the channeling

[groundrules]

THE CHANNELING

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WEALTH WHISPERS

Assignment: the Merchant fears that Matthias, alleged father of the undead Brotherhood, might be the ‘merchant’ who was due to receive dark water-infused grains by sea from the Hand. Chasing information, the Merchant routes party members towards the docks-side underworld district of Tibras, in the outskirts of Ephes. The Hand keeps grain warehouses nearby.

In Tibras, short and decayed houses are like parasitic growths toppling each other, plaster peels falling into rivulets of bloodshed. Tension thrives. Petrified, natives overwhelmingly number beggars, pleasure workers, crude bounty hunters and thieves, who look to cut throats or purse strings. Occasional bodies drift by the docks.

■ Just outside of Tibras is the abode of the merchants’ syndicate — a ring of warehouses, private clubs and houses of currency. Merchants here are protected via steep fees and travel freely. Inside the syndicate house, doorways are barred by inextinguishable living fire — which you can cross unharmed, if you rearrange the runes marked N, W, S, E on a nearby wall in a cardinal-point formation. You can also pretend to be a servant, a merchant or quality inspector to get to the Hand warehouses. Ask a clue.

Alternatively, the Merchant forewarns that a notable guest will join the syndicate for three nights: Captain Maximilian Hawk of the Dawn’s Reach Trade Company, which deals in magical artefacts. Hold him at knifepoint, seduce him, do your worst for knowledge!

■ By the entrance to Tibras is the shop of Apollonius, noted collector of supernatural artefacts and information broker. Crafty and sly, he will cooperate, in exchange for a pair of ‘eyes’ from the ghost Tykhe, who haunts the nearby anonymous burial grounds. Come midnight, Tykhe’s spirit — whose sight was gouged — appears and picks out and bewitches a pair of marbles, buttons or stones to act as her ‘eyes.’ With them in hand, she searches the graveyard for her dead sister, Cassandra. You can steal the orbs, or she’ll give them freely, if you escort her from tomb to tomb to reunite with the mute ghost of Cassandra. Return to Apollonius.

■ Deeper within Tibras is a gambling nest of sailors who were cursed by a scorned sea witch to assume the appearance of sea creatures. Led by the giant octopus Crassus, they charge protection fees from commercial merchant ships and even intimidate pirates, gleaning information from sailors and recovering drowned bodies. This illustrious group adores games of chance — as long as you can cover your losses.

You can decide or RNG how many tries it takes for your character to win — submit a finished thread to get a question! The higher the stakes, the better the information.

— a scantly informed junior goldfish throws dice. Lose, and you must share a highly embarrassing secret.

— a moderately informed catfish, offering Baccarat. Lose, and he steals your good luck for 24 hours.

— a composed, well-informed whale plays roulette. Lose, and you must share one of your most precious memories.

— a highly-knowledgeable shark, Aurelius Longus, plays a mean hand of poker. Lose, and he asks blood or a pledge to save his life one day.

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THE FLOORS

Senate leader Caius Justus exits his seclusion, ending weeks of prayer to convey the message of Ephes’ divine patron, the Chained God of chaos. And he says in a public speech:

Friends, Ephesians, countrymen…

”Friends, Ephesians, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to speak for the Chained Father, not to praise him. The victory men reap lives after them; but cowardice is often buried with their bones. So let it be with Ephes. The noble Senate tells you, the Chained Father wishes only Ephes’ destruction. If it were so, it is a grievous fault, and grievously has the Father answered for it. Here, under leave of Messalina and the Senate – for Messalina is an honourable speaker; so they are all, all honourable speakers – come I to speak of the Chained Father’s wishes. He was my maker, faithful and just to us: but Messalina says, turn away from him. And Messalina is an honourable speaker. He has brought many territories under the heel of Ephes. In his name did the Hand rise: did this in the Chained Father seem unworthy? When now you weep asking empire, the Chained Father answers: tells you to be made of sterner stuff. Yet Messalina says the Father is unworthy. And Messalina is an honourable speaker. You all did see that I withdrew to his temple, where he spoke to me: Ephes, seize your path alone — was that unworthy? Yet Messalina says to turn away from him. And sure, Messalina is an honourable speak. I speak not to disprove what Messalina spoke, but here I am to speak what I do know: you are all children of Chaos, not without cause. What cause withholds you, then, to use the Hand yourselves? O, ambition! You have fled to brutish citadels. And men have lost their courage. Bear with me: my heart is in the temple, there with the Chained God, and I must pause and beg the Senate to vote against Messalina, til it comes back to me. ”

