westwhere | the tithe

the tithe

The Arc III finale stretches until 2 June — and it’s erupt to no good.

THE TITHE

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THIS HOUSE IS YOUR HOUSE

The Ke-Waicai believers prepare for human sacrifice rites to prevent the eruption of the Ke-Sanwon volcano. They will lead tributes to the volcanic crater, which is lidded by the grounds of a decrepit haunted temple — known as the House of Ravens.

At the heart of the temple is a trodden dais that comprises four slowly receding plates. Numerous temple columns and deteriorating walls offer overnight hiding places, but beware the flinching statues and irritable large ravens. Meat, blood or shiny offerings can distract the birds.

■ Use the three previously gained keys to infiltrate the House of Ravens at night through forest pathways revealed by the Huntress.

■ Entrants to the House of Ravens are fully or partially depowered. Their ancestral curse is immediately lifted. Their strength is pulled into the Ke-Sanwon crater, which brims with raw magical power.

■ Hide on temple grounds until dawns, when the dais plates fully open to reveal a 10-metre entryway into the volcanic crater.

■ Overnight, characters are relentlessly tempted by mirages that only they witness: the eerie voice of a loved one might coax them to commit their greatest sin, or they could repeatedly relive memories that led them to such follies.

■ Characters guilty of drunkenness and gluttony feel deathly parched, starved and drawn to a lavish spread that is constantly far out — and ends up comprising raw corn and stale water, when they finally reach it. The lustful find their companions irresistible, or trail after a delectable beauty, who dissolves when touched. The wrathful mull violence, while the envious suspect their companions possess what they most desire. The proud are contemptuously incited to prove their superiority or independence, while the slothful give in to callous indifference towards their peers.

■ The stone statues that decorate the House of Ravens retaliate once visitors succumb to their sins: smaller sculptures throw stones or throttle nearby sinners, but only move when you do not look into their eyes. Larger 4m-tall statues exit the walls and give (slow) chase, retreating after 10-15 minutes. The statues stop attacking at dawns.

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LET THERE BE BLOOD

CONTENT WARNING: BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF NPC PAIN, TRANSFORMATION

By dawns, the believers of Ke-Waicai have rallied their tributes — each crowned with wreaths of branches and crops — before the open dais. Roughly two hundred villagers attend the rites, along with eight powerful priests who use elemental magic.

■ A first sacrifice walks a long narrow plank that starts from the dais and goes a few metres into the mouth of the volcano. The plank shivers under from heat, but withstands weight.

■ During 15 minutes of exposure, the volcanic magic enshrouds the sacrifice, who painfully transforms into one of the animalistic tar creatures housed in the labyrinths of Ke-Sanwon.

■ Magically sensitive characters can feel this tribute now hosts volcanic magic, and that Ke-Sanwon’s power has slightly diminished.

■ The rites are interrupted by the significantly weaker, but wrathful Beastmaster, whose xenomorphic creatures attack the temple and seek his missing son

■ Characters should free the remaining tributes during the skirmish. They can be as nerfed as you need (if at all) during the rest of their stay in the House of Ravens.

■ The dais must stay open to access the volcano. You can take control of it and of the House by defeating the magically endowed priests, (literally) shouldering the head priest’s ancient white raven and holding its leash.

■ Pass the raven around and defend the bird’s current holder! Whoever carries the raven is often targeted by the village mob and the Beastmaster’s creatures.

■ The clashes last a few hours, until the Beastmaster and villagers exhaust their forces.

■ Diego Hargreeves, Xie Lian, Wrathion, Daenerys and Jon Snow apprehend the Beastmaster, slaying him, when he refuses to relinquish the Brotherhood. Decide who lands the killing blow. His last words: ”You’ve… seen this place. My animals… our dead… have more compassion than these living.”

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FIRE AND BRIMSTONE?

