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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Sweat drips from his brow.

Gritting his teeth through the pain has gotten him nothing. The room is a blur in his eyes, able to percept no one thing in particular that would be of use, and approaching the figure in the room's center has already brought him to his knee once already.

If there is something to be gleaned here, it won't be by him. Not in this condition. The bitter taste of failure after all this settles unpleasantly into the back of his throat, but he's aware enough to know he needs to retreat. Now. While he's still able to, on his own.

The stone door is eased open with a harsh grating noise, but the chains are empty. Something cold drops into the pit of his stomach.

Then? He hears the noise from above.

Rage always simmers in Wrathion's chest, coiled, controlled but ready to overboil through his veins at any moment. The incense pulls at him, slows him, but here and now it isn't enough to stop him. Not when the hallucinogenic are doing their work too. He hears whispers, laughter.

His adrenaline is up, and Wrathion is angry.

Several of the priests descend on him, and Wrathion throws one clear across the temple. It is the Chained God's will, they insist. He is overcome by the chaos.

"Release him," he's growling. "You will let me in to see your Chained God, or you will release him."

He could rip them apart. He should rip them apart, in fact, for this insolence. For laughing at him. Wrathion's hands twist and elongate, sharpen to claws as he takes a swing at the priests.

He still feels the ache echoing in his limbs as he climbs his way through the tunnel, back to the temple's upper levels. One hand rests against the stone for balance as he ascends, until he sees what's been happening in his absence...

"Wrathion!" Anduin's voice cuts through the air, hoping to seize the Black Prince's attention before he harms anyone too grievously.

This is, perhaps, not unexpected as a result of him leaving the dragon behind. But is this the dragon acting of his own mind, or the terrible sway of the force that dwells deep below?

He doesn't hear him, at first. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, the whispers, the shouts of the priests -- and Anduin's voice is surely only a hallucination.

How could it be anything else? He saw him enter the Chained God's space, leaving him in chains. Titans only know what is happening to him.

His claws lash out, drawing blood from a priest.

"Release him!" he demands. "You will release him!"

The priests egg him on, seemingly unperturbed by the attack, their eyes wild. Take your revenge. Give in to the chaos.

He hasn't seen this fury in him for years. It's all too easy to imagine the creature he is in his place, spitting fire and beating dread wings. For a moment, he feels that creeping chill of the sound of a dozen little wings, tooth-filled maws snapping after him.

The memory of Onyxia's lair pushed aside, he finds his feet scraping against the stone floor, hauling him forward as quickly as he can given the miasma of incense and the echoing ache from below. None of it matters.

So long as he can lay a hand on his arm, draw his attention, apologize, do something before Wrathion inflicts harm that cannot be mended.

"Wrathion."

Wrathion whirls around, a snarl of rage in his expression and blood in the air. Blood on the claws of one hand.

For a second, it seems like he'll turn on Anduin too. Like he's out of control, won't even recognise him through the haze.

Then, recognition lights in his eyes.

He stumbles, dumbfounded, and stares at the priest.

"Anduin?"

Is it him? Can it be him? How? He saw him -- saw him leave, leaving him chained outside.

Abandoned. Discarded. He doesn't trust you, he never has.

His anger seems to be well back up, but there's something else in it now. A different energy to it.

"What is this?" he asks, low, hurt. "Is this a game to you, now?"

For a second, he thinks he might well strike him with those claws, in the feverish grip of the rage that's consumed him. But Anduin doesn't back away, doesn't so much as flinch.

He stares back, as remorse creeps up his throat and threatens to choke out any reconciliatory words.

It had to be real, he wants to explain.

If you're going to take it out on someone, I'm the one you're angry at.

But none of those words come out of his mouth. He just sees pain and smoldering fury in the dragon's face, and his first instinct shouldn't be to reach up and press his palm to his cheek.

It shouldn't be to feel the tension that's been strung taut between them for weeks now finally snap, and leaning forward to press his mouth against his, the air thick with smoke and blood.