Returning to public life, Caius Justus advises the Senate to refuse Messalina’s proposal, but defers to a vote. Citing recent civil unrest, he imposes citadel-wide 10 p.m. curfews, bans congregations of more than eight people in the streets and sends the Hand to confiscate any visible weapons and to quiet or pre-empt unrest. Hand members — forced to present in large numbers — appear erratic, prone to violent outbursts and to taking out their anger on civilians. Hand leader Narula is excessively smug.

Newscasters are careful with their words, speeches decrying Messalina abound, and senators are‘escorted’ by Hand delegations, also for their protection. Caius Justus announces he will run again for Senate leadership — to begrudged murmurs among Senators, given his previous pledge to retire.

Assignment: lure Senators toward the position that the party supports. After Caius Justus’ return:

■ 51 Senators back Caius Justus to refuse Messalina’s proposal.

■ Maximus Faustus convinces 53 Senators to accept Messalina’s proposal

■ Caelius Silvanus persuades 47 Senators to vote to postpone a decision on Messalina’s proposal for another season.

Following the party’s previous interventions, Senators are open to considering Messalina’s cause. Many are skittish, fearing their careers or lives will end with disobeying Caius Justus. Optionally, party members previously assigned a political role might receive threats from Caius Justus’ supporters.

■ Persuade, bribe, threaten or blackmail a minor Senator to switch votes. Perhaps you can offer coin or rally supporters in the marketplace for their next election, or heal their donkey or get rid of that pesky boy mooning after their daughter. Or maybe prove their corruption streak, or place a polite knife at their throats. Hold the whole Senate floor hostage, if you want, of blockade Senators from entering the Senate on voting day!

■ Ask for a RNGed Senator if you want or submit threads of swaying votes. A final tally will be taken on 19 November

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INCENSE

Priests of the Chained God whisper that the god shows signs of awakening to trigger an apocalypse. Chained and warded twelve times to prevent the end of the world, the Chained God allegedly rests in the Halls of the Sleeper, in the underground belly of his main temple in Ephes. Above ground, the temple is silent, rife with milling priests, hummed prayers and cloying hallucinogenic incense that encourages lethargy. Access is unrestricted, but monitored.

To progress downstairs, you may need to convince guards that you are one of the groups of ferociously devout pilgrim worshippers, or a priest. Below, you feel overcome by creeping, paralysing dread.

■ You are haunted by sinister, saccharine voices murmuring intrusive thoughts only you hear, diminishing your worth and paranoically asking if your companion means you harm. You are more irritable and prone to violence.

■ The halls increasingly resemble narrow subterranean corridors with limited and overheated air reserves. You reach locked stone gates, covered in loose chains and crudely carved with the inscription, the Sleeper awakes. Instructions state the Chained God demands sacrifice and proof of chaos.

■ To enter the Sleeper’s Hall, instructions say, you must commit an act of betrayal, by: drawing your companion’s blood and smearing it over the inscription (lean into the corruption!), which prevents them from entering the halls with you; or chaining them to the door with the gate shackles, condemning them to watch as you enter; or pushing your companion away, verbally eviscerating or attacking them until they flee. With player approval, your character could get a sense of what theirs is emotionally or physically vulnerable to, then exploit it. Acts of betrayal cannot be faked.

■ The Sleeper’s Hall is narrow, nearly spherical and lit by thin rivers of flowing magma that cross cracked floors. Amid swelter, you hear the periodic gulps and quakes of stone trembling around you. The supernaturally sensitive feel the presence of great, if constrained power.

■ The black water previously associated with the undead also gushes from rifts in the ground. It has a cold, sinister aura.

■ Search the room for clues — and leave urgently, before corruption consumes you.