The volume of magical energy and tormented spirits inside the volcano weighs heavily on the fracturing dark water mirror that has prevented Ke-Sanwon’s eruption so far. It’s going to blow, unless you:

■ Throw more dark water in to fix the mirror fissure. You can get dark water from volcanic cracks, dried wells and creepy crop fields.

■ Use ice / cold magic and ol’ science to cool down the volcano and help the mirror heal. Or lend Moiraine and Magnus a hand as they work with cold magic, and protect them while they cast.

■ Help Wrath and Wei Wuxian exorcise the volcano’s ancient spirits. Many have lost consciousness, reduced to memory fragments and feelings of wrath, pain and resent.

■ Guide villagers to bring sea water. Anduin (on top of the dragon Wrathion) and the harpy Eda are flying in supplies. Viktor is coaxing shipments from his werewolf friends of Ke-Waiar. Large phoenixes are also up for grabs for deliveries. Ensure couriers can safely arrive and quickly discharge their water.

■ Several characters are set to each absorb some of the magical power contained within the volcano, developing aftereffects. They must walk the wobbly plank and stay exposed to the volcano magic for under 15 minutes to avoid transformation: the longer they linger, the more power they take in, feeling as if they are burning from within. Exit quickly and rest copiously after. Those who spend over 10 minutes exposed suffer intense fevers and require immediate medical assistance to cool down.

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WILL SOMEONE THINK OF THE CIVILIANS?

Beyond the House of Ravens, assist villagers who want to safeguard their possessions or evacuate by sea.

■ The gradual spread of Ke-Sanwon’s magic infects some villagers with temporary animal traits. These effects dissipate within three-four hours.

■ Characters who remain in the villages may feel more irritable and resentful, overcome by the feelings of the volcanic spirits.

■ Coordinate water and supply deliveries with those at the House of Ravens.

■ The Hok-Shinn are divided in their response: some resort to daylight robbery to secure the funds for their own safe departure; citing security, the men of Sairen unsympathetically rally commoners into designated parts of the village, often splitting apart families that then need help finding relatives; alone, Weisi’s followers keep the peace, but are frequently overwhelmed by waves of panicked villagers, thugs and animal hybrids.

■ The magical spillage overwhelms the forest fox spirits, leaving some enraged and prone to attack. Others assume the shape of beautiful wo/men and ask escort into Ke-Waihu for shelter, without disclosing their fox natures. These ethereal strangers betray their origins with cold smiles, glimpses of fleetingly sharp teeth, a fondness for chicken, and… is that an extra set of ears? No harm befalls those who bring a fox into the village, though s/he may insist on now being your lawful spouse.

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THE AFTERMATH

With the clashes and Ke-Sanwon subdued, the villagers of Ke-Waicai request back their temple keys and white raven. They lead the party to the beacon of the House of Ravens — the beautifully carved and now-closed dais above the volcano.

■ Party companion Hatisse confirms the beacon can be revived within days.

■ She warns that an eruption was prevented by depleting the volcanic magic now, but that the threat could recur within five to 10 years.

■ All character curses (ancestral or individual) are lifted, and powers return completely.

■ Spend some downtime in the villages. Ke-Waicai offers the most luxurious, but frosty accommodations, while the werewolves of Ke-Waiar are tired, but thrilled hosts. Those who suffer from lycanthropy are now experiencing fewer and fewer ‘nocturnal episodes.’

■ In Ke-Waihu, villagers have now calmed and are grateful for help with reaping the fresh harvest and watering their crops, as well flows revive. Every other night, Hok-Shinn Weisi organises a bonfire with village musicians, hearty dances, fresh bread and ale. Villagers seek to marry off their… alluring spawn to their saviours.

■ Within days, Hatisse summons the party to the activated beacon: a pool of white energy, in which one must slowly descend. Characters who were dropped or AC swept in May enter the beacon first and are presumed returned to their home worlds. Characters set for a canon update follow in — but are spat back by the portal and return within minutes.

■ Inevitably, the remaining volatile magic of the volcano disrupts the beacon and ruins the dais. Happily for you, the Merchant will soon get in touch with your next ticket east.

QUESTIONS

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Xie Yun, in all honesty, could care less how others see him at the moment. Could care less if his scent reeks to those who can detect magic. Or to whoever is inclined to be able to detect such things. He did what he had to do and would do it again, as many times as needed.

Of course, Lan Wangji is a welcome reprieve even if the other looks a bit worse for wear. They all probably do. Everyone that's helped in this endeavor probably looks far worse than when they started out. If anyone of them come out unscathed it would be somewhat of a miracle.

Despite the men groaning around them, the ones who condone such heinous things, he gives Lan Wangji a smile and bounces on the balls of his feet. The other doesn't know him the way that Zhou Fei does. No one knows him like she does. In time they would learn, playful is him being serious. Being serious is him relaxed or even merely 'fine', in a manner of speaking.

"I did what I needed to do to help. I would do it again, as many times as needed or warranted."

The only thing that he hates is the burning sensation within. Or the way that it feels like that sensation is trying to dominate and lord over his internal energy. Something that was still strengthening when he showed up in this place.

"I'll be fine."

Besides, what alternative would have been better. There were two stones that he'd used in this aspect. Some of the dark water and the burning sensation that had coursed through him when some of the volcano's magic absorbed into his skin.

What tongue does a man speak to one sundered by sickness? Where corruption sleeps, no seed of wellness triumphs. Xie Yun is fine — copacetic — in excellent form. Blink, squint, light distorted, and it's the shape of Zewu-Jun's smile, contorting truth. There is no lie, if he does not speak it. Lan Wangji wants to stab.

No lie (again). Not if he is merely complicit in the tentative, trembled-wrist sketch of a nod, if he recuses himself from the moment — if another, staggered, depleted Lan Wangji recalls cautions, then asks questions, and doles out no answers in kind. If he shudders, and he feels his skins lived in, hanging on his being by a withered thread. Cut it. He should focus, burn in his nostrils, the wash of foreign energy a long drowning. Blood and honour. His fingers feel listless, slow.

"Still yourself." There is a restlessness that follows magical submersion, the body recoiling against itself, developing a natural and crass allergy to the hot burning that now defines it. From Lan Wangji's mouth, commands of silence run frequent and wild like river water. What strength can they retain? "Rest, now."

For what will surely come later. They have learned, from Wei Ying's example. Learned that men who surrender themselves to evil know nothing of beauty thereafter, that theirs is the torture, the hate, the accusation. For all they do not necessarily partake of corruption — it does not leave them be.

The smile never once leaves Xie Yun's lips nor would they. Despite what he'd done he was in a good mood. Or, perhaps a mood befitting of someone hiding emotions. Not that others would pick up on that. He was not their brother or significant other to read that well into. Perhaps, in time, there would be those that would be able to read into him as well as Zhou Fei or his own brother, Chen Zichen. Though, Zichen still couldn't fully read all of him. The boy was young and would learn, eventually.

When he's told to still himself, however, he does raise a brow at the other. Xie Yun had never been one for standing idle. For standing still. That? It's one thing that he hated being. The only time that he was still, honestly, was if he were up in a tree and playing his xiao. Otherwise? Standing still or being idle did not truly work for him.

Rest, the other says. "There's no time for rest." What time did they truly have for such a thing? It wouldn't stop the force within himself from fighting with his internal energy. It wouldn't stop the burning sensation against his skin, inside or out. What use would resting be? Or, if he was to rest it would be away from the volcano and up in a tree.

"No time for burial," he counters, and it's a crass thing, bile. Decades long gone, and his bones remember, the wet-weary aches of taking shovel in hand, of applying himself to damp soil, filth and stone, to carve out resting chambers deep in Wen land. War is a cruel thing, absent the elegance of formality, of rites abided. They spared no time for entombment, for final partings, for death forms when the Sun yet needed Shot.

Now, they cannot promise better. Cut near Wangji's own size, Xie Yun would want half a shi's work. More, if volcanic rock has mattified in thick layers and hardened, if what sleeps beneath Wangji's feet is a sedimentary carcass accrued over years and decades and centuries of addition. There is an element of pragmatism that turns his mouth sour, his thoughts to calculation. We cannot afford to set you to your peace.

They want for instrument past claws, besides.

"Sit," he hisses and expends enough granules of authority that the plea tortures itself into a command, takes fresh garments of entreaty. "Better rested now, of use thereafter."

There is, unfortunately, never time for burial during a war. That? Xie Yun knows first hand. He'd been part of a battle at a young age and left for dead. Only problem with that is that he hadn't been as dead as they thought. So, he knows that there's no time to bury the dead. To give them a bit of peace that they should have been given. Something that would have to wait until the day was done and everything set to rights. Assuming that anything is set right after all of this.

The bit of command that escapes reminds him of General Wen, not that it ever worked on him. Royalty was, at times, hard to command. It would work better on Chen Zichen than it would him. However, he does eventually sit down. Sitting down also has him pulling out his small wooden xiao, something to do with his hands. He's not one who is good for sitting still too long.

"How are you fairing?"

Avid. Breathless. Torn. Unmoored. The soot of his silks braided with the soot of his existence, debris of what must, should have been. Tired. He feels within each of his pores an oversaturation of exhaustion that breaks the lines of his back like damp rotten wood. Another moment, if he withstands it — another moment, if he breathes and bears, he will survive.

There is a lesson in this, flood as the sum of pittance droplets, of castaway rain, of moments. Water kills. He is — fluid.

But children need not be savaged by the truths of adulthood, and there is an innocence
to Xie Yun's face that speaks of stubborn boyhood. Something of whimsy that Sizhui was ever too war-bound to develop.

He does not join Xie Yun down — extends his sword to kiss the edge of the xiao, less to damage the instrument than to question its presence. "You choose your hour of play poorly."

A battle yet to fight, bustling in the distance. Rest, but do not celebrate. "Unless you sing to the dead."

There was a lot that there was not time for, war did that to a person. To the surrounding areas around them. Time was a fickle thing and could stop or start at any moment. Something that he tried not to think about, nor did he want to.

If he knew that Lan Wangji thought he'd had a stubborn boyhood then he wouldn't be wrong. Being raided by immortal Taoist priests of Penglai could cause something of the sort. However, he does raise a brow when Bichen's edge touches his xiao. Funny how the other was the only one brave enough to do that, no one touched his xiao.

"You assume that I intended to play," Xie Yun points out. When, in all honesty, he needed something to do with his hands. "Though, I could play for the dead." Even come up with a story for them.

Impatience teases the edges of his awareness, sharpens his tongue serpentine, his gaze steeled. They sit at the edge of chaos descended, the feverish madness of conflict unfurling. Blades meet with squeaks and screeches and scratches, at distance.

There is a restlessness in him that begs the string of his attention taut, that calls his hand to Bichen's hilt, drifts his eye back to the honey-drenched susurrus of the crowd. Bleeding, metal in his nostrils. Sharp, rusting edges.

Rest, he bade earlier. Xie Yun does not beg Lan Wangji's company, but all the same requires it — nominally, if not in the truth of his deceptive, mellowed futility. Never assume incompetence without cause. "What other purpose?"

Musical instruments are crafted for song.

The emperor is not one to beg anyone's company. He would rather fend for himself than to beg anyone's company. If it is freely given, however, then he will take it. Even in all of this craziness around them. It was good to have a familiar face close, that it was Lan Wangji was even better. He knows that the other is a warrior. Not meant for wire walk but that didn't mean he wasn't meant for other things.

What other purpose did he have for pulling out his xiao? Did one truly need a purpose? To keep from going crazy, perhaps. To keep themselves grounded in the moment. So as not to think about the destruction around them.

"Something to do with my hands," he tells him. That's what he goes with instead. It wasn't a lie. Unless he was to rest and be still, something he did not do. Even his leg bounces slightly as he sits. Though, give him a piece of wood and he would whittle instead, movements precise and the instrument put away.

Or, he could play for the dead. It didn't matter to him.

Restlessness is fire, excess of yang. A metallic, acrid and unstable quality in the character, discordant from the natural whimsy of surplus yin. If the medical balances are to be trusted, then this is not the mercurial fluidity of flimsy mind breezily undecided, but the devouring starvation of a will that consumes itself.

He thinks, there are better times than the here, the now, the cascade of soot and the meowled susurration of chaotic moans beside them to question what prickles a man's fingers to squirming, to itch, to something to do. And yet, he too much find an occupation that is not Bichen slipped into viscera like a flinched snake, discovering her water-born home.

"Some assist deliveries of water. Others cool." Through processes and inclinations to which Lan Wangji lacks a natural affinity, but that he can distantly contort himself to understand. 'Magic' is a loose concept, thread and wire unfurling. He feels the cloth of his knowledge threadbare, true and complete command of the arts elusive like midnight stars.

Still, they can are both sufficiently young, capable. If not possessed of skill with the sword, for he has yet to see Xie Yun progress on a battlefield, then expedient. "Assist them."

Make use of yourself, boy.

The bamboo flute is twisted and twirled slightly as he rests where he is. Though, his eyes roam the area around them as others move around. Some of them had gone into the volcano and others hadn't. Everyone had done something completely different. Though, he does give Lan Wangji a half smile.

"Make up my mind, Lan Wangji. Am I resting or assisting them?" The question was more rhetorical than anything, especially when he hadn't wanted to sit and rest to begin with.

He, himself, may not use a sword but he's good with martial arts. Puts his internal energy to use. Something that others who fought against them would not like, if it came down to it. He does, however, hop up to his feet despite the energies inside himself still warring and placing the bamboo flute back in its place.

"It'll give us something to do." Something other than sitting down and resting.

"You are —" Confronted with the storm of Lan Wangji's own confusion, the absence of pure strategy a deterrent whenever they must work in formation. They require a general, a conductor, a voice of reason. Too many strong tempers clash and burn, and what remains behind them? Ashes, to which they all return, underfoot and crowding the air, and he feels the fire of them in his bones, feels the slow churning. What is man if not the sum of his growth and the subtraction of his erosions?

He wants, more than anything, to calm himself. His mind, a heavy roil, like beads and marbles knocking. Chipped. His hand steadies on Bichen, and he knows the waste of him here, safekeeping a boy who has acquiesced to rest like a child accepts his nightly slumber. Urgency turns base instinct to squalor.

"Play well." While Lan Wangji paces, an animal circling the mountain corridors within steps' distance of the young man he watches.

When he'd told Lan Wangji to make up his mind it had been rhetorical, nothing overly serious. If the other took it as the words were meant then he wouldn't blame him for thinking they were true. Then again, it was normally said that if he was being playful then he was being serious. So, he merely listens and watches.

Lan Wangji, for all intents and purposes, reminds him of a bowstring that's about to snap. Something that was pulled far too taut and fraying at the edges. Then again, anyone would be fraying at the edges in the situation that they were in. So, when the other paces like a caged lion he gives a bit of a hum, more to himself than anything.

Sitting back down, he pulls out his xiao and starts playing. Back home? He is known for writing songs and stories. Of telling tales of adventures that had happened. Which means that when he plays he makes it fit the scene. Or, rather fit for the scene. Something strong and smooth. Nothing that would haunt anyone in their sleep, but be something they could take with them and hum happily through the night.

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