westwhere | the channeling

the channeling

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

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( This Sleeper, watching, waiting, biding. What is time for a creature cursed with immortality?

Amid the swelter, his chains are as a second coat, straddling each other, burdening him down. He feels the young man's presence, the age and vintage of it. Tastes, for all he is fettered — and absorbs.

He cannot exit his own chains. It need not be done, to speak, like a quiet rumbling that resonates as crackles in the ground and words only in the thoughts of his visitor. )

I hear you... I sense you. Little... master.

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. ]

You are all little to me. Small. Delicate...

( Look, after all, at the heft of him, pulsing. The quiet menace of his fettered body. How he breathes and stretches out, and the entire microcosm of this underground dwelling stretches and folds with him. )

Welcome, welcome, little emperor. Welcome... ( Old or new, young or deteriorating, they wear the same face before the Chained God. ) I'll remember your crown... when you bow down.

Gods demand, but what do they give? This Venerable One— [ He cuts himself off abruptly, looking away. The shadow of his former self might linger, but still, Mo Ran remembers his manners. He didn't betray his fellows for just an idle observation of the god. He bows, and kneels, prostrating in front of the chained hulk of the god.

He is massive and menacing; a pity he's chained, Mo Ran would like to see him in all his glory. He'd be awe-inspiring. ]

Greetings, oh godly one.

( Is... that a chuckle? Or a rumbling? Perhaps a strange confluence of the twain, meeting violently. )

Greetings... greetings. ( And nearly purring, coaxing: ) Little emperor... what brings you to my humble home?

( So very reduced from whatever veneer of grandeur the Chained God might have presented, once upon a time, in a world where he yet laid claim to unconfined immortality? )

Come to set more... chains?

[ The ground shifts and churns, whatever the sound is, and forcibly, Mo Ran is reminded of the difference between mortal and immortal. Even chained, his power suffocates.

There is a part of him that wants that, that resents a more powerful being, and would find a way to cut him down and claim that power, or die in the process.

Luckily, this man standing before the god has a little more sense. ]

Do you need more chains? Planning on escaping soon to murder everyone who chained you?

[ It is only a little more sense. ]

( It's an animal's laughter, rumbled: far too pleased with itself, oily and trickling and savage.

The Chained God, or whatever creature was bound here before it even wore this name, is enjoying himself. )

And if I did, little emperor... could you blame me? Little emperor, what would you do to those who've wronged you?

( So much capacity for cruelty in one vessel. He senses it, oh, he feels it well. )>

Release me. I'll pay your fee.

You know what I did to those who wronged me.

[ Is that how it works? Can this god, in a world unknown, see what he'd done in the past? He knows of Taxian-jun, at least, the status of emperor that Mo Ran can no longer claim. ]

What fee do you speak of? The fee that'll be needed to free me from jail if I release you? [ There is, after all, a reason he was chained. ]

( He does not hide himself, the booming power that ripples through him and beats the walls of the claustrophobic quarter. He is, in all things, a god: all those who present before him must bow their heads or accept his majesty. )

That one. That, there. What... will it take?

[ A bargain. Mo Ran's eyes light up, even as he has to hold back a shiver, warring feelings of fear and delight playing havoc. ]

Make me the next god. [ A very Taxian-jun answer; it slips from him before he can even think, the specter of his past looming large. ] Crown me a god and I'll let you go.

( He is silent, far too silent for a thing so old, so attuned to the room, to his confines, to this strange, willy visitor.

Then, weightily: )

Release me. ( But he seems somehow startled by his own proposition, as if this were not his intent all along. ) And I shall release your flesh from mortality. I shall make it godly.

( This, then, is his covenant. )

[ The silence stretches and stretches. Mo Ran hates the silence like an itch in his bones but refrains from talking. Some of his shizun bleeds through, still.

And then, incredulous: ] Do you think I'm an idiot? Even I know what that means. You'll kill me. [ More of the emperor bleeds in, but it's still Mo Ran because he is no fool, at least in that. ]

Three questions, instead. Then I'll release you so you can do start the end of the world. [ Without waiting for a response, he asks the first one: ] What's with the undead around here?

No... no, little boy. I would wear your skin. ( Is it... laughter, next? A sound that ripples, erupts, spreads. A long and strained cackling. )

Questions... questions... who knows? Who knows? ( More of the laughter. ) What do you mean... undead? Speak plainly, little emperor. We have not all been so... free... to witness what you speak of.

( No, some have been chained in a pitiful hellhole for centuries. )

Wear my skin? Same thing as death, isn't it? I wouldn't be me. [ And Mo Ran knows that well, how it feels to be trapped in a body controlled by someone else.

After all, he did it all the time to others. ]

There are those who were dead but have returned to life and roam around. Some lady, Messalina, wants to bring peace between the living and the undead. [ He didn't really pay much attention to the politics. ] And there's this black water that's doing something to people. [ He stops to think, considering. ] You haven't been able to keep up with the politicians, have you? I was hoping someone would have dirt on them.

The dead... alive. Yes. Yes, that is the... little friend below the depths. Trying, trying, clawing its way up. It has also not been... so... free.