■ Towards the middle of the room is a large, nebulously shaped creature, fully fettered and covered in magical wards, chains and blood-painted runes. Anyone in the Chained God’s presence may feel overcome by emotional or physical agony, claustrophobia and bloodlust — but the divinity only speaks with the RNG winner.

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NOTES:

■ Some players have asked about potentially stabbing ousting Caius Justus and Narula in a coup — everyone can plot and participate in that, and a plotting post will go up on 16 November.

■ NPC inbox, if you need anyone!

■ QUESTIONS

Comments

[recklessenough]

[ Lan Wangji had the right read on the situation. Lockwood wouldn't know what to do if an adult expressed parental feelings in his direction. If anything, back home, he was the parent figure to Lucy and George, taking on the responsibility of keeping a roof over their heads, the taxes paid, and food in the cupboards.

Burial grounds never failed to feel like 'enemy territory' to Lockwood. Yet at the same time, he was perfectly at home in their space. He stepped with respectful grace. Despite what should have been an awkward period of youth his feet landed with a sort of tender tread that somehow always just missed walking over any of the graves laid out peacefully from their headstones.

He might battle the dead on a nightly basis, with a ferocity that could look brutal at times, but he was still respectful. Even more so since Lucy had come into their lives, with her empathy and ability to give an actual voice to the dead.

It was that respectfulness that caused Lockwood to take his time and consider his response to Lan Wangji's question. He wasn't interested in giving Tykhe a warm hug but he wasn't going to deliberately mislead her; if he could help it. After a long, deliberate pause, he gave a firm nod. ]

This way.

[ Hand on the hilt of his rapier, the youth began to move with purpose in the direction he'd originally indicated. Though the dew covered grass seemed to lay with peaceful calm, Lockwood's feet twisted and stepped in an intricate pattern as he avoided the dead glows. Some were so faded that it was possible their cause was centuries long gone; yet he still took care. ]

[starlingroad]

( So early in the morning, America was confused why she couldn't sleep. It might be the stress of the Hand, of what was happening, and what was to become of her. She wasn't facing it, not yet, though. )

( The cloth above her head makes her falter. She looks at the boy, baffled. )

Who's Clara? And my friends wouldn't take anyone's umbrella. ( No, really, she doesn't think any of them would do that. ) I'll find it for you, though.

[downswing]

( That would explain —

It is the heat, surely. Biting and stinging and raising goosebumps and blooming in his cheeks like fever. It must be so. He is well past the age of childish, naive pretences: a man does not awaken and present the moon of his gravid belly to the world. Baby Yuan was born of a mother's flesh, and the only question may have been if Wei Ying shared her bed.

Still. 'Breeding' is to be exorcised from his verbal repertoire with immediate effect.

But then, Wei Ying seeks him out like a thorned flower, thirsting for the latch. Shackling him, embracing him all over, a scent wet-metallic reeking off his body, prone. He understands, intrinsically, the game here: knows their purpose fleetingly matched. )

Why deceive with pretense of a lesser conviction?

( That which he wishes will become truth: he refuses an alternative reality. Observe: how he does not push, does not force, only walks into Wei Ying and nudges him, step by step, back and turned, ribs set for the unpleasantness of collision and grazing the door's shackles. Daring them, coaxing them out, as they writhe and start to fetter in a manner nearly organic. )

Shall I ask, first?

if this works?

[starlingroad]

( America is just as not invited. She's turned around, lost. She's not even supposed to be here, she doesn't think, but when she sees Wangji, she follows. Maybe she can learn something. )

( She's trying to learn anything, now. She had been so busy chasing maps, researching, trying to check on everyone, and while she knew there was something sour in The Hand, she hadn't looked into it, either. )

( He suggests going one way, and America shakes her head. )

See the symbols on the wall? I see them all the times for maps. They're directions. ( It's what she thinks, anyway. )

Maybe we can mess with them? They stand out.

[downswing]

( This way. So be it. They allow and confirm Lockwood as their navigator, and so far his steps lead well. The weight of the burial grounds' world lessens as they enter the part of the cemetery with a higher density of entombments. Everywhere, blank boards, denying the interred more than a date of burial.