But they've never gone about any of this the right way, why start now?

The hand to his face gentles his anger, makes a flicker of confusion momentarily cross Wrathion's face.

Their lips press together, and Wrathion feels his ability to stand falter.

One clawed hand grips down into Anduin's shoulder, the other slides around his waist and pulls him in tight. He doesn't know why they're kissing, here and now, and his hurt flutters anxiously. Is this a trick? A ploy by the Chained God? Has Anduin been taken from here, possessed, sent back here to seduce him?

He doesn't want to have to hurt him. Titans, he doesn't have the energy to do so. If that is what this is, then let him be seduced. Let him rain down whatever terrors the Chained God wants, if only he can be with Anduin a moment longer and be safe.

He's uncertain what he expected, but the way Wrathion grips him tightly, drags him in, says so much all without words. And this isn't any more fair of him than chaining him up down in that tunnel had been, his senses spinning as he pulls back just far enough to breathe.

As first kisses go, this is...kind of ridiculous, he has to admit.

Focus.

"We need to leave," he utters softly, now that he has the dragon's complete and utter focus. Because the priests are still watching, still ready to feed Wrathion's need to lash out and invoke the spirit of the sleeping god below, and they can't stay here. He can feel his grip on his own reason slipping with each moment.

"Wrathion. Come with me. Please."

Wrathion keeps hold of Anduin, breathing hard as he studies his face. Anduin sounds himself, but he's hardly said much.

He feels trapped by the man's gaze, as if he's gripped him with a new spell. One that leaves him struggling to breathe, dangling over an abyss of darkness.

"How do I know you're in control of yourself?"

A question he doesn't want to ask, but he does. What if he isn't? What if this chained god is using him as a tool?

It wouldn't be the first time.

"You left me."

He went inside that room, alone. Wrathion had no visibility of what happened. Now, he returns, and the first thing he does is kiss him?

It feels too close to his fantasies for him to trust easily.

"I did. I'm sorry, but I had to."

There's a pause, his eyes closing against the oppressive air here, the sweltering need to...lash out. To cause more harm than he already has, and he will not. Light help him, but he's done enough for today.

"Wrathion." There's an urgent undertone to his voice as he opens his eyes again, all but pleading.

He hasn't answered his question.

He hasn't answered the question of how he knows this is Anduin, in his right mind, asking him this. Of how he knows he isn't being lured away, so much as he longs for that. Longs for the touch of Anduin's hand, the softness of his smile.

Wrathion's eyes dart around the temple, breathing still heavy from the rush of adrenaline. One priest is still laid on the ground, a hand clutched to his side to stem bleeding. You cannot trust him, he whispers, and Wrathion thinks that sounds all too much like the whispers he heard down below --

But is it wrong?

His eyes lift to Anduin, wary.

"You will answer my questions," he presses. "No games."

Rich coming from him, he's sure, but this is important.

His shoulders sink. That's fair enough, he thinks, before his eyes flicker to the priests nearby. One still has blood oozing from a wound Wrathion had doubtlessly inflicted in his rage.

Swallowing, the priest extends a hand, closing his eyes. A warm, soothing trickle of light creeps down the wound, slowly sealing the edges of torn flesh. Maybe they won't appreciated it, in their bloody fervor...

But it's what should be done, regardless.

Wrathion's eyes drift to watch the soothing wash of healing magic, considering that. It is a reassurance, is something he would categorise as in character for the man. Is it enough to prove that he's himself? He doesn't know.

Better than nothing, perhaps.

He will betray you, the priest whispers, and Wrathion realises he isn't sure which of them he's talking to now. Both, maybe, to try and turn them against each other. It makes a shiver of unease pass over him, and he reaches to touch a hand to Anduin's arm.

"You can answer outside."

An allowance, since he's not certain he's comfortable lingering here himself.

It's enough. They need to leave this place behind, clear their heads. He nods, exhaling quietly in relief, before nodding back the way they had come.

