each other! Partner to partner, wives to husbands! W-why would he, if…!?”

Now he suddenly wondered if interrupting him with a touch to his face had been the right idea. But now he knew exactly what to never say… “If he wasn’t interested? Lords know about that one. Maybe he was just one of those real affectionate sorts, too close with everyone, too… showy. Never got close to any of those, but you saw it in the barracks, sometimes, some were handsier than others. But calling you ‘my king’, that’s… new. That one’d throw me off…” He thought of something else to add, but couldn’t find anything. Knowing this whole business ended in that scar… this was heading down a darker path with every word. Nothing left to do but to tear off this bandage. “Not bringing that word up again. What… happened with this all? Did you tell him about this, did he clear anything up…?” The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever, with both of them lying in the dark waiting for the other to speak, hardly able to see each other… but Velardi took a deep breath, and broke it. “Sorry, it’s… I needed to gather myself. You’ll understand why, I’m sure, but… mm.” Askalim heard the sound of one of the mole’s claws scraping along the metal, making it creak as the tip sunk right through, yet left it unharmed. “For a while, I was quiet on the matter. For a little over a year, I believe. Utterly quiet, with him and everyone else. Never bringing up the questions this made me ask myself, the… way it made me wonder if I should pick up on it. At the time, I guess I thought I just couldn’t believe someone would… say something like that to me. Or maybe something within me was catching on about what he truly thought…?”

Another creak of metal before he sighed, and continued. “And I should’ve listened. I should’ve been quiet, and believed these hunches. I should’ve realized that in this Kingdom that’d disrespected me like this… In this Kingdom that had buried some of its best and brightest because they chose the wrong associate… In this damnable Kingdom where no man should love another… such thoughts were just wishful thinking.” Now the mole’s voice cracked, just slightly. “But each time, it happened again, and I… looked at him again, got lost in it all, and I started to believe, maybe… maybe I should pick up on it. Maybe I really did hear that right! Maybe he meant it! And little by little, I ended up convinced that there was something there, and I’d been missing the signals the whole time. And that still he hadn’t stopped, so there was… still a chance. That we could be discreet, just enough that our records, our… ever-growing records, would keep suspicions away. Oh, we were good enough that they wouldn’t want to know, I thought. And so, they wouldn’t ask! Then, the single most bitter little chuckle Askalim ever heard, as Velardi finished that thought, barely audible. “I painted a whole fantasy for myself that way, and dove headfirst into it until it was all I could see, heh. Heh…” Askal gulped, and steeled himself to ask the inevitable question. The inevitable turning point that turned a promising soldier, an up and coming Knight-Captain, into the scarred bounty hunter hiding with him in this cave, just as disgraced as he and everyone else, if not more so. “I’m… going to guess this is the part where you brought it up. Maybe told him you… liked him, outright.” Catching a nod in the darkness, he went on. “Told him outright, then. How… how badly did that go? How did he react?”

Silence again. Then, a shuffling sound, as Velardi got closer, just close enough to see his face in what little light was there… with those bright, beady, wet eyes looking straight at him. “...he was disgusted.” Stammering, the mole tried to… clarify? Elaborate? Continue from there, as if he couldn’t bear to linger on that thought. “O-of course, it was but a passing expression, very quick, just… just a flash! He… very much pretended not to hear that, and never brought it up, but…” A quick and shaky breath, giving away his barely-held composure. “But I saw it. In his eyes, in just the faintest twitch in his expression, and in… everything that followed after that, faintly. But it was clearest when I told him, right as he processed, as he realized, and… a-and… even as he settled his expression, as best he could, I… I-I could see it in his eyes… I could see it in his eyes, and it never left. Not completely… and not ever.” Yet before Askalim could say something, anything, before he could even raise a hand, Velardi kept going, no matter how much his voice shook. “Like I said, he pretended not to hear it, pretended it… never happened, but it was never the same after that. Not while it lasted. There was a tension now, a cold distance, even when inches apart in the most cramped of tunnels. Greetings he didn’t return… hardly called me by my name, even if his tone seemed the same. And sometimes, I caught him… staring at me from the edge of his sight. And whenever I did… I couldn’t read his face. Not in the least. Far from blank, but… I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, not anymore.”