( But he seems continuously and unrepentantly amused, at ease with the developments. As if one creature's attempts to conquer the world matter little to its proposed destroyed.

And then, rather matter-of-factly: ) If you give it... your body... it will take it. But you won't. As you are so... particular about it.

( It appears the Chained God might be the littlest bit irritated about that. )

The dead cannot fight it off. And so, the little friend makes home in them. It takes... flesh. You understand?

[ Well, he's irritated about being taken for a fool and used only for his body. It makes him annoyed, petulant, a child with arms akimbo shouting at a god. ]

It wasn't free? So the water was trapped before but is now free. Those earthquakes in the arena, did that set it off? Or something else?

[ It's not really directed at the god, just random musing. He's intelligent enough if he forgets himself. ] It wants bodies. Oh, huh, there was like, black stuff growing on people in some other places. Is that the same thing? [ And then, realizing who he's talking to: ] Not that I expect you to know that if you aren't even aware of the undead— wait. [ Arrogance forgotten, Mo Ran stares at the god, trying to piece things together, mouthing the words the god just spoke. ]

This water. It wants flesh and bodies. It's what's making dead people undead. Do you know where it comes from?

( A moment, before the god erupts in further laughter, seeming — for all his visitor fails to — to keep count. )

Which... are your two remaining questions?

( After all, good sir, a deal is a deal. )

[ Ah, he was keeping track. Mo Ran scowls, but thinks back to his questions, quiet for a moment as he considers this. ]

Where does the water come from? What set it free?

( ...ah. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. But he does think this over, a slow and careful mulling that churns and churns and churns, until it nearly seems as if the god has withdrawn completely. As if silence might befit him. As if he has finished what young games he yet wished to play.

Then, crystalline: ) We shared a womb before, and we share a house now... but not a time. Or a place. Or a dimension. ( A light, eruptive chuckling. The god is, perhaps, too amused, too fond. ) The little brother... grew and grew... and it is greedy, and reaching out its little hands. Hoping... hoping to come out. It must have found a little crack here, another crack there. And someone to wish it... free.

[ The silence is unnerving, and Mo Ran edges back. Jiangui crackles just beneath his fingertips, the name ready on his lips. ]

Little brother. [ Okay, he can work with this. Someone wished it free, and it's been seeping out. Mo Ran isn't entirely sure what it means, but there are people here better skilled at putting these things together. ] So you don't even share a dimension. That's weird, but you're not going to explain that more, huh?

[ He had asked for two more questions. And now he's done. ] What do you want now?

I. ( Strong, booming. A voice like a presence like an earthquake. ) Wish myself free. I will be liberated. It was foretold. It is... promised.

( By this small, petty, frail creature who somehow found himself master of the god's universe. By an insignificant human, come to raise him. )

Come closer, little emperor... find the spear that pins down my chains. ( Thrust deeply, heavy and worn, in the side of the chained god's vermin-like, fettered body. )

Remove it. And with it... break my chains.

It was foretold, huh? [ That doesn't really disturb him, but the booming voice rattles his bones. ] Are you going to end the world if I set you free?

[ The god upheld his end of the bargain, and answered Mo Ran's questions. He should offer the same in return. He can see the spear, and walks closer to grasp it. It would be so easy to pull out or press in deeper.

How odd to hold the life of a god in his hands. Mo Ran's eyes flash purple, and he wavers. He should do what was promised and stay true to his word.

But this god threatens them all if he is set free. The kindness of Lan Wangji, such that it is, of his brother, the people he's talked to here. He has a duty to them that comes before upholding his end of a bargain.

And he doesn't want this god to be free. Anger still burns in him, but anger is a familiar curse to bear. Part of him wants to shove the spear further, wants to— ]

I can offer you a sort of freedom.

[ Maybe? Can a god ever truly die? The spear likely won't do much, he knows, but it's something.

He tightens his grip, pulling up, almost as though he was going to pull it from the god's side. Only to push it back down, deeper into his side, his body weight guiding him. ] Just not the freedom you want. [ He lets go then, calling forth his whip, a blaze of red in his hands. ]

( It is a fast death, rasped, groaning — quick enough that the Chained God, for all his divinity, seems to have not foreseen it. He does not thank the gesture. He does not even curse his murderer.

The sounds of the creature are less funerary than a deep, bone-rattling rustle, tectonic.

The earth moves. The chamber starts to quake and fracture, collapsing into itself.

The dark waters at first attempt to pull back and assault the falling, vermin-like body in its fetters — only to recoil when the ceiling of the room begins to crumble, locking the divine flesh in.

Its energies wither, then dial down, then disperse. So too does the presence of the dark water, both withdrawn.

As the temple begins to shatter, Mo Ran would be best suited to run. )

[ And run he does, jumping back from the withering body to hightail it out of the underground room he's in. The ground moves and the ceiling crumbles, but he's light and quick enough on his feet to dodge most of it, although some of the debris manages to hit him still.

It's a good thing the path to the entrance is straightforward enough that he doesn't have to pay attention to where he's running, and he manages not to get lost. ]

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the channeling

→ mo ran

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oh no my html fail

sparkles in demonic energy

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