He spares the priests another glance, wondering how long they've been here. How long they've been whispered to. Do they even remember why they came, who they were before they did? The potential answers offer nothing but disquiet as he turns, leading the way.

He follows Anduin closely, wariness still colouring his posture, blood still on his clothing and claws. The hot beat of it still anxiously hammering through his veins.

As they emerge out into the light, he finds he isn't certain what to expect. Betrayal, as the priest of the Chained God suggested? Seduction to the Chained God's cause, Anduin having given in to the whispers? A confession?

Wrathion frowns, trying to shake off the fog from the incense, and to sharpen his focus on the man in front of him.

"Anduin?" he prompts, stopping not far from the temple. They could go somewhere more private, but Wrathion isn't certain if that would mean leading himself into a trap. "What is this?"

As soon as they're clear of the incense, Anduin takes a deep breath, lifting his hands to rub over his face. When they lower, he can see Wrathion staring at him piercingly and...yes, that's fair.

"I had to leave you there. It was the only way to gain entrance to the chamber. 'Betrayal', of a sort. And it had to be convincing."

He squints, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment.

"Not that it helped. The smoke...no Not just the smoke. There was a presence in there, made it hard to think clearly. I could barely stay standing."

That does make a modicum of sense, for the whole 'proof of chaos' angle. Still, his eyes narrow.

"You decided that was the only way?"

On his own? Without talking it out?

Well, isn't this a turn around? It is, briefly, satisfying to not be the one responsible for the problem for once. Still, the satisfaction fades in favour of taking a half-step closer.

"May I?"

He reaches out, hovers a hand between them. There's no further explanation, but if Anduin consents he will feel Wrathion reach out to his mind. Gently explore it for signs of... influence. He may not be able to read his thoughts, but he can at least sense his emotional state -- and anything... unnatural in that.

"Well. I learned from the best." Dryly, but with no heat to it.

His shoulders drop again as Wrathion approaches, wondering what the next step was. Go try to recover from the experience, get some rest, figure out...well. The rest of what had just happened.

Something anxious curls in his stomach, but he nods.

"...I trust you."

Ha. He deserved that, of course, and his lips flick in wry amusement. Still, he nods in answer to the acceptance. Wrathion's hand hovers closer, fingertips moving to brush Anduin's face as his senses open and his mind reaches out. The touch isn't necessary, but...

Well. He can indulge.

"My apologies," he murmurs, "you must understand I want to be sure."

The warmth of his magic spreads out, curls its way around Anduin and seeps through him in search of his mind. It seeks him out, slowly, works through his anxiety and searches for what else he feels. There's no... lingering oppressive presence, he thinks, not beyond the after effects of the drugs. That's... a relief, but a curiosity too.

The kiss still is an answered question.

As Wrathion's fingers brush his temple, the priest's eyes close, and he opens himself to the search. He knows what it feels like to have something brush against your mind's defenses, what it's like to do the same to someone else. So it's a simple matter to just...let him in.

The confusion and heat brought about by the incense is beginning to fade, bleeding away from the edges in his mind. Guilt, however, remains. Worry. Concern, and then, tinging it all...

Affection. Constricted, long-buried, but present as it ever had been. The same affection that had blossomed years ago when they were both young, somewhat marred by the events that had passed since, but tenaciously resilient despite it all.

Wrathion studies Anduin, trying to make sense of what he feels. Emotion is only part of the picture, after all. Intention is a mystery to him, whatever Anduin Wrynn's thoughts are they remain obscured. For better or worse.

"Your mind is your own," he murmurs, fingers sliding gently around to coax strands of blond hair out of the priest's face. The dragon lingers over the touch, lightly tracing a path down behind his ear and along jaw. "You understand why I had concerns?"

The betrayal, the abandonment, then suddenly the kiss? Certainly a... chaotic series of events. Some of it can be attributed to the temple, the influence, the Chained God's influence. Can all of it?

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