He slowed down, at least for a moment, but that couldn’t hide the pain in his voice. “I… wonder sometimes, if he was still trying to read me. If I had blindsided him so badly with… something he never expected of me. That he somehow… never saw coming. Except instead of looking at a puzzle, he was looking at… at a malfunction. Like… he thought he knew me well enough, and that just… didn’t mesh in his eyes.” Once again, his little eyes fixed on Askalim’s, asking a question he knew the badger couldn’t answer. “I wonder, sometimes, did he… think I had changed, under the pressures of our work? Or that I’d been… replaced, that day, or entirely, and thus couldn’t be trusted anymore? That I was gone now…? Or did he realize who I was, who I truly was, and… a-and it made him sick…? Did he even try to reconcile it…?” Askal wracked his brain for something polite to say. He wanted to tell him: ‘It doesn’t matter what he thought’. He didn’t care whether Valkut had a right to be suspicious of him and only later fell to corruption, or was just throwing him into the cold just to deflect any suspicion on something he was doing. The captain did what he did. And just as much, it doesn’t matter if Torrialde thought he was justified on doing what he did because he thought a moth or a flayer-bug was wearing Vi’s face, or because he thought he deserved it for being a… whatever slur the Kingdom used for this. It didn’t even matter if he thought he was justified or not. What mattered was he did what he did. ...whatever it was. Now that took his thoughts, as he tried and failed to find a polite way to ask that instead.

Yet Velardi was one step ahead of him on that, interrupting his train of thought with a long, shuddering sigh. “I’ve… meandered long enough, haven’t I…? Eventually, context just becomes… dodging the point. And I’m long past that point, aren’t I…? Just… one more moment to gather my thoughts, please. To get back to the… point. To the scar. To the start of all… this.” The badger could see his claws motioning towards the gashes in the tunnel that he’d carved, remnants of his earlier panic. It took a deep, deep breath for him to muster the courage to continue. “First of all… a confession. I’m terribly sorry, Askalim, but… I do know how to swim. I did learn, but…” But Askal shook his head. “No need, not by now. I figured something was up, but if it’s this deep…” “No”, the mole answered, “I lied to your face, you deserve an apology for that alone, and over something of this importance, in a mission like this… in any mission! It’s-” “Apology accepted”, the badger interjected, stopping himself from reaching out and pinching his mouth shut himself. “You’ve got enough on your plate, Vi.”

Velardi let out a breath… a shuddering breath, that almost sounded like a whimper at the end. “I… you’re right, I should… I’m still meandering, aren’t I? No, back to where we were, back to the matter.” Another creak of iron as he sunk his claws into his own breastplate, as if reminding himself it was still there. “It all… came to a head in this one outing, right outside the Kingdom. East of it, close enough to the Hollow-Lands to be waterlogged. Full of wide, muddy rivers, just slow enough to keep their mud, yet quick enough that their currents were still an issue. Sinking in was a very real risk, if we didn’t take things carefully, and so, we brought little more than our light uniforms. Something to cover the skin, but nothing to weigh us down. I… hardly remember what we were meant to find, just that we needed to sift through the mud for its pebbles, and then go upstream to find where we should dig. And I remember so clearly that the earth was so… thick with water, over there, that even scratching it drew water, as if it bled…” More creaking metal. The Ferigozi was practically hugging himself, as if his armor might escape the moment he let go of it. “It felt… colder than it should, but in retrospect, I’ll never know if it truly was a colder day, or if it was an ill feeling about the outing that I couldn’t cast off. But it was a long trek, and a longer roam to find even a single pebble. Even with our unburdened selves, we were near-exhausted by the time we’d found a good waterflow…” Then, his voice started trembling again. “Oh, we should’ve known how far it was. How far we were from… h-home. We were long past that, right into Consortium lands… well past them, as it turned out, because what we found was not… them. Oh, no, a Vezarym patrol, or even bandits, we- I would’ve seen coming, b-but…”

Velardi swallowed nothing, trying to settle himself, trying to find words that wouldn’t shake his voice as he said them. “Up we went. Up this… so-called creek, this slow and muddy flow. On we marched, as it… narrowed, deepened, as it became its own little canyon. As we found little to no way through but into it, and upwards, wading up it from rock to rock, then from puddle to puddle… Mmh. It was a terrible place to be in, when you know there may be others on the prowl. Surrounded by high rocks, slowed down, hardly able to reach…” No can do, his voice started to crack again. “B-but even then, it was… still us two, and we had our backs, I thought! Even after… t-that, h-he’d warn me if he saw anything, if he felt anything off, so that we may adapt and stay on top of it all! I would’ve done the same for him after all, j-just like so many times before…! I misstepped, misjudged, sure, b-but this wasn’t the barracks, this was the field! And he was still Torri, even after everything! We were still proud knights, we were still… us…!” He’d backed away towards the walls, towards the darkest, furthest corner of this cave he’d carved for the two of them. But by now, he was talking to himself alone. “But NO! When the ambush finally came, and we can both feel it’s coming? When we find ourselves flanked by stone on both sides, waist deep in water with our boots full of mud? When I look behind him, just in case, and he turns around to face me, giving me those… those EYES he gave me by then?! Not an ounce of concern! Even as he saw something, whatever it was, even as something tipped him off that it was coming, and it’d be right behind me, he said nothing, DID nothing, he just stared! He saw it, I know he saw it, yet he did nothing, nothing!”