Here, the air lightens, runs sharp and astringent, needling and cold. And as they continue, Lan Wangji asks of the moment: )

If she is... not as you remember. ( A spirit eroded, reduced. Perhaps having already shed what scant memories once bound her to her sister. At times, only an echo of a person yet lingers in the waking world, mere likeness of flesh. Little guarantees that the Cassandra they head for now will be the same one her sister wishes to encounter. ) Will you withstand it?

( The woman, for her part, seems to consider — to nod, for all Lan Wangji cannot say she does not do it in the primitive, absent-minded way of animals who perform a trick for a treat, without a competent understanding of the gestures sketched.

She says, yes. And yet, he cannot help but whisper, when takes lead with a silent roll of the acorns in her hand, as if she might see Cassandra first — when Tykhe advances forward, leaving Lan Wangji and Lockwood to their devices for a heartbeat, and he says: )

She appears docile. Yet prepare for hostilities. ( Just... in case. )

[downswing]

( Fines, pressure, extortion and an unblinking facade. Truly, they've discovered the sorcery of coaxing doors and locks open and advancing with impunity in the deepest, darkest, most private of corridors.

Where Lan Wangji, faced once more with a myriad of opportunities, calmly starts them on the first turn right — if not for navigational certainty that this is the right path, then because he hears the cooed murmurs of company to the left.

Not all of the house's occupants pose dangers. Some might be simple visitors, as they are. But few things repel Lan Wangji more than spectators. )

Do not flatter deceit. ( It dishonours them. ) We shall make penance, after.

[aprescoup]

She's one of you. ( The wooden fox mask he wears on his face is starting to show the cracks of wear and tear — a cheap make betraying itself. He nudges it pointedly up until the holes of his eyes fit just right, allowing him to stare. )

You're not from here. Don't lie to me. No one should lie to me. ( And why? )

Why are you here? Here-here. This citadel-here.

[starlingroad]

I don't have any friends named Clara.

I'm looking around. I'm supposed to make maps. So I gotta look at everything.

( It's not technically a lie, but she can't be honest now, can she. )

I'm not from here. Are you from here? Like really from here?

[weifinder]

( Backed like a recalcitrant horse, a mule, the Apple of his eye, and a stubbornness as familiar as breathing rears up, filling in the cracks as anger simmers, icing over, running cold. With the heat between them, within them, around them, copper limning the air.

His face angles in, nose nuzzled to temple, words low. The chains edge at his back, and he feels them, but the driving frustration is the man his limbs wrap around, the one as unapologetic as ever, as righteous, and irritatingly, not strictly wrong. Only Lan Zhan is new to nuance, is learning it still, and in the cauldron of the temple's bowels, in the false fixations of gods, dogs, fear driving creatures, fear driven creatures.

From mood, singing clanks of chains, all at his back, shifting under the press of Lan Zhan's bearing down.

One word, silk over steel: )

Kneel.

[nothinglikefather]

[ It's strange, but matter how many times he's dragged people into (or out of) trouble using the phrase "no time to explain", he still isn't comfortable when people do it to him.

But she is right, there isn't any time at all between her grabbing him and then the intense feeling of pressure, and then, suddenly, they're on the roof. It takes a split second, almost as long as it does to readjust his balance.]

What the bloody hell just happened?

[ Is he impressed? Despite the shock he finds that he is, actually, incredibly impressed. He'd still like an answer, but being able to just appear at the top of buildings could be very, very useful. Maybe that's what assassins do, in her world. Or maybe they have something even better. ]

rip to both of them 😭

[clavesregni]

['No' is as good an answer as any - and she assumes that Lan Wangji knows what he's talking about - so Caitlyn lays the chip she was handed down on the red square. It seems like the best way to go: an even chance of one colour or the other. Betting on a specific number seems like such a clear way to lose that she doesn't understand why anyone would bother.]

I don't understand the purpose of this game. There's no skill involved whatsoever. [It seems almost too ridiculous to be true that the only rule of the game is 'guess which square the ball will land on.' What is the appeal? Is she misunderstanding something?

She adjusts her clothes in a huff, subconsciously straightening the lines of her shirt and smoothing a few wrinkles. It only makes it more obvious that she's not a typical patron of such a sordid establishment. No one else seems to care how tidy their clothes are.]

Are you placing a bet?

[downswing]

( A trifling thing for a man who takes to obedience like death to the noose, bound inexplicably.

Wei Ying intends it a humbling. Were they other men and this a better life, he might concede it so. Instead, under the cluttered roil of the room's heated rumble, his only inconvenience is extricating Wei Ying's limbs from around himself and watching the delicacy of his soulmate's flesh against the hard wakefulness of waiting stone, and knowing it'll scratch or bruise or bleed, and it must be done (again).

Kneel. Perfect composure would demand him stricken down, legs numbed. Instead, he takes the left knee, sinks it down, and holds position, watchful and patient as he accepts Wei Ying's governance from below —

...and politely snaps a lesser, downed door chain around Wei Ying's ankle, appreciative of the access. Thank you. And the second ankle, Next. )

they had it coming 😭

[downswing]

( The game is not in skill, but in patience, in the elusive craftsmanship of one's face to betray little of surrendered advantage. It loans, he suspects, much from politics, from diplomacy. )

One does not play the table, but the opponent. ( No different than swordsmanship, only manipulative by design and therefore — as he flinches back, assuming a perfectly reasonable vantage over the table — viscerally unattractive to him. )

I lack in the graces — ( He may stop here, truly. ) Of gamble.

( Well, if he insists. But softened: ) I supervise we are satisfied with the proceedings.

( The whale, unhindered, affixes him with a beady, calculating stare, as if it thinks of taking offence to the implications against its integrity but cannot possibly summon the shamelessness to object.

And so, the creature sends the roulette to a violent spin. )

ofc!!!

[downswing]

( She directs, he turns his glance. The wall, then. The annotations. He had not considered — but then, that is not his purview, not his strength.

Better, as America suggests — to make attempt against the formations. He nods once, then timidly again, and rouses himself from where he's lingered like a cooled, thickened shadow in the corridors to face the directions, blandly. There is no hint of a game, but then — the fire crackles nearby, pallid and menacing, and he would sooner attempt wit than test the strength of his finest wards and risk America's flesh in that gamble.

The runes seem well fitted, attached. The pulsing beat of his sword's hilt, hitting the wall, dislodges a few — and he turns, skittishly, fearing to have drawn attention to their end of the corridor. Two of the runes have peeled off, N and W. S and E withhold themselves. This will take... more brute force. )

Keep watch at the corridor's end. ( Brute force isn't renown for discretion. )

[reparo]

Is that what we'll do? [She sounds amused, but her voice is down to a murmur. He is so straight-laced in so many ways, but she's seen him fight and exist - it occurs to Hermione that every such declaration Lan Wangji makes out loud in this way is less a paternal order to his charges, and more a reminder to himself.

Maybe he finds himself needing reminders of how to be a good person.

She would easily tell him that he is one of the best ones she knows, regardless of his strictness.

(And of course, the fact that he said very easily that he would adopt her as his, if papers existed. That tugs on her heartstrings everytime and makes it hard to look at him without tearing up.)

The right path forks out again, and Hermione takes a corner to the left and holds her hand out.] Hold here. I'm going to find out where the company is.

Homenum revelio.

[The wand is waved, three motes of light appearing to whiz in the direction where other people are located. Nothing, no-one on the left path.]

Shall we try this one first?

[aprescoup]

( They're too close together, beneath the charming failure of his mantle. He pulls away, but leaves the cloth over her head, for the little good it does him.

Water, slipping down, seems to drip right off him, never drenching. )

...no. ( A beat. ) But that's all right. My friend says there won't be many people from here-here long.

( For a moment, he seems to consider. Then, bitingly: )

I don't like them. What they do. They make ugly things out of people. They sa... ( He struggles, briefly, with the word. ) Sacrifice. I don't like that. Do you?

[starlingroad]

( America watches, curiously as Wangji messes with the runes. Not as simple as she thought it would be, either. )

( It seems they have brute force in abundance between them. America nods to Wangji. )

If it gets bad, I can get us out of here, quickly. I just don't want to have to start over with this.

( She heads down and peers around the corner. So far, so good. )

Keep going. It's clear.

[reparo]

[He gets a gold star for not throwing up, but she still shushes him curtly before dragging him down to kneel and most importantly duck.]

We're on the roof, not invisible, Jacob. Actually - [That's a good point. She puts out a quick Notice-Me-Not spell on both of them - still won't turn them invisible, but at least if they keep quiet, the guards down on street level won't ever look up.

Now that's sorted, she turns to him, pushing her palla off her head since it was honestly getting in the way.] I told you, magic. I'm a witch. You're clearly a criminal of some type - thief? Regardless, introductions made, now how do we get inside from the roof?"

[starlingroad]

( America puts her hands up to keep the cloth in place and frowns. ) If you tell me what your umbrella looks like, I can try to get it back for you.

( He's not from there, either. She frowns. is that what they're doing? She feels her stomach plummet. )

No, I don't like that. I don't like any of it. But I'm not sure how to stop them. ( Beat. ) Is that's what's been happening? To the people turning into, well, feral people? Zombies? What are they be sacrificing for?

[downswing]

( It is what they will do, together. His frail, inexcusable example before her righteous one. Purity of the spirit, the mind, the body — of these, at least one must be achieved with hardship that validates the feat.

Unlike Hermione's ability to summon magic for every need, at every opportunity. He would be awed, if he had not already beheld the convenience of her sorcery made explicit, time and time again. It is as if her people discovered the fount of magic and collectively determined moderation was for weaker kin. )

Have you sorcery for each moment? ( But he takes the path indicated without question, only settling at her side to fend her for the moments when they are exposed, as they path turns. )

How did the spell choose? ( Off what criterion? )

[nothinglikefather]

[ He doesn't tend to throw up much. A lifetime of jumping off tall rooftops and stabbing people through the neck gives you a strong stomach.

Anyway, she's about to explain in hopefully more detail than "magic" when she's clearly distracted, and waves her stick around some more. Again, he has no idea what she's done or how she's done it, but he's giving up on fully understanding. ]

I'm not a thief, thank you. This way.

[ He is familiar enough with warehouses from home, so he leads her silently away from the point they arrived on, towards the far end of the building, making the balancing act look easy. And yes, if he peers over the edge there's a little wooden overhang, and a primative crane to pull the barrels to a second floor. Which has a wide, unglazed opening.]

That's where we go in.

[inkfire]

Little master? [ A scoff and a glare, the madness in his gaze evident. Taxian-jun and all his betrayals hang around his shoulders like a mantle. The ground crackles but he stays firm. ] Who are you calling little master? Shouldn't a god know who he addresses?

[ Former emperor of the cultivation world. Mo Ran knows this god wouldn't know him, that despite his achievements, even his gods would have barely paid attention to him, a lowlife son of a bitch.

The vitriol is hard to contain, sometimes. ]

[inkfire]

[ His arm, in the midst of sliding off Lan Wangji's shoulders, clamps down, heavy and weighty, pulling him in closer. Obstinance rises in him, the stubbornness that kept him alive all these years and that made him a scourge of the cultivation world at the forefront now. ]

A friend, to get you into these halls. Is that how you treat everyone who assists you? Do you think you would have gotten in here with that haughty, dismissive look?

[ Why, he couldn't even pass as one of the priests with that dour look on his face.

Abruptly, as though reconsidering, he jerks his arm away and takes a step back. ] Not like I wanted to touch you. Old and dour, who would want you?

time to be a wingman

[traumatology]

Generally don't even try it.

( because he sucks at it now. in the past, it might have been a different story but now. he shakes his head and shrugs. )

What's the point of it? Gets in the way of the action, doesn't it?

[traumatology]

( while bucky isn't usually against violence, this seems like...a bad idea. and sure, maybe he's gone through with a bad idea or two in his life but this seems like the time to step in and stop it from becoming very big trouble. )

You realize you're outnumbered.

( in fact — )

We're outnumbered.