“And then it slithered right out of the water behind me! All I hear is a splash, and all I see is him j-just… staring at it all, still as can be! He did NOTHING! As it drove a blade into my back, deep as it could go, he did NOTHING! HE JUST WATCHED! Shoved into the water, bleeding and winded, by this… this river raider, this olm he could’ve dispatched like nothing, and he watched, and he just… he just LEFT! He left me to die, he LEFT ME TO DIE!” Askalim finally had his answer… it was a battle wound, but only physically. And it hadn’t been this Torrialde himself plunging the blade into Velardi’s back. The knife itself, and the presumable Ifchi colonist that held it, they were just… incidental. And they left an open wound that he could hardly imagine, somewhere under the actual scar… But more importantly, Askalim now had a Ferigozi, his own colleague and friend, falling apart somewhere in the dark. Shivering and trying desperately not to sob, his stuttered breaths the only sound in the tunnel. He couldn’t just watch that, but what would even help here? Words seemed hollow right now, he’d need to… Without a word, Askal got up, and keeping his head low he walked over to the ball of misery Vi had curled into, before sitting down and laying one enormous, webbed hand on his armored shoulder, tapping the iron with his fingernail. A familiar noise, but one to let him know he was there. He hadn’t left him behind.

After that, after seeing the mole slowly turn to face him, eyes streamed with tears, he offered a small smile, but no words. No, the silence and the darkness, so far from anything and anyone, but with two rather than one, would… hopefully help. It might be familiar enough… Minutes passed in the dark. Those quick, stuttered breaths were gone, replaced with deeper ones, quieter ones, as they sat there in an unremarkable crag, in the middle of nowhere, with a satchel full of valuable metal… Just like old times. Just like when life was looking up, because he didn’t know his partner in arms was… who he was. But that part was in the past… Askal didn’t know how to tell him that, but he wasn’t walking away. All he could do right now, while the mole found his words again, was sit with him, and be the proof of it. Eventally, the mole sighed… a long sigh, as he turned to look at the battered pebbles in front of him. His voice was exhausted, outright spent, as he finally found something to say. “...I should give you back your armor. I… can’t have you walking away like this. It’s your armor, not… mine, I just… need a moment, is all. I’ll be fine! I’ll… be fine…” Sidetracked again. The badger shook his head, and leaned in closer, using the softest voice he could. “Nah. You keep it until we can hammer something out. It’ll do ya better than it does me. And besides, I know you have my back, if anyone wanted a cut on the way out. That’s all we’ll need.” After a blink, an afterthought, and a glance into Velardi’s eyes, he blurted out, almost in a hurry: “Also we’re not leaving yet, don’t think the search’s called off. Okay, might be, but, better safe than sorry.”

Little late for that. He’d already touched enough of a nerve that the mole was rubbing his eyes again, then full-on covering them under his claws. But this time, at least, he could still answer, even offer an ironic, slightly bitter chuckle. “Ghah. Hah… D-damn it, Askal, you can’t… you can’t just keep making an old mole cry like that.” Right before the badger could open his mouth, he just raised his other claw in the air to shush him. “I know, ‘you’re not that old’, I’m aware, just… ah, damn it if I don’t feel the part sometimes. But… I suppose the little ordeal I just told you about shaved some years off my life. Some of the early ones, it’d seem…” “If it’s any consolation, at least from where I’m standing”, Askalim replied, leaning back against the wall to stretch his legs, “being in this whole… thing, in Zee’s little enterprise? One of the good things about this all is, something like that ain’t gonna happen again. Not at that level. She’s not gonna throw me out into the cold, I’m sure of that at least… And she ain’t about to strand you in some mudhole and leave you behind.” Then, he considered the unthinkable, just in case, and finished: “I’ll wring her neck myself if she does, ya hear?” He waved a claw dismissively, just a little too hard. “No. No need for that, thankfully, I believe you. On all three accounts, mind you. Ah, it’s… perhaps fortunate this all happened with you, rather than her, however.” Yet the badger tilted his head, almost absentmindedly, rather than nod. “What do you mean by that?” Vi took a few moments to piece together his reply. “I… mm, I’m not dismissing her at all, mind you, but… Zi-Zi’s not a woman of war, not in the least. She’s bled for us, but I feel… you understand the field a little better, and thus… get, this whole incident a little more. And she’s thought me unbreakable, too…” This time, it was Askal’s turn for a dismissive wave. “Pah, she’d get it. If anything, she might’ve known the right words earlier than I did. Never been good at this whole… thing. Never really had to, at least.”

Velardi had no reply for that, other than a glance, and the first genuine smile he had to offer since he came in… maybe, just maybe, he’d been good enough this time. …right before a yawn, and a slump. The mole was looking just a little dour again. “...that… took more out of me than I thought. But then again, I never… thought about it. I tried not to, for… all these years. But I suppose that would only work for so long.” The badger shook his head. “Never mind that, Vi. You needed that, I could tell. Maybe that scar of yours will ache a little less now, I’m hoping as much.” And once the smile was back, he took a moment to stand up, and move closer to the exit, with his back against a boulder, one hand over the spot where his axe had been. “Though, you know what? If you’re tired, since we’re gonna be here a while, how about you lay down for a bit? I’ll keep guard. They shouldn’t come in here, but I’ll have ya on your feet the moment I hear anything.” With a quick look into their shared bag, he tossed an old, ragged blanket over at the mole, letting him catch it. “How’s that sound?” Velardi caught it, glancing at it, then at Askalim, almost in disbelief. “B-but… wouldn’t you need one? You wrestled that metal beast in the train, I hardly-” He was shushed by one great, webbed finger pushed gently against his snout. “Nope”, Askal said, grabbing the blanket and tossing it over him, “that was just business as usual for us. That needs a breather, what you need is some rest.”

Then, a chuckle from beneath the fabric, one far less bitter than the rest. “Alright, very well, if you insist, Sergeant. Just… please do wake me up if anything happens. I’d rather you not go off alone. May as well be of better use than I just was. And besides, I am the one with the armor, since you insist on that too.” With a few movements, he curled up right underneath, with metal scraping against stone until he was presumably comfortable… “I dunno how how do that, I never could. But then again, suppose it’s more comfortable like that for ya.” Askal shook his head, suppressing a little laugh himself. ‘Maybe one day’, he thought, ‘he might not need a ton of steel around him just to catch a nap’. And so, he sat back, keeping his ears peeled for any sounds that weren’t the flowing water outside, or the soft snoring and turning of the mole once he finally slept. Thinking about today… it felt successful, in a way. They got what they came for, but, when he thought about it, looking at the mole… They say there’s a story behind every scar, but rarely do they have a still-bleeding wound right underneath. One Velardi had just refused to treat, refused to even acknowledge, as he went from job to job, task to task. He hid it well, like any veteran would, hiding their true wounds just to make sure the new recruits wouldn’t be terrified. Hid it so well he outright forgot about it, also like some veterans he knew… Right up until they tore open once more, reminding them and everyone else that they were still there. Maybe, just maybe, this bleeding had finally stopped.

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Far away, on the other side of the Subterraneum, deep into the foggy heartland of the Kingdom, a squire of the Knights Excavant curiously peered into the open door of an old office. Knight Lord Torrialde of Torcasia was there, in full ceremonial armor, surrounded by the trophies of his work: Maps of mines he’d prospected for, statues made from the ingots they’d found in there, gems he’d found and handed raw, and received polished, and the occasional skull of those that’d tried to stop him. All par for the course. What seemed far stranger at a glance was the medal held between his claws, rolled around and inspected from every angle by the Knight Lord’s narrowed eye. A Knight-Captain’s medal. She’d been told Lord Torrialde had a piercing gaze, and an expression as impassive as raw granite, but right now he looked… pensive. Lost in thought, examining it almost as if he saw right past the thing, and into another place entirely. He wasn’t even admiring it, all she saw was intrigue, as if he was looking for answers in it. But the medal looked… old, its ribbons worn and bleached by time. Why was he holding it? Torrialde had long passed that rank, and he still had his own medal with him – for some odd reason – so why was he playing around with this trinket? The Lord’s eye shifted, and glared at the squire in the hall. Suddenly his gaze went past piercing, and became outright venomous, as if he briefly tried to strike her down on the spot. The medal was set down quickly, just a little too quickly, as he turned to fully stare her down. “Move. Along.” The Squire saluted, and left, outright fleeing down to where she should be, as if she thought his gaze would chase her. She had questions, but she was fully aware she might never get her answers. But even now, with that quick glance into this very private, ever-evasive Knight Lord, she had to ask herself if he would find any answers himself.

[yutzen]

if you have OCD that moralistic post it not about you. keep scrolling. i love you

[yutzen]

the way sesame street, a pbs puppet show for literal babies, is pressing on with pride content despite vitriolic monsters descending on every post to insinuate they're pedophiles or demons while some of the biggest companies on the planet who could swim in olympic swimming pools of money like scrooge mcduck on steroids buckle and cave just emphasizes how completely and utterly pathetic these corporations are. they'd butcher a baby if it meant saving a penny.

[yutzen]

Most Greek warriors: Conquest, glory, spoils, status.

Odysseus: