You make your way down the hill and through the sparse woods at its foot. Your keen sense of direction guides you unerringly to your charge: the disparate group of survivors you pulled from the last otherworld to this one. A cursory headcount shows that most of the ‘folk made it through, maybe four in five or better. Not too bad, compared to your earlier, more clumsy hops. You felt reassured knowing that your skill and control over your powers only grew finer, despite the sapping influence of the Vice. Though you wouldn't dare say so in earshot of the grieving commonfolk surrounding you. They walk to and fro, preparing themselves for the march ahead, dispirited yet spurred on by looming annihilation. Seldom few stop as they pass you, holding their hands one over the other while curling their fingers. A small show of faith you’re all too familiar with. In your years spent at the abbey, every conversation started and ended with the huddled light. The gesture has since faded from popular use. You couldn’t blame them, of course. You couldn’t remember when you yourself stopped reciprocating the gesture. It wasn’t a conscious choice. So many of your old habits and mannerisms fell away over the last few years. Piece by piece, Dim Palmfast was broken down and replaced by the hopper and the shepherd.

“Sir Palmfast! Sir Palmfast!” a familiar voice calls out over the subdued murmurs of the crowd. “Good to see you so soon, I nearly sent some men off to find you.” Lars Lurenson jogs up beside you, matching your pace. His thin arms cross over one another, pinning a smattering of papers close to his chest. The man's baggy eyes and creased face contrast with his slight smile. He was a man of sums and tallies, an indispensable asset when managing so many wayward ‘folk and their needs. “As always, we’re terribly pressed for time, so I’ll keep this short.” His eyes darted from his armful of documents to you, then to the crowd, then back to his papers. A tightly wound sort for sure, but ever punctual and concise, just as you preferred. “As usual, all the mages made it thorough, so Lillian would like to speak. Chern Du is fussing over all the ‘folk, so some words would help her out. Turl and Vonus are both… debating over the proper allocation of battle-ready men. And, uh, Eidus—the queen of the moski bug-people needs some convincing to stay with the pack. We’re only so far ahead of the Vice, so you’ll only be able to speak to a couple of them.”

>>Vote for up to two

>Lillian won’t stand to wait, I’ll see her first.
>Chern Du looks after the most people, I should check on her.
>Turl and Vonus? Fighting? Not surprised, but I’ll see to it.
>The moski queen is odd, but a follower all the same. I’ll assuage her concerns.

>>6028805
>The moski queen is odd, but a follower all the same. I’ll assuage her concerns.

>Turl and Vonus? Fighting? Not surprised, but I’ll see to it.

>>6028807
+1

>>6028805
>>Turl and Vonus? Fighting? Not surprised, but I’ll see to it.
>>The moski queen is odd, but a follower all the same. I’ll assuage her concerns.

Scanning the crowds of the ‘van, you note a distinct absence of the towering centipede-like moski. Concerned that their strength would be gone with their queen’s arbitrary wishes, you think it prudent to lend your ear to Eidus first.

“Lars, see to Lillian and Chern Du and give them what assurances you can. I’m heading to the queen's den before she does anything rash, then I’m going to see what’s got the warriors quarreling this time. Wish me luck.” You catch a distraught look in Lurenson’s eyes before walking off towards the queen.

“B-but Sir, Lillian has petitioned for your talents alone! I’m not certain what I could possibly offer.”

“Ah, so you would rather speak to the queen of the moski then?” you toss back with a wry smile. Lars stifles a reply, perhaps seriously weighing the two options for a moment before shuffling off to the mage camp. Lillian never liked to wait in line, but it would be interesting to see if timid Lars could calm her some.

While passing through the camp, you throw some nods to the crowds of commoners. Your mere presence would keep their hopes higher than any sort of promise or consolation you mustered. Still, with every passing, ragged face you feel your heart ache ever so slightly. Truly, you’d hopped and lost hundreds of similar ‘folk over the last several years, but something curious stirs inside of you. You think back to the quiet hill, a remote sense of resolve swelling in your chest despite the years of attrition. A new otherworld… a new chance.

Soon, you come upon the couple dozen remaining moski firmly removed from the main body of the caravan. At first it seems like they don’t notice you, but each drone scuttles subtly to the side as you near the crowd. They give no other indication of acknowledgment, their many eyes fixed towards the center, towards their queen. They stood almost two feet taller than you, their arched, segmented bodies curving to end in a drooping pinched head covered in black, emotionless pits. Each fought with the strength of five men, but only at the behest of her majesty Queen Eidus.

As you approach, a tingling sensation of paranoia grips at the back of your mind. “Queen Eidus, I sense some form of insecurity?” you probe with a small smirk. The moski queen sat in the center of her diminished court, coiled into a heap of sheer black chitin, dozens of spindly legs folded neatly in rows along her centipede-like body, giving the impression of some finely woven fabric. She stirs, uncoiling her upper body in a well practiced flourish. Two sleek antennae unfurl from the queen’s head, her mandibles twitching as her near hundred beady black eyes stare you down. Near twenty man-sized workers scuttle forward to fuss over the queen while the much larger warrior moski stay frozen in place.

“You terrible man,” the queen's manufactured voice echoes in your mind, pointed but reserved. “Are you here to bewitch me with your ape-magic again? Or perhaps those promises were the mundane lies you humans are so fond of?” The subtle sensation of paranoia shifts into a trickling fear as the drones of the court shuffle closer.

“I know you won’t sick them on me, Queen. I’m below you, remember?” you throw back, your words sweetly sarcastic. “We don’t have to play this game every time. We all grieve our losses, and there is no guarantee I can get your whole cadre hopped.” The queen bristles with an aura of bitterness.

“Do we all grieve, hopper? I’ve lost innumerable children over the years, and you’ve lost men and women, but no tears. Why is that, Dim? Do you care for them? How can I expect you to look after mine if yours are less than drones?” Her sharp words come from an uncharacteristically morose place, her regal demeanor waning with the thinning of her court. And somehow, they get to you. In some ways, her brutal words hold a degree of truth. Typically, you would buckle down, ignore the pain, and sort out the queen like anyone else: with a curt word and callous commands. But, perhaps, today would be different.

>Her words are born from paltry grief, not suited for this caravan. Tell her to shape up or ship out.
>Praise her. Appeal to her regal nature, appeal to her ‘heartfelt sentimentality.’
>Make a deal. Guarantee her lead of the caravan for a short while, to give her an illusion of control.
>Give her tears. Tell her of your many losses, trials, and heartbreak.
>Threaten her with the horrid nature of the Vice, and the nature of the humans it chases.
>Write-in.

>>6029679
>Give her tears. Tell her of your many losses, trials, and heartbreak.

You bite your lower lip, a wave of thoughts turning in your head. The queen’s harsh words ring in your mind, you had to say something meaningful, tempered with care...

Instead of looking down on the queen as a subordinate, you match her gaze (as well as you can with so few eyes). “I’ve not been honest with you, nor myself. I’ve seen many people die, good and honorable men and women, only trying to save their kin from the miserable end awaiting all that fall into the maw of the Vice. I’ve lost many, yes, but far more would have been lost without my imbued abilities– and without the capable survivors who work every moment to keep this caravan ahead of oblivion.” You draw from deep within, remembering those first troubled years and the many hundreds you struggled to lead. Those missteps, those misunderstandings. Despite your considerable power, you failed to grasp your own weakness, and many died. Despite your writ of authority, you failed to control the desperate wills of the commonfolk, and more died. Despite the righteousness of your mission, fate never submitted to your endless efforts, and still more died. A sadness wells within as the faded faces of those who relied on you emerge from your memories.

“Near a decade ago, back in the true world, I was but a stripling uplifted to extreme heights. Those willing to heed the warning of the coming end flowed from the nearby towns. So many people… the vicars and priests handed them to me in droves. On the first days of our march, I saw death up close for the first time, and the Vice hadn’t even emerged yet.” In the months leading up to your anointment, your caretakers warned you of the debased nature of the faithless. When the end came to pass, no amount of faith put one man above another. With each passing day, the horrors you saw eroded your conviction, your humanity.

“That caravan… not one man joined me in hopping to the first otherworld.” A tightness in your throat stills your words. You realize you’d never spoken of that loss out loud.

The even stare of Eidus never flattered, her reaction masked behind an inhuman face. But the bitterness and fear she projected into your mind fades as you speak. “I fight every day to correct that mistake. Each life in the ‘van, human or otherwise, falls under my protection… Each loss hurts me more than you know.” Your eyes light up with renewed resolve, a weight you hadn’t realized was there falling away. Despite that, no tears came to your eyes; your words would have to be enough.

The harsh air of grief turns, slowly, into an aura more befitting the aloof matron. “I’ve rarely heard such resolution from you, hopper. Refreshing or worrying? I’m unsure. Curious, though...” She arches her towering form lower, to meet your gaze more closely. Her many beady eyes hide a subtle cunning, and her mandibles click with indecision. “I wonder, if you're indeed so dedicated to life, how do you intend to guarantee the continued safety of my drones?”

>>[FACTION DEMAND: Cede one or more]
>Offer to move more drones to the front of the ‘van, a privileged position farther from the Vice.
>Cut the drone’s mandatory scouting and harvesting [in half/by a quarter/completely] for a week.
>Earmark drones for rear guard, in the event of a battle.
>Double the Moski’s allotted rations for a week. [‘van wide food consumption changes from even to slight deficit]
>Give no guarantees, only assure her that you will take better care in future.
>Write-in

>>6029969
>Earmark drones for rear guard, in the event of a battle.

We’re going to talk to the commanders(?) next, so hopefully they can help us decide how to work around this.

You weigh your options. The queen’s workers were invaluable as scouts and scavengers, and putting further strain on the ‘van’s food supply so early in the trek seems premature. Hoping that your earnestness bought some level of understanding from the queen, you offer a single promise.

“Your warriors have fought well to protect us, and I admit too many have fallen at my behest,” you start, motioning to the few surrounding drone soldiers. They could have been statues, motionless at your appeal. “When we find our next battle, I’ll be sure to keep your kin in reserve. They’ll be away from the pitch of the fight so long as victory is clear.” Your promise is met with silence, the queen doubtlessly waiting for more appeasement. When you match her silence, unwilling to buckle, you feel a bristling in the back of your mind.

“Oh? Is victory ever clear, hopper? Would your court stand to fight without mine ready to fall onto the spears of madmen?” the queen starts, giving what you assume is her species equivalent of a dramatic flourish. “You would grace Us with a moment's rest before forcing Us to action? Your metal-men have not faced the purgatory-damned with the zeal of moski. They fight with two minds, We’re sure you’ve noticed…”

Dim chews on the queen’s dramatic prose, hiding his frustration with further diplomacy. “We will fight as one, without the need of your drones. I will personally see to that.“

“Another empty promise?” the Queen muses.

“No. I’ll be seeing the warriors right away. You’ll see what humans are capable of soon enough.” The queen’s mandibles clatter with amusement, but you refuse to relent. “You have my guarantee, Eidus. I expect your drones to help where they can with the less dangerous tasks in the meantime.”

“You think Us idle? No, I assure you We will do our part for survival.” The queen shifts sharply, dismissing a number of still drones and workers. “We hope to see truth in your promise.” You feel the queen’s mental link sever, signaling a curt dismissal.

You return to the bulk of the ‘van. The meeting went well, you thought, despite the queen’s attitude. You only had to make one promise. One you intended to keep, so long as Turl and Vonus were able to pick up the slack…

Activity in the ‘van was certainly picking up. The commonfolk group up by family and trade, distributing what few goods they scavenged. In a group this size, food had to be constantly foraged, tools hurriedly cobbled together from the remains of the last. Every resource had to be used to its fullest extent, and so everyone pooled what they found and passed it along to the proper family. You pass by a huddled group of foragers as they fuss over herbs and shoots, stuffing a bundle into a sack and tossing it to a courier. He dashes past you, giving you a quick nod before running towards the front of the ‘van. Lurenson was likely still tied up with Lillian. No doubt she’d have plenty to say to you after she was done with him. You set that aside for now. One thing at a time…

A foreboding din spilled over the ‘van, coming from the fighter’s camp. Groups of commonfolk busied themselves with their preparations, most shying away from the commotion coming from the crowd of warriors. You alone closed the gap, marching up to the circle to get a better view of what had them so riled. Your imbued powers bolstered your frame enough to stand a foot taller than most men, even the brawny veteran warriors of the ‘van, so you had a clear view of the two men facing off in the center. The mass of warriors and militiamen stood in a wide circle around them, whooping and jeering as their leaders sized each other up. You part the wall of spectators, the wisest among them clamming up the moment they see you. Undeterred, the men in the center continue their bout.

Vonus held a firm stance at one edge of the impromptu arena, leveling a blunted blade squarely at his opponent. His feet shift ever so slightly, adjusting his stance to match his foe’s more erratic movements. Turl, on the other hand, paces back and forth in an arc centered on Vonus, shaking his head sharply every few steps, grunting and growling, eyes locked on the impassive Vonus. “Rotten thinblood,” Turl barks, face red and twisted. “What are you without your suckling thugs, eh?! What man is left in there?” His stomping and spitting gave the impression of an unchained beast, but you could see the finesse hidden beneath his bluster. With each curse, the heavily built veteran sidled ever closer, ready to lunge the moment his foe faltered. But Vonus refused to relent, any emotion further masked beneath his feathered helmet.

You lay a hand on one of the spectators’ shoulders, as if he hadn’t already noticed you. “What is it this time?” you ask flatly, eyes trained on the war leaders.

“One of Turl’s top men didn’t make it through. He openly accused Vonus of… seeing to his disappearance,” the warrior hesitated, unwilling to throw in with either side, at least not to your face. “Vonus said little in his own defense, though his commonfolk levy seized the chance to insult Turl. They say he threw six of their number to the Vice to save his own men. A few of those were Vonus’ chief pupils.” Like many of the other experienced fighters, this man likely would back Turl if things got out of hand. But the majority of those in the crowd, those ‘folk who took up whatever weapons they could muster to protect their families, owed Vonus their loyalty.

>Keep to the sidelines and let the two fight it out, hoping they don’t take things too far. They are proud men, they won’t take meddling well.
>Call out to them. Declare a duel to first blood to decide the matter. It wasn’t the most lawful solution, but it could neatly settle this matter to one party’s satisfaction.
>Enter the arena and force both combatants to stand down, demanding they settle this lawfully. Neither warriors much respected the ‘folk lawyers, but it would set a good precedent.
>Enter the arena after grabbing a nearby weapon. These two only respected strength, and so you would show them.
>>The truth of the matter was scoured from the world, all that mattered was…
>... keeping Vonus and his many militia satisfied. Judge the matter in Vonus’ favor on the spot.
>... keeping Turl and his elite warriors satisfied. Judge the matter in Turl’s favor on the spot.

>>6030778
>Call out to them. Declare a duel to first blood to decide the matter. It wasn’t the most lawful solution, but it could neatly settle this matter to one party’s satisfaction.

They may be prideful but they'll have to settle it with this before one of them gets too hurt. I would choose the lawful option, but we're going to be revealing our decision of keeping Moski troops in the rearguard soon which already going to leave a foul taste in their mouth.

You take a heavy step into the ring and raise your right hand, palm outward. The two heated fighters still their footing, finally acknowledging your presence. “This goes no further than first blood. The loser will be found guilty of willfully sabotaging the ‘van. Now, prove your case with skill!” Hardly a moment passes before the warriors and militia of the ‘van resume their chanting, reinvigorated by your permit. Even Turl’s annoyed expression turns to a menacing grin. You suspect he’s not as concerned with justice as he is interested in taking Vonus to task. If Vonus felt the same way, he certainly didn’t show it.

Emboldened, several men of the crowd retrieve equipment for their favored combatants, rushing to and from the crowd, tossing weapons and bits of armor down the line. Vonus tosses his practice blade aside, snatching a curved dirk from the air. “No leather, no bracer,” he says, his words overpowered by the crowd’s jeering. He kicks a bracer thrown his way aside and removes his padded tunic to punctuate his resolve, though he retains his plumed helm.

This is enough to wipe the grin from the much larger Turl’s face. He stops lacing a sole bracer from his right wrist and throws it aside, pounding his already bare chest with a closed fist. “Ah, so brave when the hopper comes around. Try not to bleed too quickly, cutthroat.” He tosses aside an offered boiled cap as well, unwilling to tarnish the finely styled curl of hair on his mostly shaven head. One of his loyal warriors offers him a sheathed dagger, knowing better than to throw Turl’s finest sidearm recklessly. He grasps the single-edged blade and takes a wide stance, arms wide as if he intended to grapple his opponent. He continues to shake and growl like before, approaching Vonus on a slightly curved path.

Vonus seems wise to the veteran warriors intent, never flinching at the erratic movements. He didn’t hold his ground like before. Instead sidling towards Turl, leaning into his approach. With your trained eyes, and the aid of slight precognition, you suss out each fighter's intent. Turl sought to lunge at Vonus’ weaker side and bulldoze him with overpowering strength. Strangely, that maneuver would hamper the striking range of his blade. Perhaps another trick? Vonus would soon end up in the perfect position, inviting Turl’s bold attack, feigning investment on his right, though his left foot told another story.

The two waste little time. Turl stomps and pivots, roaring while swinging his left arm with all his strength. As you intuited, Vonus’ left side wasn’t so vulnerable. He lurches forward and ducks under the heavy swing: a perfect angle to deliver a slash up the haughty fighter’s side. But Vonus doesn’t take it. Instead, he kicks the back of Turl’s knee with the speed of a jackrabbit, causing the man to stumble and trip.

To the giant’s credit, he’s able to regain control before completely losing his footing. He leans while falling and catches the ground with his right hand, but loses his blade in the process. A stillness falls over the rowdy veterans as the militia’s cheers swell. Their numbers had grown considerably in the short time since your ruling. Luckily, the crowd lost its bloodthirsty edge. Instead, they seem more sporting, the desire for revenge momentarily suppressed. Time would tell if they would stay so keen.

Vonus rights himself much more gracefully than his opponent. He takes a firm step over Turl, who struggled to rise to his feet. You only hoped Vonus would grace his opponent with a shallow cut…

A crack rings out as Vonus delivers another sharp kick, this time to Turl’s jaw. The crowd reels in confusion, their cheers falter. The ferocity of the helmed warriors strike– a square hit that would concuss most men– failed to topple the proud veteran, he refused to let the blow ground him. Turl turned to look at Vonus and, despite everything, gave him a toothy grin, arrogance dripping from his face. Of all the bluster and noise he made, this alone phased Vonus. The half-second pause bought Turl enough time to lunge like a cornered animal; his weight, twice that of the other fighter, topples Vonus readily. The spectators around you, torn between cheering and intervening, watch as the duel devolves into a graceless brawl.

Vonus struggles to escape, attempting to bring his blade to bear. It was too late for an easy victory, however. Turl grabs Vonus’ wrist and slams it to the ground, pinning his arm to the dirt. A series of halting attacks follow, Vonus unable to free his armed hand and Turl unable to strike at the man without freeing him. He resorts to headbutts, but Vonus’ helmet stays the blows of even Turl’s thick skull.

After a few more tense moments you consider halting the duel. The two bitter men overlooked victory just to spite each other. It was a mockery of your ruling, but more than that, a prolonged fight just endangered the caravan more. Both commanders bedridden, and with the moski out of the next fight…

As you consider your options, the duelists start to budge. Vonus finally manages some leverage, shifting Turl’s bulk enough to slip away. He brandishes his blade once more, turning over and striking in a wide arc, slicing just inches from Turl’s chest. In turn, the brutish fighter rears back and lunges at the much lighter man once again. They both tumble across the arena until the ever graceful Vonus manages to finally right himself. He stood above Turl, ready to commit to a final slash.

Before he could, the tense crowd erupts in fanfare. Vonus looks down at his sneering opponent, his outstretched finger drawing his eyes down. A shallow cut wept across his chest. He was defeated.

The two sides broke from the crowd to attend to their champion. One side extolled and cheered while the other lent quiet reassurances, both tending to their warmasters’ wounds. The tight-knit huddle breaks up as you approach. Vonus removes his helmet and lets the pale light of the otherworld reveal his face. The ever-stolid warmaster couldn’t hide his disappointed expression, even with his arrogant foe right beside him.

“Hopper– er, Sir Palmfast, look!” a militiaman exclaims, pointing at the grinning Turl. If the man realized blood dripped from the corners of his mouth and filled the gaps of his teeth, he made no effort to hide it. “The ruling was to first blood, yeah? It was the kick that bloodied the oaf, he’s lost the duel!”

Your gravitas stills any brewing outbursts among the fighters and militia. Conversely, the two fighters seem satisfied, both victorious in their own minds.

In the end, the duel– and this grievance– had to be settled firmly.

>Rule in favor of Vonus. Strictly speaking, he drew first blood with that second kick. The veterans will grumble, but Turl seems ready to concede.
>Rule in favor of Turl. He managed first blood in the spirit of the duel while Vonus squandered a clear advantage. The militiamen will cry foul, but Vonus seems ready to admit defeat.
>Declare both men victors and repeal the sentence. This overture should appeal to the fighters, militia, and the commonfolk at large, but will injure the pride of both leaders who’ll surely continue their feud.
>Reproach both warmasters for disrespecting the terms of the duel. Assure them that this will be the last time they abuse legal matters to act out their vendettas. This public scolding won’t be popular with either side, but it will grant you leverage over both leaders.

>>6031213
>Rule in favor of Turl. He managed first blood in the spirit of the duel while Vonus squandered a clear advantage. The militiamen will cry foul, but Vonus seems ready to admit defeat.

>>6031213
>>Reproach both warmasters for disrespecting the terms of the duel. Assure them that this will be the last time they abuse legal matters to act out their vendettas. This public scolding won’t be popular with either side, but it will grant you leverage over both leaders.

Rollin, update tonight

Rolled 1 (1d2)

Er, rollin?

You extend your hand to Turl. Surprise flashes over his face, though only for a moment. You pull the giant warrior to his feet and his boastful grin returns with gusto. He and his warriors let out a few sharp cheers in unison, galvanized by victory in the arena as well as in the eyes of the law. The sour looking militia chokes back their appeal, they know your decisions are unimpeachable. A bitter serving, certainly, though their crestfallen warmaster didn’t seem so phased. Vonus rises and gives the victor a final even stare before turning to you.

“I accept my defeat, hopper. Sentence me.” It was rare to see the man without his helm. With how often he wore the thing, you’d think he bore some terrible deformity. Really, he looked quite plain, aside from a series of faded scars along the side of his face. His dark, close cut hair and rounded face contrasted with his rival’s more garish looks. Turl clearly took pride in his appearance, his finely styled tuft of hair oiled and curled atop his mostly bare head, combed chops lining the sides of his firm jaw. He glows in his victory and vindication as the plain Vonus awaits your words.

“Vonus, your actions have threatened the safety of this caravan, you’ve undermined our strength. You’ve lost sight of your most important duty, the sacred mission we share– all of us,” you gesture to the combat ready men of the crowd. “To protect the ‘van. To preserve humanity. Our mission is absolute, and you’ve let your pride overshadow it.” Vonus’ blank expression didn’t falter. Your words were more aimed at the crowd anyway. To you, the mission was ever-present, nothing came before it. To some degree, you begrudge the warmasters and their doting men, who would put their own ambitions ahead of the ‘van so quickly. Though as you continue, you start to wonder: is it resentment you feel, or envy?

“For the safety of the ‘van, I must cut your autonomy until you regain perspective.” A rumbling rolls over the crowd. “You will remain captain of the militia, but Turl will oversee all war matters, a man of his choosing will act as liaison between veteran and levy. Additionally, your indulgences will be cut and redistributed.” The militia bristles, but holds back any outburst. They wait for their leader to refuse, eager to argue alongside him. But Vonus did nothing but nod. He walks off, drops of blood trailing behind.

The gathering of men disperses. The ‘van would move out soon; everything in the camp had to be broken down, packed, and tallied, or be left behind. And so the militia returned to their families and the veterans got to work on the war camp.

Turl leans on an empty weapon rack, waving off a man as he comes to break it down. You take a weary look at his right knee. “Don’t worry about me,” he declares as he grabs his jaw and pulls, a low crack punctuating his words. He spits out a glob of bloody phlegm before continuing, “Justice is the best medicine!”

“The auxil mages can save their herbs, then? Supplies are thin anyway,” you prod, arms crossed.

“Aye,” Turl laughs, pained by the effort. “But as for Vonus? You should send them anyway, he’s a brittle sort.” You look the hunched, bloodied man over, recalling how few injuries his foe left with. Better not to comment, you conclude.

“This will be the last time your rivalry interferes with the ‘van,” you state, raising a halting hand before Turl can respond. “The last time. Vonus is your subordinate for now, but treat him with the respect you afford any fighting man. I’ve allowed the moski some reprieve from battle. It’s more important than ever that we shed our differences and fight as one.”

Turl’s typical smirk melts away as he chews on your words. He stands up straight and gives an unfamiliar salute, perhaps some tradition from his long lost home. “We will fight, all as one, have no doubt.”

* * *

Leaving behind the warriors and their leaders, you return to the bulk of the caravan. What pack animals remain are loaded with the most crucial supplies, but the rest would need to be hauled by hand. Ideally, the ‘van would have a head of cattle for every five ‘folk or so, but for now there was about one to eight. At least, that was Lurenson’s last count before the hop. It doesn’t bode well for the ‘vans pace, and the people's dour mood would only slow them further.

The torrent of Vice pushes unerringly, and will only grow more ferocious with time. Still, the ‘van and Vice stand many miles apart, and there is yet more time to pick up the pace. The Font waits far to the east, it’s well of power the only means of escape to the next otherworld. You hear it, so very faintly, whispering an unintelligible promise.

Snapping back, you consider what part of the ‘van to join for the day's trek.

>Remain near the center of the caravan, with the bulk of commonfolk. Your presence will surely put the ‘folk at ease, and you’ll be able to respond equally quickly to any part of the ‘van if the need arises.
>Join the rear of the ‘van near the trailing moski and magi. The Vice is quite far off, but vestiges were known to split off and charge ahead, and you’re their only true match.
>Lead the ‘van from the front with the bulk of warriors. Battle could come from any angle, certainly, but coordinating with the main force seems prudent.
>Join the scouts as they split off. You’ll be far removed from the ‘van, but scouting is the most dangerous task, they could surely use your help.

>>6032119
>Join the scouts as they split off. You’ll be far removed from the ‘van, but scouting is the most dangerous task, they could surely use your help.\

Don't know how I missed the update

With the Vice so far removed and the warriors newly resolved, you figure the caravan could handle itself for a while. As for the scouts, their fates rely more on the whims of the otherworld. They boast skill and bravery beyond most, but the patchwork, corrupted echoes of the past world wouldn’t surrender their secrets easily. And of course, with each cycle of rebirth, the overworld warped further, pieces skewing and fading as the Vice mangled reality.

You catch the cadre of scouts just ahead of the ‘van. They numbered nearly thirty, split into three groups, several moski workers idling among the humans. They exchange concerned looks as you reach the top of the hill. You couldn’t blame them. They didn’t worry so much about your interference, more what you heralded. “All’s well,” you start, quick to waive their concern. “I’d be glad to join, if you have any use for me.” This put them at ease, some grinning with renewed confidence, Erben Tol most of all.

“Surely, surely,” the lithe captain of scouts chirps, quick to draft you for his team. “Over here! I’ll give you the rundown.” He leads you over to the crest of the hill, where he nimbly jumps atop a half-buried boulder. Atop his new perch, he almost matches your augmented height. He points down the valley where lowland meets a clam river. “Aggie squad’s heading straight east to chart the ‘van’s course. Path of least resistance, shouldn’t be too many surprises out that way.” He sweeps his arm over towards a shrub-dense area a few miles off. “That’s a lucky find. Barnes’ team and most ‘a the foragers will pick that mess clean. They’ll grab some brave volunteers from the ‘folk on their way.” You glance back at the pudgy moski workers. They didn’t seem like much compared to the queen's drones, but they gathered with the speed and precision of experienced foragers.

Eagerness swells in Erben Tol’s voice as he continues. “And that over there is where we’re headed.” He points a little farther north than Aggie’s route, up some foothills into a heavily wooded area. The faded pallor of the otherworld made parsing the fine details difficult, even with your sharpened vision. The treeline didn’t look like any forest from your homeland. The trees were thick and smooth, their leaves huddled along the top meeting in a thin canopy. Certainly a curiosity, but you fail to see what had the head scout so excited. He leaned in after a moment, pulling your attention just above the treeline. Faint trails of smoke, only barely visible at this distance, snake from behind a jutting hill. “Maybe it’s a forest fire, but it looks too orderly to me,“ Erben Tol asserts as he hops down. “Could be a village, too much smoke for just one fire.”

Towns and villages were not exempt from the purgatory of the otherworld. With each new cycle, the Font reforged the remains of the true world. It’s a hasty and imperfect process, especially with the Vice so eagerly obliterating all it can. Gatherings of humans were especially enticing targets, so they became more and more rare with every cycle. If a town truly sat nestled in those strange woods, it would be a great boon to the ‘van.

“With any luck the echoes who lived there have all wandered off cliffs or some-like. With your help we can sweep it up no problem!” He waves his troop over before you can poke any holes in the idea. The prospect was promising, surely, but the echoes of lost men were terribly unpredictable. “Listen up folks, the boss here’s gonna help us check out that smoke. We can leave the criss-cross to Barnes.” His team swells with energy, tossing eager looks to one another.

“Hold on, don’t you think–” you start, Erben Tol prodding you forward.

“Nope, we’re more do-ers around here,” he smirks, throwing out some quick gestures to his fellows. They split up and fan out, the other teams splitting off with haste. “You’re the boss, boss; but out here I call the shots.” You shrug and follow suit. It’s been a while since you last ventured out on a scouting mission, so you wordlessly defer to the young expert. Even if nothing came of the trip, sizing up this new otherworld would be worth the detour.

Erben Tol, or Ben as the others called him, flits from place to place like a worker bee. First he walks alongside you, pointing out some curiosity of the faded terrain, then bolts over to the advanced group, then sweeps around to scope out the area before returning to your side. You worry the overeager lad might be wasting his energy, though if that was the case he didn’t show it. His eyes are sharp as ever, not a bit of sweat falling from his bandana-wrapped brow.

“So what made you come all the way out here? I mean besides me,” he chuckles, keeping a brisk pace to match your stride.

“It’s a new otherworld, who knows how things have changed,” you keep a wary eye on the horizon. “I figured it was best to see first hand, rather than wait and let the world crash down on the ‘van.” Your ever-weary words slide off Erben Tol, his enthusiasm unyielding.

“Well, you’ll definitely see more of the world out here. Aggie insists on the most boring route every time– uh, and for good reason, no doubt. The ‘folk of the ‘van don’t need any more excitement than they can handle. But me and my troop? We live for it.” He makes a repeated clicking sound followed by a sharp whistle, and his troop responds with an upbeat trill. Even the sole moski worker makes an attempt, to your surprise.

> [The Shepherd] ”Can you blame them? The otherworld grows more hostile by the day. If anything, I find theirs and Aggie’s caution commendable. You’d do well to appreciate what their care has built.
> [The Hopper] “If you’re eager to embrace the danger, by all means stay the course. The ‘van can’t survive on what little we stumble across. Someone has to strike out and seize what lies out here.
> [The Anointed] “I don’t doubt your skill, Erben Tol, but I do warn you. The Vice is quick to cut down the eager and restless. Don’t let your overconfidence endanger your fellows, or the ‘van.
> [The Hermit] “I hope you can stay so sharp in the thick of danger. Don’t let my power delude you, many have died in my charge, even right beside me. Those who flaunt danger fall first.”
>Write-in

>>6033197
> [The Hopper] “If you’re eager to embrace the danger, by all means stay the course. The ‘van can’t survive on what little we stumble across. Someone has to strike out and seize what lies out here.

“If you’re eager to embrace the danger, by all means stay the course. The ‘van can’t survive on what little we stumble across. Someone has to strike out and seize what lies out here,” you admit. There’s no sense in stifling these folk, especially considering the potential benefits to the ‘van. Erben Tol nods in agreement and lets out an affirming chirp. He continues his rotation between the far-flung members of his team, bolstered by your approval.

It isn’t long until you reach the abrupt end of calm grassland. “You ever cross through one of these, boss?” Erben Tol asks, reveling at the immense treeline. The Font’s shattered memory of the true world was on full display, grassy plains colliding with foreign trees. Those on the border rotted in defiance at their unnatural placement, withered and slumping. Pale sunlight barely manages to light up the thicket, but you spot dense undergrowth filling space between the trees.

“No, but these woods are quite dangerous Erben– ”

“Just Ben is fine,” the scout interjects. You’ve skirted along areas like this before. A small group could manage a route through, but a caravan would lose much time in the effort. “It’s called a jungle, boss. I bet it’s nothing we can’t handle. And look!” The eager scout walks along the border and plucks something from the ground. He waves the troop’s lone moski over, and you follow suit. “What do you think, big guy?” He offers a curved brown bit of forage to the worker, who prods it dutifully. It juggles the potential food along its many legs before tossing it aside. “Yeah, didn't look too appetizing. There’s gotta be more inside.” He gestures to the troop, and the lot march into the darkness without question. Each decision urges you to intervene, but you hold back. These are seasoned scouts, they have a sense about this sort of thing… you hope.

The bristling worry in the back of your mind only worsens as the scouts filter through the trees. You trudge onward, crushing unusual plant life underfoot as you try to keep pace. Ben keeps just ahead of you, and the bulbous moski takes advantage of your wake, but the other scouts flit all around, the rustling of flora their only tell.

“This wood– this jungle is unlike a cool forest. Slithering things hide under the brush, and the larger animals aren’t as skittish as deer or boar,” you warn as you push wide leaves aside.

“I thought you’d never been in one of these. Don’t hold out on me now.” Ben parses the terrain with grace, despite his alleged ignorance.

“I haven’t. I’ve been warned off by other shepherds.”

“Oh, you guys have meetings now?” he jokes, tossing back a curious look.

“We used to, back when the foundation was more lively,” you say, kicking away a limp root caught on your boot. Ben's curiosity only grows. He leans on a thick root and waits for you to catch up, eyes silently urging more detail. “Er, the foundation… Well, it's a retreat in the mind. We hoppers are called to it each night.”

“Really? You lot are more organized than you let on.” You only give a shrug in return. The foundation, in truth, is only a shadow of what it once was, and in more ways than one. Better to let Ben retain the more flattering picture.

Before the head scout can prod further, a nearby rustling demands the duo’s attention. The moski worker forces its way between two trees bearing fresh forage. A bundle of curved greenish fruits drag behind it, several groupings falling behind as they’re caught on the undergrowth. “Nice find!” Ben cheers, whistling to summon the other scouts. You hardly register their approach as they slip into formation around their leader. He pats the moski on it’s shoulder-ish region before addressing the group. “Our man’s beat us to the punch once again! Daz, you know what to do. Flenna, keep ‘em out of trouble. The rest of us are gonna move on.” He belts out another series of whistles and turns to you. “Before you say anything, they’ll be fine. We can’t let the conjurors show us up, after all.”

It’s true, this much of the scouts duty you’re familiar with. They primarily surveyed and identified threats, but foraging was near as important. “I’ve held my comments so far, haven’t I?” you say wryly.

“And I commend you for it, boss! We can pick up the pace now, gotta use up that good daylight.” He continues on, three of the team following close behind. Your eyes widen as you press on. How much faster must they go?

* * *

Just as you start adapting to the rough terrain, the otherworld throws you another hurdle. The mostly flat ground slopes up as the group nears a jutting hill, though thankfully the scouts think it better to skirt around. “The smoke’s just around the hill, I bet that village is nestled at its foot,” Ben proclaims from atop a steep incline. Your eyes have been largely glued to your feet, the unyielding flora conspiring to trip you at every step. Fatigue isn’t so much the issue as the constant distraction. All sightlines blocked, surrounded by the unknown; your paranoia roiled. Soon enough it would pay off.

You finally reach Ben and his fellows, each eager to press on.

“Stop,” you bark. Your order freezes the scouts in place, they know not to question it. Even the glib Ben holds fast, keeping a keen eye out without comment.

You’re certain. Vice skulks near.

You take the lead without a word, relying on the scouts to stay close while focusing entirely on that baleful feeling. The mounting sensation of paranoia peaks, your anointed purpose pulling your attention squarely downhill.

“How many?” Ben whispers finally.

“Just one. It must have peeled off from the Vicewind early on.” You head for the evil at once, a primal urge surging with each step.

You dash down the incline with newfound skill, taking hold of nearby trees to pivot around obstacles. Now it’s the scouts that struggle to keep up as your imbued power asserts control. You take a few uneven steps up a leaning tree, latching on just high enough to catch sight of the lonely Vice below. It ambled through the trees, leeching the very essence from everything in its path. The clumsy, somewhat humanoid blob could barely keep upright. Only its annihilating presence allows it to push forward.

Ben is first to catch up to you. “What do you think, boss?” Worry drips from his words for the first time.

“It’s weak. Too long from its cohort. This should be quick.” You track its movements. It’s certainly heading for the ‘van, or to the foragers. The thing nearly slipped by you, what if it took the other scouts unaware? You perish the thought and leap down. All that matters is its destruction.

[Dim’s Palm-Well: You may call upon a reserve of Energy to augment your abilities. Over time, Vice you’ve captured in your Palm-Well is converted into Energy. Holding too much Vice or too little Energy compromises your mortal body.]

Energy: 35 | Vice: 5 | Capacity: 40 of 100

>Ambush the evil with overt force, expending a good deal of energy to guarantee its destruction. It won’t have a chance to reach you, nor escape. (Use 15 Energy)
>Vice is unpredictable, especially cut off like this. Better use a balanced approach. Engage the evil with caution. Harry it while conserving energy, intent on imprisoning what remains.(Use 5 to 10 Energy and gain 5 to 10 Vice)
>Goad the evil. The blot was weak and alone, primed for reconstitution. Allow it to close the gap and capture it whole. (Gain 15 Vice)

>>6033881
>Vice is unpredictable, especially cut off like this. Better use a balanced approach. Engage the evil with caution. Harry it while conserving energy, intent on imprisoning what remains.(Use 5 to 10 Energy and gain 5 to 10 Vice)

You slide into position along a furrow carved between root-strewn slopes, a discolored stain marring the Vice’s path. A mortal man might be crippled by merely brushing against the corruption, but you were made for this. You level your palm neatly at the evil, letting loose small bolts of gleaming energy down the path. The thing is caught unaware. Bolts cleave clean through its body as it twists to meet your attack.

“Imbbb…” it moans, “Yaummb…” Mimicry is nothing you haven’t seen before from the Vice. Their choice of form at times appeared strategic, speaking to a greater intelligence. Other times it seemed senseless. Shepherds of the foundation spent years analyzing their methods, but to no satisfying conclusion. At the moment, its trickery only serves to anger you.

Another volley slows its advance. It topples and crawls toward you with renewed vigor, bits of its form burning away to nothing as it claws its way along the dry creek. You prepare to swallow what remains of the thing. It will burn well.

“Hhhhhopper, please!” it shouts in shrill mockery as it barrels down on you. “By God don’t leave usss!” The familiar voice ices your heart, your resolve broken for one crucial moment. The Vice shudders and twists as it transforms into a more agile form. Six bowed legs split from its torso and dig into the earth. It rears back on all legs, intent to use its last bit of energy to lunge over your outstretched arm. Your focus falters as your powers ebb, the thing would have you soon.

Stones rain down on the evil as it prepares its attack. Some careen off its smooth surface while others disappear into its hungry form. A few choice missiles strike the creature’s newly formed joints. It cries out in fury as it turns to menace the ambushing scouts high up in the trees. A new fervor overtakes it. Shepherds did not make good prey, but survivors of the true world…

It attempts to scramble uphill and receives a face full of javelin for its trouble. The mundane weapons serve only to slow the ravenous evil, though that’s all you need them to do.

You leap forward with renewed purpose and grab the Vice with glowing hands. It contorts to meet your attack. Its once humanesque looking head sharpens to a point, splitting to form a terrible toothy maw. Had it focused on you entirely, it might have escaped. Greed would be its undoing.

You grip its maw shut with a furious fist, its oily form burning away under your ensheathed hand while you bring your palm to bear. You know Vice couldn’t feel true fear, despite their feigning, but you see it all the same. Something similar to eyes forms on its surface, pleading. You would not be tricked again.

An unrelenting force pulls the Vice into your palm-well. The thing contorts and loses cohesion, a stream of inky essence flowing into you. You’re left leaning against the roots peeking out from the hillside. The evil is sealed.

[Energy: -10 to 25 | Vice: +10 to 15 | Capacity: 40 of 100]

Ben slides down the hill in a controlled scamper, his team close behind. “Boss! Did he get you? You need a healer? We can wrangle one up no problem, just say the word.” You’re unsure if the winded scout worries more for your health or the mission.

“No, no. I just need to rest for a moment,” you grunt. The Vice reels deep within, its form burning away bit by bit. The pain is nothing new to you, but the searing first minutes after capture are hard to bear gracefully. “Then we can continue.” Ben doesn’t hide his excitement, letting loose a series of whistles to his companions. You wince. Did he have to do that so close to your ears?

* * *

As you expect, the group encounters no other Vice. That one was alone, desperate. Others would have kept close by. Though the paranoid feeling scratching away at your mind didn’t relent. You find new reason to worry soon enough.

Rounding the base of the hill, you finally catch sight of smoke through the thinning canopy. “That’s more than a village,” you intone as you size up the myriad columns of smoke overhead. Before Ben could chime in, your mind lights up. You sense something new. It isn’t the Vice, no, but something near as dangerous.

A shepherd is nearby.

Your mind jolts to the worst possibility. The smoke, the Vice, the hopper. Memories crawl to the forefront of your mind. Legions of madmen clash into your flock, rabid Vice flowing over the battlefield consuming warriors indiscriminately, a shepherd overseeing the chaos from afar.

By God’s grace, it wasn’t the same man. All the same, a hopper this deeply entrenched had something other than shepherdship on his mind. It may still be a war camp of some kind, but to what end?

“No easy pickins, I’m guessing,” Ben says, spotting your glassy stare.

“No. But certainly worth checking out.” You press on. No need to distract the scouts with a worst case scenario. The otherworld follows few rules, you try to remember, there could be anything beyond those trees. But where there’s smoke…

* * *

The team crawls into position along a ledge overlooking your target. There’s no war camp, to your relief, but it’s no easy quarry either.

“Look at those walls!” a scout blurts out. Each member of the team stares wide-eyed at the out-of-place wonder filling the valley. A city, three times the size of your lost home of Emberlin, nestles itself in the shadow of a great forested hill. Its wall, a sheer ivory ring, stands resolute around the settlement until crumpling where it clashes with the foreign terrain. The city didn’t belong here, certainly, but the echoes within made quick work adapting to the area. They pushed the treeline back a surprising ways away from the city walls, especially considering how young this otherworld was. Even now you spot echoes whittling the jungle away, guided by faded memories of their past lives.

“It’s about time I defer to you, boss,” Ben whispers, overwhelmed by the splendor. “This is about where we double back at thrice-step. But seeing as you’re already here…”

A few armored echoes stood guard in front of the wall's solitary gate. A few more patrolled along a path leading eastward into the jungle. It would be simple to blend in as a citizen. Echoes depend on their memories, anything unusual (like a towering shepherd) blurs together with what they expect, so long as you remain peaceful.

Still, like the Vice and otherworld at large, they can be unpredictable. Not to mention some other shepherd is likely in the city. If you sense him, he must sense you as well.

>Dismiss the scouts. Tell them to report back to the ‘van’s leaders while you investigate the city alone. A city this size must have a hefty garrison. If outriders saw the ‘van as a threat, they could muster a sizable force to intercept.
>Have the scouts investigate the area; the echoes, their soldiers, their wall, anything to better understand what you're dealing with. You’ll then focus on the shepherd in an attempt to pinpoint his exact whereabouts, then meet with the scouts later to convene.
>Keep the scouts close as you approach the gates. It’s already past midday, dawdling could strand you here. Better to face the threat head on, the other shepherd would make himself known, you’re certain.
>Write-in

>>6034672
>Dismiss the scouts. Tell them to report back to the ‘van’s leaders while you investigate the city alone. A city this size must have a hefty garrison. If outriders saw the ‘van as a threat, they could muster a sizable force to intercept.

>>6034672
>>Dismiss the scouts. Tell them to report back to the ‘van’s leaders while you investigate the city alone. A city this size must have a hefty garrison. If outriders saw the ‘van as a threat, they could muster a sizable force to intercept.

>>6034672
>>Have the scouts investigate the area; the echoes, their soldiers, their wall, anything to better understand what you're dealing with. You’ll then focus on the shepherd in an attempt to pinpoint his exact whereabouts, then meet with the scouts later to convene.

The scouts performed their duty well, but the ‘van’s safety is paramount. “Ben, I need your team to report back. Have the ‘van put something between them and the city. Crossing the river could be enough to dissuade any attacks.” You scan the clearcut valley, keen to spot any erratic behavior.

“You think these echoes would do that?” Ben asks before belting off a few whistles. His fellows set off without a word.

“Not normally but…” you hesitate. You consider omitting the true threat until you know more, but think better of it. The ‘van had to know the full extent of the danger. “There’s a shepherd in there, I need to find out what he’s up to.”

Ben sharpens, though you sense no fear. “Don’t be a hero, boss.” He hurries off after his troop.

* * *

You keep a steady pace through the remainder of the thicket. Peeking out reveals the same echoes going about their monotonous tasks. A number chop away at the treeline while a solitary formation of soldiers continues their route. Lucky timing, most of the ad hoc camps are abandoned, perhaps breaking for a midday rest.

You hurry along the perimeter of the clearcut valley until you reach an empty camp. The various tools strewn about would serve you well. You pull an axe from one of the stumps dotting the area and sling a bundle of rope over your shoulder. The echo’s minds struggle to cope with the otherworld’s scrambled form. Even while standing near two feet taller than them, merely holding their tools would allow you to blend in. Not one to tempt fate, you keep a wide berth from the echo soldiers as you near the city walls.

A few lumberjacks enter the city through a postern nestled beside the gilded front gate. Security seems lax, though you’re unsure if the gateman would wave you through without scrutiny. Most echoes wouldn’t bat an eye at your ‘disguise’, though those born from the memories of a man who spent his life warding off foreigners and spies? Under the circumstances, you aren’t sure it’s worth testing. Though if you nested yourself among a returning group…

Turning to the western stretch of the wall, you recall where the jutting hill split apart invading masonry. Surely the echoes, as industrious as they seem, couldn’t patch all the holes in this short a time. The very earth spontaneously splitting their defenses could be too much for them to justify, and so they might have blissfully ignored it.

You notice a few echoes milling about on the north side of the wall, though it’s not clear what they’re up to. Could be another gate, though you’d have to cross paths with a few echoes to get there.

>Best not to risk further prodding. Blend in with a group of lumberjacks and head into the city through the front gate.
>Could be less eyes along the ruined wall. Take a closer look at the western side.
>Better to scope out all your options first. Avoid too much contact with the echoes as you head to the northern side of the city.

>>6035447
>Could be less eyes along the ruined wall. Take a closer look at the western side.

>>6035447
>Could be less eyes along the ruined wall. Take a closer look at the western side.

In a rare instance, the otherworld’s chaos provides you a keen opportunity. You decide to keep far from the front gate as you close on the stark white city walls. The brickwork is remarkably smooth, huge blocks of clean stone interlock without gap or flaw. Even after the end of the world, and its repeated reincarnation, these walls stand firm. Most structures you’ve come across while traveling the otherworld struggle to withstand the test of time. The Font rebuilds each otherworld according to its faltering memories, inaccuracies are inevitable. Scavengers and eroding Vice only add to its corruption. But this wall appeared as strong as the day the world ended, even under your close scrutiny. The echoes must be an especially proud sort, you conclude, trapped endlessly restoring their home to its former glory. You glance towards the utterly collapsed part of the wall to the west; you can’t help but pity their struggle.

A blasting horn pulls your attention back east. Four riders charge forth from the jungle, out from a path recently cleared. They make for the gate, yelling to their countrymen as they pass. “Warband! A savage warband at the border! Return to the walls, return to the walls!” The echoes of the valley waste no time heeding their call. Workers ditch their axes and saws and make haste to the front gate.

You press against the wall out of an abundance of caution, though the riders take no notice of you. They exchange a few hurried words with the men at the gate, too faint to hear.

At least they hadn’t already sallied out in full force to meet the ‘van. Ben and his crew should be well on their way, especially without your clumsy pace slowing them down. Still, the echoes wouldn’t drag their feet either. You hug the wall as you make your way west.

As you expected, the west end is wide open. Pristine masonry ends sharply where the sloping earth rejected the city’s intrusion. Chunks of white stone litter the area, occasional beams of wood poke out from piles of rubble. Up the hill, you spot flashes of white where huge chunks of wall teeter against trees, poised to tumble downhill at a moment's notice. It was as if a giant dropped the city unceremoniously along the hillside, one edge torn apart from bottom up by the fall.

Probing the gaping holes in the wall gives you pause. No effort had been made so far to repair the damage: bits of wall slide free at your touch, the inside an unlit mess of collapsed wood and stone. But it was too late to double back. Echoes collude within these walls, eager to respond to your people’s intrusion.

You tie your borrowed tools together. The axe and rope make a passable siege hook. Well, good enough for a wall already utterly sundered. You sling the improvised tool repeatedly overhead, probing the wall for purchase. The axe clatters against stone, sometimes pulling shards away as it falls. After a few dozen attempts you consider risking the wide-open break farther down. It would be easy to slip in, sure, but the ruin could just as easily give under the slightest temptation. No, you need to find some stable bit of wall, even if only to get a better look inside.

Too many tries later, the damn rope finally pulls taught. The axe wedges itself maybe twelve feet up, between a crack where two slabs slid apart. The hole just above looks promising. You pull the rope hard, leaning to test it against your considerable weight. Weak as it is from years of reformation, the thing refuses to snap. It would have to do.

* * *

A bit of flooring held stubbornly under your feet. To the long dead architects' credit, parts of the wall’s inner structure refuse to buckle even under these extreme circumstances. The inner cubbies and corridors are mangled beyond recognition, but lips of stone hold fast along the wall, offering you a narrow path away from the ruins. You latch onto the wall as you sidle forwards, muttering short prayers under your breath. The darkness of the ruin overtakes you, but it's easily remedied by your palm-well. You call forth a pittance of energy to push the darkness back.

The narrow ledge widens gradually to meet an inner wall. At last you free yourself from the cold stone and get a proper look around. Your meager light illuminates what it can, though the room’s contrast is clear enough. Half the corridor splits open to reveal rubble a floor below and a pitted roof far above. The other half, though, offers you far more. A staircase spirals downward and just beyond that the corridor narrows to follow along the length of the wall. Peeking down the stairs reveals a tunnel leading straight into the city, though a crossing path heading to the ruins catches your attention. A slightly recessed, discolored rut runs along the stone floor. Doubtlessly, Vice crossed through here.

>Pose as a guardsman and continue along the wall’s upper level. There should be some barrack or similar room near the front gate. You could get a good idea of the soldier’s plans, maybe hinder their efforts if they intend to move on the ‘van.
>Investigate the befouled path. Vice crawled along these tunnels recently. Strangely, it chose not to melt through the walls, keeping to the path. Whatever its intentions, its destruction falls to you.
>Enter the city. The shepherd is here, you’re certain. You couldn’t proceed until you found out what he’s doing among these echoes, all else could wait.

>>6036478
>>Investigate the befouled path. Vice crawled along these tunnels recently. Strangely, it chose not to melt through the walls, keeping to the path. Whatever its intentions, its destruction falls to you.

The Vice never fails to complicate your mission. You couldn’t let it go unhunted, not now, not ever.

Pale white light spills down the tunnel towards heaps of ruined wall. The Vice appears to have crawled through the destruction, its warped path covered in fallen rubble. You decide to start down the other direction, hoping the evil entered from outside the wall and lurks somewhere within.

The auxiliary tunnel continues along the wall, occasionally widening to accommodate more spiraling stairs. You keep to the furrowed trail, your holy presence resisting the corrupted floor as you advance. The cramped tunnel eventually expands into a nook. Against one wall, sat hewn in half, a recently dead echo degrades. The unfortunate guard had no chance resisting the Vice, its features now melting away, wisps returning to the otherworld like smoke from smoldering ashes.

You lean down to get a closer look. It’s just a torso now, what remains of its face frozen in horror. The Vice must have lunged through an opening opposite the dead guard; the echo naively had its back to the now melted door. You take a moment to dispel the pitiful thing. You doubt it will reincarnate with the rest of the otherworld come the end of this cycle. Maybe it’s for the best.

Beyond the melted door frame, you press on. The curving tunnel spirals under the city, sloping steadily deep underground. The warping of the tunnel made it clear; the Vice came from this direction, its fury waning as it scrambled up the corridor. You grit your teeth as you consider doubling back for the damned thing, but it would take a team of excavators to follow it now. Better to find its source, you admit sourly.

The spiraling tunnel opens to a wide room deep under the city. Empty cells line the room, devices meant to torture pushed aside and collecting dust. Not much need for the king's justice nowadays. The far corner of the room catches your interest, someone’s been here recently. You approach warily and dismiss the light from your palm, a few lonely sconces would serve you well enough.

You’re reminded of Lillian’s camp back at the ‘van as you approach; Vice-bearing tools sit arranged in neat rows over treated cloth, piles of notes bear scribbles of the arcane, and poised in the center of it all: a bulbous, sagging globe of glass. Shards of it meld to the floor where the Vice’s path starts, just beneath a break along its otherwise smooth surface. You once refused Lillian’s request to hold Vice in such a manner. The vindication feels bittersweet.

Your mind can only draw one conclusion: this must be the shepherd's doing. Mage shepherds aren’t unheard of, but doubly dangerous. He could have a cohort of magi, for all you know. These tools must be dealt with either way. Though, the shepherd’s work may still be valuable in aiding your crusade…

[Energy: 25 | Vice: 15 | Capacity: 40 of 100]

>Cleanse the tools before collecting them, the notes as well. Lillian could likely make good use of both. (Lose 5 Energy)
>Leave the lab as it is. Until you discover what the shepherd is doing here, it would be hasty to interfere.
>Absorb the Vice encased in these tools and destroy them, the notes as well. No matter what the shepherd plans, his research has already allowed some Vice to roam free. (Gain 5 Vice)
>Write-in

>>6037499
>>Absorb the Vice encased in these tools and destroy them, the notes as well. No matter what the shepherd plans, his research has already allowed some Vice to roam free. (Gain 5 Vice)

>>6037499
>Absorb the Vice encased in these tools and destroy them, the notes as well. No matter what the shepherd plans, his research has already allowed some Vice to roam free. (Gain 5 Vice)

Whoever uses this equipment can’t be trusted. You level your open palm just above the foul tools. The terror-locked expression on that guard’s face flashes in your mind as you set to undoing this foul work. The delicate instruments flex under unseen pressure, your energy meeting flecks of Vice like water to boiling oil. Fine steel splits apart and warps into blackened curls. Soon only slag remains, unsalvageable brittle black bits you brush aside with contempt.

[Energy: -5 to 20 | Vice: 15 | Capacity: 35 of 100]

The more mundane task of destroying the research poses a dilemma. Purely arcane writing could be parsed easily enough, but you find several papers written in non-magical foreign script, ledgers and books too. You can’t read any of it. If only you had relented at Lillian's insistence to teach you runic…

You decide to start with the arcane. First, you collect purely runic notes and toss them one by one into a smoldering brazier. The flame grows and grows as you feed it bundles of research. In its light, you pull the largest of the books from under yet more loose notes. This one bore no runes, its aged leather cover without mark. You flip through pages of neatly penned foreign text. Occasionally, sketches between blocks of text catch your eye. Drawings of people in clothing you'd never seen before, foreign plants and animals, bits of architecture and vistas long lost.

It could be some kind of almanac or journal. Even without reading the words, you see a clear contrast between the rigid structure of the research notes and this more personal work. You set it down on the far end of the table, away from the growing flame.

More and more documents are put to the torch. You’ve destroyed all the formal looking papers and continue with some of the mixed items. Thin ledgers full of calculations of some kind, notes bearing only single lines of runic, bundles of dated missives. There’s no way to tell how much of it relates to the Vice, but you’re determined to smother any hope of continued research.

A fluttering pulls you from your task. Torchlight brightens one of the dim tunnels leading to the outer walls, just opposite the way you entered. Echoes of metal footfalls fill the repurposed dungeon. They would be here in moments.

You turn to the most valuable of the researcher’s tools, the Vice-tempered prison. Palm pressed against the glass, you loose a measured bit of energy. The already compromised globe contracts and shatters to pieces. The treated glass is as rare as it is brittle, its loss would be a crippling blow to whatever experiments went on here. You hurry up a nearby flight of stairs, hoping you’d destroyed enough.

The stairs spiral up for some length, all the way to the surface, you estimate. You reach the top, emerging into a room of shocking opulence; some sort of trove or court.

The first thing that strikes you is its vibrance. Color left the otherworld with every cycle; its denizens and the very earth sapped of life after each reincarnation. But this room shone in defiance. Banners of bright red and yellow line the walls, stained glass transforms the pale sunlight of the otherworld into beautiful scenes and portraits. Even the echoes milling about wore bright silks, their faded bodies livened with layers of cosmetic dye. If you didn’t look too closely, you could swear you’d found a portal back to the true world.

“My brother, what a surprise! Welcome to my court!” A man, not an echo, stands at one end of the room, near a throne. He wastes no time, walking down curved steps and through the gilded hall towards you, echoes bowing in his wake. He stops maybe fifteen feet from you, face alight with excitement, hand rested on the pommel of his sword. He contrasts keenly with the surrounding finery, muted leather straps covering simple clothing palled by the otherworld. You’ve found the shepherd, the derelict Giorgio Alltask; though it's been years since you’ve seen him at the foundation. You remember well; he abandoned his holy task with several others after the vicars disappeared. Now he stands before you, unashamed.

“Dim Palmfast, I can’t say I’m surprised you’ve survived all this time. And I suppose you’re still keen on the mission?” he asks, peering at the nook you emerged from.

You feel an indignant rage build inside, though you’re not sure if it’s your own or that of your blessed power. “I suppose I’m predictable that way,” you offer simply, glancing at the many fine decorations lining the walls, though keeping one eye on the derelict shepherd. “You’ve done quite well for yourself, it seems.”

His eyes linger on the staircase to his lab, clearly unnerved by your unconventional entrance. He returns his attention to you, content to put that aside for the moment. “Oh, yes. I spent some time recollecting myself, recovering what they took from me.” He walks to a small bust of Vicar Psanya, perhaps the drabbest bit of decoration in the room. “Though I realized I couldn’t stay mad at them. After all, I’ve found good use of their ‘gifts’.” He waves broadly at the throne room. Echoes continue milling about, undisturbed by your intrusion. They retread the same paths, you notice, a rehearsed feigning of everyday business. “What do you make of it? From one shepherd to another.”

>[The Stripling] “I’ve wrestled with the same sense of loss, I think all shepherds have. You’ve rebuilt a small bit of beauty in this dying world, at least.”
>[The Hopper] ”I guess there’s worse a derelict hopper could get up to. Like, say, dabbling with the Vice…”
>[The Shepherd] “It’s a monument to vanity. What about the still living people of the otherworld? You can still help them, you know, despite everything you’ve done.”
>[The Vicar] ”You’ve painted echoes and baubles while the world dies around you. Am I supposed to be impressed?”
>Write-in

Oops. Correction: Dim extracts the Vice instead of flooding it.

[Energy: 25 | Vice: +5 to 20 | Capacity: 45 of 100]

>>6038391
>[The Shepherd] “It’s a monument to vanity. What about the still living people of the otherworld? You can still help them, you know, despite everything you’ve done.”

>>6038391
>>[The Vicar] ”You’ve painted echoes and baubles while the world dies around you. Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Rollin. Will get to writing in a bit.

To call himself a shepherd, surrounded by gaudy treasures in this dead city… It’s too much to bear. ”You’ve painted echoes and baubles while the world dies around you. Am I supposed to be impressed?”

His smile doesn’t waver, he only shakes his head. “I guess not. You– and the damn vicars– never deigned to look elsewhere for the world’s salvation. Even after all these years of failure, you can’t imagine another way?”

You think back to the day the vicars left. Alltask and his ilk announced their abandonment of the mission, the frailty of their faith blinding. At the time, so soon after the loss of your second flock, fury threatened to overtake you whole. If they had so boldly flaunted their exit in person instead of in the foundation, you might have thrown away everything to cull them. And now a traitor stands before you, ever resolved to spurn your faith.

Lucky for the derelict, years of calm service has cooled your temper. “Look around you, Alltask. Is this your salvation? Is there a single living thing here you’ve saved? You call the Font a failure, yet yours is plain to see, even hidden under paints and perfume.”

“Still you lack imagination!” Alltask shoots back, his calm condescension peeling away. “I spent years serving the mission. Even in the early days, their failures were clear to anyone willing to see. Even then I kept the faith, I served flock after flock and fed them false hope. And then in return the vicars abandon us? After they carved us hollow? After they broke the world?” He clutches the pommel of his blade, his regal composure waning. The marching echoes of the hall pause their act. They watch their king with confusion and fear.

“No,” he relents, shooing his subjects' vacant stares away with a limp wave. “They are long dead, and their dream is too. I won’t give them anything more.” He releases his weapon, and takes a few steps closer to you. “We’re alive, Dim. We don’t need to keep to their path. I know you’ve considered it… All shepherds have, I’m certain.” He waves to the room's wealth; sculptures and portraits of dead kings, decorative weapons gilding their heraldry. His voice wells with pride. “This is my mission. My city. My people. My culture. I refuse to let it die.”

The clattering of armored men fills the room. Up from the dungeon, the echoes you evaded finally reach the surface. They file in around you, menacing with faded polearms. You don’t flinch. Not even a dozen men could match your strength, let alone a meager squad of echoes. You keep your attention squarely on the pauper king.

Alltask must know how little their threats meant, though he allows them to play their part all the same. A final echo follows behind the rest. Unlike his cohort, he wears dyed clothing and a thick layer of cosmetics. Even his eyes shine more brightly than the common echo, now colored with worry as he hurries to his king’s side.

Alltask hides any anger or disappointment as he preempts his attendant’s report. “It’s destroyed,” he intones.

The painted lieutenant seems put at ease, relieved not to be the bearer of bad news. “Yes, my lord. But this remains.” He offers Alltask the thick, leatherbound journal you left behind. The king snatches it, eyes wide.

“You… You left it.” He pores over the pages before offering a relieved look. “You have more heart than I expected, Dim.” You balk at his words. Untold years of research burned, nigh irreplaceable tools destroyed, and the man only gives a wry smile in exchange. He hands the treasured journal off, along with a few whispered words. The painted echo serves you a disdainful gaze before walking off.

You dismiss the derelict’s vague compliment. “I warn you, Alltask, if you plan to continue toying with the Vice, I’ll have little recourse.” Your threat agitates the echoes surrounding you, but does nothing to wipe the smile from Alltask’s face. He dismisses them with a curt command.

“Ever bull-headed, my friend. I suppose no one ‘toys’ with the Vice in your ‘van? Maybe I should attend to my holy duties as well, and put an end to their research?” he prods.

His empty threat rings hollow. “What of your duty to your ‘people’? What of the man cut down by your escaped prisoner? Your negligence killed him. And that evil lurks still, it could be gnawing away at your precious city for all you know.”

He’s taken aback. For the first time, he looks ashamed. “I’ll own his death, Dim. The Vice is dealt with, on my honor–” He falters, the irony not lost on the derelict shepherd. “On what honor remains to me as your peer, the evil is destroyed.” You aren’t wholly convinced, but his shame at least equals any indignation caused by your meddling.

“There will be no more research, rest assured. I’ve gleaned enough. Now I can put it to good use, for a greater purpose.” He turns and walks back towards the throne, beckoning you with a wave. You follow, but maintain a good distance behind.

“‘A greater purpose’? And here I thought you disdained the vicars..” you chide.

The pauper spins around, thrusting his palm-well towards you. You meet the gesture without delay. “Don’t play dumb, Dim. You know everyone toils in service to a greater purpose. And shepherds like us– people must die to serve our ends, even as we fight to save them.” He remains collected, locked into a defensive stance. He makes no effort to draw energy from his well. You relent in turn.

Last you saw the derelict, your skill far outpaced his. He couldn’t match you then, even empowered by his dabbling arcane knowledge. And you’ve only grown stronger since. But no fight between shepherds ends cleanly. You push the thought of your ‘van aside and sharpen your focus.

“I’m no fool, friend. I won’t let you kill me here, after everything I’ve overcome. Merely a demonstration.” He calls upon his well, intermingling some arcane with the divine. “Let me show you the difference between the vicar's words and mine. Send forth your Vice, and I’ll put their hollow promises to shame!”

[Energy: 25 | Vice: 20 | Capacity: 45 of 100]

>The derelict’s madness is hard to stomach. You’re glad to take this opportunity to humble him. Let loose a sizable volley of Vice. (Use 10 Vice)
>Alltask has the good sense not to attack you outright. All the same, you had no choice but to demonstrate your strength. Release a heavy bolt of Vice. (Use 5 Vice)
>He’s insistent, but still a shepherd. Even if you end an escalation relatively unscathed, the world would be poorer for losing even a derelict. Loose a treated bolt of Vice, to soften your attack. (Use 5 Energy and 5 Vice)
>The man must realize the difference in your powers, yet he challenges you all the same. However bold his claims, you can’t risk cutting down a king in his own court. Refuse the invitation to attack.
>Write-in

>>6039667
>He’s insistent, but still a shepherd. Even if you end an escalation relatively unscathed, the world would be poorer for losing even a derelict. Loose a treated bolt of Vice, to soften your attack. (Use 5 Energy and 5 Vice)

>>6039667
>>The derelict’s madness is hard to stomach. You’re glad to take this opportunity to humble him. Let loose a sizable volley of Vice. (Use 10 Vice)

>>6039667
>>The derelict’s madness is hard to stomach. You’re glad to take this opportunity to humble him. Let loose a sizable volley of Vice. (Use 10 Vice)

Alltask’s impudence demands correction. He plays at king, mage, and savior, but those claims don’t impress you. As far as you’re concerned, he’s failed the one role the otherworld demands of him; you’re glad to test his mettle in the arena of shepherdship.

You feign a lazy bolt of Vice his way. The inky blotch of evil snakes towards the derelict; he focuses entirely on the bait. He tracks the bolt with his palm, but reserves his arcane-energy medley. Hesitation grips you for an instant. Did he underestimate your attack so thoroughly? Whatever trick he wants to demonstrate must be potent. For his sake, it better be.

You ‘pull’ at the bolt and it spins and wobbles erratically, slowing further. Concern crawls on the derelict’s face, he shifts his arm to and fro to match the incoming attack. His focus is as sharp as you expect, the practiced movements of a learned mage. Though, as a shepherd, you’ve always valued flexibility over all else.

As the heavy bolt nears Alltask, you follow up with a volley of dart-like shards of Vice. They splay out wide, spiraling to pierce the arrogant derelict’s sides. The moment his focus breaks, you release the slack slowing the larger bolt. It eagerly accelerates, righting its ambling path to strike your target. Alltask attempts to refocus, the strings of flanking Vice falling away harmlessly, their task done.

The Vice smashes into him, a direct hit. It explodes outward like rotten fruit cast against a wall. Have you gone too far? Perhaps Alltask has been too long from the war? The released Vice swarms around him, ravenous.

As you’re about to rush forward to recapture the Vice, the cloud flexes and contracts, smoothing into a hemisphere centered on Alltask. It shrinks down furiously, fighting to collapse, darkening to a deep black. You brace as the Vice buckles. It expands outward, some force inside matching its fury. The black void lightens to deep purple as the hemisphere swells to a breaking point.

The Vice stretches thin enough for you to see into the bubble. Alltask leans on one knee, but he’s managed to keep his palm upright. He keeps the Vice at bay for a few moments longer, though you’re unsure if he’s demonstrating his endurance or struggling for his life. The surface breaks and the dispersed layer of Vice falls obediently into the derelict’s palm-well.

[Energy: 25 | Vice: -10 to 10 | Capacity: 35 of 100]

He lets out a few ragged breaths before setting his palm down. He manages a weak smile, face framed by wicked mauve lines of enervation, eyes bloody with strain. You offer him an impassive look as he crumples.

The court cleared out before the ‘duel’ even began. One echo rushes back, unafraid, possessed with concern.

The lieutenant from earlier sprints to its king’s side. It tears open a satchel, rifling through it single mindedly as you near the fallen shepherd. “Your tools won’t do him any good,” you say, standing over the downed fool. The echo doesn’t respond, it doesn’t acknowledge you, not even an angry glance.

It thrusts some thimble under its lord's nose and the king's eyes flash open in response. He falls into a coughing fit, his attendant fussing with medicines. He tries to wave the echo off to no avail.

He would live, you’re certain. You’ve endured similar bouts of enervation in your time, Vice eating away at your body as your well fights it off like an infection. His energy reserves must be too low to tolerate such an influx. If only he had done his duty and consumed that damned Vice instead of experimenting on it…

“Foolish of me… expecting you to hold back,” he chokes out. You think to agree, to point out how merciless the Vice would be if it came here in force, how unprepared he is. But you put the lecture aside for now, turning to more important things.

“That shield, how did you manage it?” you ask, leering over the crippled man.

“Ha… Thought you’d like to see it. The fruits of my research…” Strength slowly returns to his voice, though it could be days before he could even walk unassisted.

“Is this how you’ve maintained this city? How you’ve stayed here all this time?” you press, impatient. You’ve never encountered such a technique. Even in the final days of the true world, even with the combined efforts of preeminent magi and holy men, no barrier could stand against the Vice’s annihilating touch.

You finally deign to kneel down when Alltask’s falls silent. You give him a firm shake to keep him awake. “Could your spell withstand the Vicewind?” He stays silent, but a satisfied look in his eyes says enough.

His echo attendant rises to its feet, unable to ignore your abuses any longer. “Unhand my lord at once.” Despite being the frail memory of a dead man, the echo speaks with shocking purpose. You turn to menace the interloper, but it refuses to relent. Before you consider banishing the thing, you feel Alltask grab your hand.

“My strength is your strength, my friend… Don’t let their faith… Divide us.” He tries to continue, but falters. The spidery mauve veins continue to creep along his face, the enervating Vice roiling in his palm-well.

[Energy: 25 | Vice: 10 | Capacity: 35 of 100]

>Return the Vice to your palm-well. You had enough energy to tolerate it, and you didn’t trust him to have it anyway. This exchange would save him a great deal of pain while returning the burden to you. (Regain 10 Vice)
>Pull some Vice from the derelict. He deserves to suffer some; to learn his lesson and remain pliable. Recouping half of the Vice would expedite his recovery, keep him talking, but leave an instructive bit of pain. (Regain 5 Vice)
>Lend him some energy. You’ve demonstrated your strength well enough, and this shield trick could prove invaluable. A token of energy, an olive branch. (Lose 5 Energy)
>Stand by while Alltask’s echo tends to him, and wait for him to regain consciousness. He’s earned a long, painful recovery. You didn’t see fit to rob him of the lesson. He’ll be stronger for it, you reckon, in time.
>Allow the pauper king to drift off. Let him bear the brunt of his mistake as you investigate his home. Search for records of this technique, or perhaps some leverage to ensure he cooperates.
>Leave the crippled derelict and his dead city. He’s no longer a threat to you or the ‘van, and you’ll be far out of reach by the time he recovers.
>Write-in

>>6040413
>Lend him some energy. You’ve demonstrated your strength well enough, and this shield trick could prove invaluable. A token of energy, an olive branch. (Lose 5 Energy)

He was once a part of our flock. Maybe he can be brought back.

Before you arrived at the court, or entered the city, the threat of a derelict shepherd had you keenly on edge. The last time you came across one, it meant the end of your caravan. But that anxiety melts away as you hold the crumpled king's hand.

Enervation aside, Alltask’s anointed form differs from yours, it makes him look brittle, emaciated. He nearly matches your height, but his frame retains the thinness of a normal man. Tight muscles clinging to his arms and legs bestow physical strength matching your own, but from afar it only exaggerates his gangly appearance. His wide brow and long, pointed jaw pushes this inhuman look even further.

You have no delusion about your own departure from humanity. In addition to your extreme height, your anointment bulked your muscles and blunted your hands and feet. Your body widened a bit, your head taking an especially blocky shape. Still, you remained vaguely human looking to the common man. Alltask on the other hand… Seeing him in this pitiful state, holding his spindly, limp hand, you can't help but feel sorry for the man. His sect’s anointment made its burden clear.

A glow envelops your clasped hand as you infuse Alltask with a bit of energy. The improvement is near instant.

Glow returns to his face as you pull him to his feet. His attendant seems keen to speak up, but only sighs in relief. It collects the medicines and rushes away. Alltask, a little unsteady on his feet, squeezes your hand with renewed strength.

“Come, Dim. Let us discuss things upstairs.” He gives you a satisfied look before hobbling across the room. “For a moment there, I thought my impiety finally caught up with me. Those years ago in the foundation… Your fury electrified the air. I was watching my back for weeks after!” He chuckles, though you find no humor in it.

“That anger never served me. It only distracted me from what’s important.” You follow Alltask up a narrow set of spiral stairs to a mezzanine overlooking the throne room. It basks in the light of the setting sun filtering through a grand stained glass window. Through the red, yellow, and white glass you get a good look of the city. From here you see the pristine condition of the walls wasn’t some fluke. The alabaster caught the waning sunlight brilliantly, rows and rows of tightly packed, rounded buildings in impeccable condition.

“Not bad for ‘painted echoes,’ eh?” The harried king stumbles over to a wiry metal table dwarfed by the wall of stained glass. He falls into a matching chair, winded from his ordeal. “Over there, pull up a chair. I don’t often have guests up here,” he laughs weakly.

You take in the city for a moment longer before dragging a chair over to the tarnished green table. “I can’t deny its beauty, but it’s a distraction from our mission all the same.” He doesn’t argue, his eyes taking in the sight listfully. You sigh. “Listen Alltask. The ecclesiarchy is long dead, but so is your city. It only feigns life. My faith in what the vicars stood for, and yours in this place, I can’t say one’s greater than the other, or more important. But I can tell you one thing: people– real people– still struggle for their lives out there. You may not agree with what the vicars did to us, to the world, but do the living have to pay for their mistakes?” He tears his eyes from his city and looks to you. He doesn’t respond, worn by the duel, his glib exhausted.

“I’m not asking for you to renew your faith,” you continue, “Frankly, it isn’t my place. My own faith has been shaken to its core more than once, and many of my flock have long abandoned theirs. I ask you to believe in one thing, I ask you to believe in them. Rejoin me in believing in at least this much of the mission: their survival is paramount. Rejoin the shepherds. If I’ve let go of vengeance, rest assured the other faithful have as well.”

Honestly, you weren’t sure of that last bit. The remaining shepherds have since retreated into their own cabals, fragmenting the greater mission. But on the off chance you could restore a little faith to a derelict… Every shepherd counted in this fight.

Alltask looks tired. He chews on your words for a little while as the sunlight continues to fade. It must be retreating behind the hill looming over the city. You couldn’t stay here much longer, or risk getting stranded overnight.

“Call me Gio, if you will. I’m not fond of that other name,” the derelict says finally, straightening up in his chair. “When I saw it was you who’d found me… You saw I kept a fair distance? I didn’t trust you not to tear my head off, especially after what you found downstairs. I’ve spent so long fearing that retribution…” His attendant returns once again. It carries a fine wooden cane under its arm, and a tray with strange metal cookware.

“My lord, don’t strain yourself so flagrantly.” He sets the cane aside and pours some black, steaming drink into a mug for its lord. “Your afternoon coffee.” It sets another mug in front of you, wordlessly pouring you some of the bitter smelling brew. It moves as a dutiful servant, but resentment stews in its eyes as it stares you down. It hesitates to leave you alone with its charge, but a short command from Gio sends it away.

“It’s a relief to find mercy in this otherworld. Heartening…” He takes a sip of the pungent drink. “But I can’t abandon my people. Dim, these aren’t some wayward echoes I’ve latched on to. They're really my people, my city from the true world. You never struck me as a man of culture, no offense.” He wordlessly encourages you to try the hot drink, but you're put off by the strong scent. “But in the time before the end, long before the Vice stirred, I dedicated my life to preserving the history of my people. When I stumbled into the fading echo of my home after wandering the wastes in a fugue… I had a purpose again. I won’t abandon it.”

You relent and take a tiny sip of the drink. It’s bitter, as bitter as losing Gio to his project. At least you tried…

“But,” he starts again, nursing the too-hot cup in his calloused hands, “Your mission’s importance… Let’s say I see it in a new light. It wouldn’t do to let you leave empty handed, such inhospitality would sicken my lost brethren. You’ve lifted that burden of guilt I’ve carried for years. Allow me to unburden you and your people.”

He rises to his feet, renewed with rest or perhaps by the smelly drink, and leans on the railing overlooking his trove. His eyes glow with pride as he watches the echoes continue their routine.

“I invite you and your flock here for a night of rest and revelry! Surely those beleaguered people could use a rest, and my folk are eager to share our wealth.”

You pause, galled by the offer. “My people’s survival isn’t some game, Gio. You’d have me stall their salvation? For trinkets and novelty?”

“And good food!” Gio says unabashed. “I’ve been out of the flock business for some time, but there’s one thing I remember the people could never get enough of: distraction. You drive them onward in the name of your mission. Respectfully– and it’s truly admirable what you do– people need more than to simply survive.”

“A day from the march puts us a day closer to the Vicewind,” you contend simply.

“But think of all you gain! I’ve larders full of food my people can’t eat, tools and baubles they can’t resist making, weapons too,” he continues, his excitement growing by the second. “Please. Let my people reenact their generosity. Let me contribute to your mission in my own way. Not to mention, it gives me time to teach you what I can of my spell. A more equitable deal couldn’t be found for miles around!” Gio continues to be swept up in the idea, but you can’t help but worry.

It’s true what he says about the commonfolk. They’ve faced much hardship. After the loss of so many from the recent hop their spirits must be near broken. The offer of food and supplies can’t be overlooked either. The ‘van had a teetering balance of goods before the hop. Losing one in five people could only have hurt that equilibrium. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Gio’s shield trick. If you could somehow harness the same power, to resist the Vicewind…

>Take Gio up on his offer. Plan on bringing the ‘van to the city. Lean into Gio’s generosity to get as much out of the deal as possible. It would delay your advance for a day or maybe more, but you’d rest easier knowing they’re all close.
>Compromise with Gio. Offer to bring a number of ‘folk from the ‘van, but only volunteers. Enough to satisfy the king, and get some of the promised supplies. Plan to direct the bulk of the ‘van to some defensible point near the edge of the jungle.
>Compromise with Gio. Bring only a few trusted leaders and battle-ready warriors. You still didn’t entirely trust Gio, but maybe you could still get something out of the deal. Plan to direct the bulk of the ‘van to some defensible point near the edge of the jungle.
>Refuse the derelict’s offer but insist he teach you what he can about his spell. You were no caster, but you had to try to glean what you could. Food and merry are transient, but a shield against the Vice? It could not be ignored.
>Refuse the pauper king’s offer and take your leave. All these promises sound too good to be true, especially in this otherworld. Each day ahead of the Vice is an invaluable treasure not to be traded away lightly.

>>6041224
>>Compromise with Gio. Bring only a few trusted leaders and battle-ready warriors. You still didn’t entirely trust Gio, but maybe you could still get something out of the deal. Plan to direct the bulk of the ‘van to some defensible point near the edge of the jungle.

>>6041224
>Compromise with Gio. Offer to bring a number of ‘folk from the ‘van, but only volunteers. Enough to satisfy the king, and get some of the promised supplies. Plan to direct the bulk of the ‘van to some defensible point near the edge of the jungle.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Rollin. Update later tonight most likely

You take a few moments, sipping bitter coffee as you weigh your options. The drink wasn’t as bad as you first thought.

“Alright Gio,” you start, holding up a hand to quell any excitement. “But! I can’t delay our march a second longer than absolutely necessary. I’ll return tomorrow with those interested in sampling your hospitality, but the rest of the ‘van must stay poised to advance.”

Gio seems ready to press you further, but relents with clasping hands. “I understand, of course. Though assure me you won’t undersell the wonders you’ve seen here! I’d like to fill the dining hall, and perhaps a show for the guests…” he trails off, eyes full of stars. You feel uneasy at the frivolity of it all.

“I’ll try to do it justice,” you say flatly. You think back at the skittish, weepy masses of commonfolk you left this morning. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, All– er, Gio. My flock are eager to rest, but slow to trust. I won’t force anyone to attend.”

He smiles knowingly. “I think you’ve kept your eyes set on the horizon too long, my friend. They aren’t a herd of cattle to be coddled. They’re human! Enduring and terribly curious!” He snaps his fingers over the railing. Several dutiful echoes file out of their ambling routine to attend their king from the ground floor. “My people and I are happy to indulge them for as long as you allow.” He yells out some commands in a foreign language, sending the servants scattering in all directions. “You’ll have a horse and the guidance of my men. They’ll have you back to your ‘van in no time. Make your preparations, but have a light breakfast! If you eat as little as I do, you’ll want to pace yourself for tomorrow's feast.”

You think to dampen the man’s expectations and to deny his offer of escort. But the jungle grows darker, and Gio’s excitement shines too bright. “We’ll arrive early and take our leave at noon… Wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.” You walk over to Gio and extend your hand; through the stained glass, the city’s growing shadow spreads over the jungle’s canopy. He meets your hand without further insistence, giving a firm shake.

“May this be the first step in reunifying the shepherds,” Gio says. He wears the pomp of royalty well. So much so that you can’t help but doubt his sincerity.

Gio’s outriders guide you down a recently carved path through the jungle. It’s not long until you’re out of the thicket and along a riverbank, firelight from the settled ‘van peeking over an outcropping across the water. No doubt Gio’s scouts kept a close watch on your people while you were away, for better or worse.

At some point along the way your escort splits off without a word, leaving you to meet up with the outer watch alone. They greet you with an enthusiastic horn blast heralding a noble’s return. You hand off your echo steed to the guard before hurrying off to the night council. The warriors could always use more horses.

Despite the chaos of yesterday’s hop and the foreboding warning you sent back with the scouts, your flock held together remarkably well in your absence. The mood is dour as ever, but the people move with purpose, galvanized by uncertainty. They exchange hushed words as you walk down the impromptu avenues between tents and huddled families. Faith seems to have found many more of them in your absence. Some hurry from their campfires and workstations to give the huddled light prayer. Many, you expect, are eager to ask about the dead city and its army. None dare interrupt you, though. You’ve been distant with them for so long, numbed by loss and years of stoic service.

For much of this ‘vans life, you’ve relegated the care of the commonfolk to their leader. Recently, that responsibility passed from Chern Alwa to her daughter, Chern Du. She’s your liaison, the wall that shields you from their pleading eyes, the messenger who sweetens your strict orders, the matron who calms their panic.

You think about what Gio said. You’ve had your eyes set firmly forward for years now, never daring to look behind for too long, to get a closer look at the people you’ve sworn to lead. Maybe it’s time for a change on the first night of this new otherworld? Or maybe Gio’s sentimentality only serves to weaken you…

>Address the commonfolk. Call out to them to announce the coming celebration. Alleviate their worry and invite them to Gio’s city. Promise a better future.
>Address the commonfolk. Assure them you’ve handled the threat, that they can rest easy for tonight. Commend their resolve and fortitude.
>Join the devout in a huddled communion. Reaffirm their faith with a few minutes of your time. It’s been a while since you’ve led a circle, but this would mean more than a few words.
>Simply offer the huddled light in return as you pass. Chern Du is better at this sort of thing, anyway. Best not to step on her toes. Your efforts are better spent focused on the bigger picture, not riling the ‘folk.
>Write-in

>>6042925
>Address the commonfolk. Call out to them to announce the coming celebration. Alleviate their worry and invite them to Gio’s city. Promise a better future.

>>6042925
>>Simply offer the huddled light in return as you pass. Chern Du is better at this sort of thing, anyway. Best not to step on her toes. Your efforts are better spent focused on the bigger picture, not riling the ‘folk.

Got home a lil late, update tomorrow.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

rollin.

“‘Folk of the ‘van!” you call out, stirring the huddled families nearby. “I return with good news. Rest easy knowing the echoes of the city mean us no harm. In fact, a… peer of mine has extended an invitation to everyone here.” You let the news sink in as a modest crowd gathers around. You haven’t addressed the ‘folk so directly in some time. Seeing the battered people hang on your every word… you felt exposed, unbalanced.

“Uh… We’ll be off to the city in the morning. May tomorrow's feast herald a peaceful cycle! Spread the word and, uh, have a light breakfast?” You turn away from the growing mass of people and hurry off, silently cursing Gio’s easygoing attitude. He made this seem so easy…

You make it to the council tent, last to arrive for once. The eyes of the preeminent leaders of the ‘van fall on you in unison. You’re reminded why you strive to get to these meetings ahead of everyone else.

You take your seat next to Lurenson and Chern Du. Looks like everyone is accounted for; it’s the first night of the cycle, after all. Lillian of the magi tries her best not to look agitated at your tardiness, while Turl of the warriors and his newly demoted lieutenant Vonus await your report patiently. Erben Tol, or Ben as he insisted earlier today, returns to his seat, never one to sit idle. A moski worker keeps utterly still, its eyes tracking you unerringly the moment you arrive, serving as proxy to its queen.

Seated apart from the crescent table of leaders, along the edge of the tent, several senior men and women of the ‘folk wait silently for the council’s session to commence. Among them sat crafters, foragers, cadet magi, animal handlers, couriers, and other prominent commonfolk eager to observe this first session. The crowded tent gives an impression of some sort of primitive senate or moot, but all authority rests solely with you. The attendance of these commonfolk and the key leaders of your ‘van is more for your own convenience than an invitation to collaborate.

Even so, you’ve largely allowed the leaders to steer the ‘van’s laws and customs without much interference. You had no great desire to lord over these people, as some shepherds had wont to do. Instead, you let them handle the minutiae of leadership while you focused on the bigger picture: the Vicewind behind and the Font ahead. Still, disagreements are inevitable, and it fell to you to arbitrate and keep the council on task.

“Lurenson,” you say as you settle in, marking the start of the session. He nods and hurries to the center of the tent. The low, crescent shaped table of the council across from the arc of commonfolk elders sets all focus on Lurenson as he begins his review of the ‘van’s status.

“On this night, the first night of our thirty-first cycle united, fifty-fifth of the true world’s exodus, I present my tabulations concerning the ‘van and its people.” After this much rehearsed line, Lurenson rattles off a series of figures relating to the ‘vans headcount, notable losses from the hop to this otherworld, food and supplies accounted for, and projected consumption. It’s all very meticulous, but hard to follow at times. Part way through citing a lack of needleworking tools, he realizes the blank stares of his audience.

“Er, uh, well in summary. A rough estimate concerning our overall supply… For food, I estimate with the current rate of consumption– accounting for the previously cited loss of several conjurer apprentices– we have about three weeks of food. Our supply of goods fares a bit better, tools and materials shouldn’t be a problem for thirty days or more, if scavenging trends stay consistent with previous cycles.” A murmuring ripples among the ‘folk elders.

A few weeks of steady decline… Could be worse. You’ve begun some cycles just ahead of starvation, forced to make terrible choices to ensure the survival of your flock. Even the commonfolk, quick to fear as they are, seem content with these figures. They’ve faced the same dire straits, after all. A month is more than enough to sort out this shortage, especially considering Gio’s promised goods.

“Thank you for the review, Lurenson. Before we begin our deliberations, let me tell you of the jungle city and its shepherd.”

The council and elders hang on your every word as you tell them of Gio, his mission, and his offer. You omit the details of his dereliction and… unshepherdly behavior, though him being a shepherd without a flock said enough. Despite the implicit danger, the ‘folk elders whisper with excitement and intrigue.

You end your report with Gio’s promise and tomorrow's plan. No doubt the elders would have no problem spreading the word and finding enough volunteers to satisfy your derelict peer; if your short speech hadn’t ignited enough interest already. Chern Du and Ben seem hard pressed to contain their excitement; but Lillian, Turl, and Vonus exchange concerned looks. They knew better than to outright challenge the plan, but you understand their reticence.

Still, you’ll have to decide which of them would accompany you, and which would stay to defend the ‘van. Chern Du would certainly attend to oversee the volunteers, and you doubt Queen Eidus of the moski has any interest. You mull over the options as the council starts their usual business.

File: Lurensons Approx.png (41 KB, 1026x427)

41 KB PNG

They debate over the allocation of pack animals, distribution of fine tools, and work orders to be filled. You sit back and let the leaders argue over the small decisions that keep the ‘van running. Occasionally, they’d look to you to make a final decision. Every small boon given to one faction over another builds up their capabilities and affords them a little more autonomy. Even in relatively inconsequential matters, the group you lend your support to grows ever so bolder.

After the council’s business is settled for the night, the ‘folk elders rise to submit their petitions. Most are settled without much thought, but the last elder petitions you directly.

“Sir Palmfast, on behalf of the grieving souls of the caravan, I ask you for respite. While you and your volunteers meet with this shepherd, might the rest of us have a day to mourn our losses in the holy way? It’s been too long since we’ve held a proper service. The ‘folk have suffered so much…”

* * *

>>[FACTION FAVOR: Choose one]

>Maintain the current balance of favor. The warriors and magi will enjoy greater privilege and autonomy at the expense of the commonfolk and moski.
>Restore a more even balance of favor. Rule in favor of the commonfolk and moski where possible.
>>Favor the…
>... Warriors, so they enjoy a clear advantage over all others.
>... Magi, so they surpass the warriors as the most favored.
>... Scouts, so they more closely match the warriors and magi.
>... Moski, to correct their neglect.
>... Commonfolk, to uplift them from the bottom.

As for who’ll join you at Gio’s feast…

>>[Choose two]
>Lillian of the magi. She’s not really much for revelry, but her talents could be invaluable in understanding Gio’s spell.
>Turl of the veterans. He’s a capable warrior with experience fighting off tens of echoes by himself.
>Vonus of the militia. You’ve demoted him today, but his connection to the commonfolk would set the volunteers at ease.
>Erben Tol of the scouts. His keen senses could come in handy, especially considering all the ‘folk you have to watch over.

And as for the elder’s petition…

>Allow the ‘folk who remain at the caravan to enjoy some rest and mourn their dead. It’ll severely hamper foraging and crafting for the day, but the day of rest will do wonders for their morale.
>Don’t permit the day of mourning. Tomorrow's delay is, in large part, allowed by Gio’s promise of supplies. Stalling production across the ‘van would severely cut into any gain.

>>6044472
>Maintain the current balance of favor. The warriors and magi will enjoy greater privilege and autonomy at the expense of the commonfolk and moski.

Morale is pretty decent so far and the feast should boost the morale of the commonfolk, so let's just leave it for now instead of risking upsetting a balance that so far seems to be working.

>Lillian of the magi. She’s not really much for revelry, but her talents could be invaluable in understanding Gio’s spell.
>Vonus of the militia. You’ve demoted him today, but his connection to the commonfolk would set the volunteers at ease.

I'd say understanding the spell is the most important part of this little excursion. Gio's supplies will help a little in the short-term, but having a new weapon/spell in the fight against the vice will be invaluable. Also Vonus can help us with soothing the commonfolk.

>Don’t permit the day of mourning. Tomorrow's delay is, in large part, allowed by Gio’s promise of supplies. Stalling production across the ‘van would severely cut into any gain.

>>6044472
>>Restore a more even balance of favor. Rule in favor of the commonfolk and moski where possible.

>Vonus of the militia. You’ve demoted him today, but his connection to the commonfolk would set the volunteers at ease.
>Erben Tol of the scouts. His keen senses could come in handy, especially considering all the ‘folk you have to watch over.

>Allow the ‘folk who remain at the caravan to enjoy some rest and mourn their dead. It’ll severely hamper foraging and crafting for the day, but the day of rest will do wonders for their morale.

Rolled 2, 1, 1 = 4 (3d2)

I'll roll this piecemeal, the second roll will decide between Ben and Lillian.

Over the course of the night council, you grant the commonfolk and moski boons where you can. Lillian and Turl are none too pleased as you grant cattle rights to the commonfolk and earmark meal priorities in the moski’s favor. They’ve been slighted for some time, and after talking to Queen Eidus and addressing the ‘folk, you think it’s best to uplift them somewhat. Lillian in particular bristles at the rulings, no doubt feeling further insulted after being ignored this morning.

Her persistent scowl finally relents as you pick her, Vonus, and Chern Du for tomorrow's feast. Though you’re not looking forward to getting your ear chewed off…

* * *

The elder accepts your rejection of his proposal without a word. These leaders of the ‘folk bore disappointment with grace. They knew better than to challenge you.

With the petitions heard and a plan set, the noble leaders of your flock return to their people. Churn Du stays behind for a moment and hands you a small bundle. You sense she wants to say something. Instead, she offers a small parting nod before leaving to spread word of your plan.

You’re left alone in the dim tent, a waning flame left to peter out behind you. Chern Du’s parting gift feels so small in your enlarged hands. You unfurl cloth to reveal a simple bar of packed grains accompanied by a few wildberries. Chern Alwa started the tradition after noticing how often you overlooked meals, though you talked her down from reserving finer foods. It would be a waste, after all, with your dulled appetite and sense of taste. Still, Alwa insisted; she wouldn’t allow you to starve on her people’s behalf.

Du picked up the routine right away, she’d be studying her mothers every move for years. Alwa was always so fastidious, always prepared. On some level, you think she sensed her death coming and planned for even that. Her careful instruction allowed Du to succeed her readily. Even still, Du and the commonfolk feel her loss to this day. You’re not sure they ever truly recovered from it.

You finish up the modest meal. They could dwell on the past if they must, but you had no choice but to look ahead. The flame shrinks away, and you’re left in darkness.

The fireplace crackles with a memory of warmth. You turn your attention away from the fire and to a flagon clutched in your oversized hand. The crack of firewood and its calming heat fade, lost in time the moment you look away, replaced by a faint hoppy aroma and the feeling of cool, smooth metal on your palm. You take a quick drink and almost taste it. Peering inside, your flagon stays full of ale, ever taunting.

The hall once hosted dozens of your brothers, the air energized with divine purpose and even a hint of camaraderie. Even after the true world’s end, this place offered some respite and a sense of community away from the mission. Even after the schism, these halls remind you of a time long passed, a time before your anointment. Those lax days you spent with your brothers at the Emberlin abbey carousing to spite the coming end. You still count those last peaceful days as a small victory against the Vice.

A presence, another shepherd.

“Good to see you made it, Dim.” She speaks from a corner of the room, from a hatch in the floor obscured by the hall’s grand table. “Are you well situated? The Font’s been kind to me this time.”

“Better than most cycles, I’d say,” you respond. She stays at the top of the ladder, arms crossed over the top rung.

“Not too many dead, I hope? I know you’ve taken on quite the flock.”

“I’ve taken more than my share, aye. But most persevere,” you shoot back. She stays silent, but you sense she’s still there.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to– I only meant to check on you. If you’d prefer to be alone…” Her words hang in the air. Shepherds could only find each other in the foundation if both parties willed it. Lenn knew that, but still she asks.

>Relent to your old companion. ”No... Please, join me for a drink.”

Or…

>>”We’ll have a drink another night Lenn. Be safe.”
>>Silently sever your connection.
>>”You’ve done it then. I have others I wish to see, shepherd’s who've kept their word.”
And instead, meet up with…
>... Talm Aurochsled, an old friend dedicated to the mission, if in his own blunt way. See how the new cycle’s treated him. Been a while since you’ve bailed him out of trouble.
>... Vel Swiche, head of a prominent cabal of loyalists. They’re some of the few left dedicated to the vicar’s vision. Their hard line approach pushes most shepherds away, but maybe they’ve learned something new of the Vice.
>... Emmis Totalseeker, a derelict apostate strangely open to meeting. He abandoned his faith and mission long before the vicars left, keeping to the shadows of the foundation for years. What could he possibly want with you?

>>6045182
>... Emmis Totalseeker, a derelict apostate strangely open to meeting. He abandoned his faith and mission long before the vicars left, keeping to the shadows of the foundation for years. What could he possibly want with you?

There isn’t much to say to her, or maybe you just can’t find the right words. You let the silence linger until her presence fades. Maybe another time, Lenn.

You reach out furtively in search of other shepherds. A number of old allies are receptive, but an oddity catches your attention. Emmis Totalseeker… He abandoned the mission barely a year after the end. A quiet exit too, unlike most derelicts and cabalists. Your interest piques, what could he want with an adherent shepherd? Only one way to find out…

The abandoned meeting hall falls away in a blur. Without any feeling of movement, you go from reclining alone with your thoughts to standing in a moonlit archway. There’s no need to orient yourself. The foundation is inexorably linked to every shepherd, the vast expanse of rooms as familiar as your own limbs.

Moonlight spills in from a great opening in the observatory’s domed roof. The streak of light falls firmly on you, though it's bright enough to scatter across the room and catch against long neglected tools strewn about. Baubles of dead science, the immense telescope in the center of the room most prominent of all.

Two glints of light stir at your arrival.

Out from behind a series of metal rods lurks your unlikely host. He approaches, eyes lit like a stalking cat in the shadows, heads taller than you, yet lean and spindly. The moonlight reveals his gaunt, stoic face dominated by two sharply angled eyes. They look half-lidded, though side to side in the manner of a bird or lizard.

You thought Gio’s anointment had unfortunate results, but seeing Totalseeker for the first time…

“Ah, Dim Palmfast is it? Surprising, but maybe not so much…” He keeps to the safety of the shadows, emotion absent from his face, but not his voice.

“Totalseeker. I can’t imagine you sought me out for benediction?” You feel a tightness in your chest. Was it fear? No, you’ve seen far worse fighting the Vice. Something about the lost shepherd weighed on you, the very air heavy in his presence.

He lets out a deep chuckle, though his face betrays no amusement. “I think we’re well past that, hm? No, I invite you on the recommendation of a friend of mine. Gio was so excited talking of his reconciliation with you. I found it endearing, contagious even.” He sounds genuine, yet distant. No– sarcastic? You find his tone hard to parse, and his stony face didn’t help. The second he stops speaking, you find it hard to remember what he even said.

“Gio? Are you of the same cabal then?”

“Not quite. I simply enjoy the company of like minded fellows.”

You’ve kept an even tone so far, but can’t help but scoff at the apostate. “I fear Gio’s given you a terrible impression of me.”

“Oh? He spoke of how you came to some agreement, some collaboration. Unheard of, for such a faithful adherent to entertain someone like Gio. If any of those zealots downstairs found him in your stead… Well, I shudder to think.”

A threat? No, he sounds saddened by the thought. Or is it disappointment?

“I’ve only done what’s best for the mission,” you say. “Something you and those ‘zealots’ seem to have lost sight of.”

“Yes, precisely!” he chirps, lurching into the light. “The mission, it’s bigger than any of these petty disagreements. In this, we agree. And so I invited you.” Sickly, black hair dangles limp from his head as he leans forward. He places one shriveled hand across his chest. “The things that weigh heavy on our hearts, they’re nothing compared to what lies ahead. I hope to find others who agree. Shepherds who can shed these burdens and refocus on the mission.” His obfuscation begins to weaken, though whether by his power or your own, you’re not certain.

“Speak plainly, Totalseeker, if you’re really so eager to find reconciliation. As far as I’ve heard, you’ve never held true to our mission. You’ve spurned our faith and our responsibility to guide the lost. Tell me, what mission do you speak of, because it surely isn't mine.”

“The only mission. To restore the true world.” He withdrawals to the shadows, though his inflection is finally clear: resolve. “The zealots seek to destroy the Vice. Impossible. You seek to run your gaggle from world to world. To what end?

“I offer clarity. If the shepherds reunite, we can achieve what the vicars arrogantly dismissed. It can be done Dim, it can!”

You mask your disappointment. Another derelict offering mad dreams.

“Give it time, Dim. I only ask for a favor. A small thing, a test of faith. Should be easy for someone like you, eh?” He extends his arm toward you, out and out and out some more across the length of the room. Something writhes in his outstretched palm. It looks like leech or slug, black with white freckles. It seems so real.

“Take it to the waking world, Dim. Bring it to Gio. One small step towards restoring our world, let him show you my plan.”

You stare at the pathetic thing. “You can’t expect me to–”

He shushes you as a mother would a crying child. “Faith, Dim. Only faith.”

>Take the strange thing.
>Refuse the task.

>>6045972
>Take the strange thing.

You take the strange thing into your hand. It’s heavier than it looks.

“Thank you,” Emmis says as he retreats further into the shadows. You catch one last glimpse of his monstrous form before he fades from the room entirely. Hopefully Gio will be more forthcoming…

* * *

[DAY 2]
[Energy: +5 to 25 | Vice: -5 to 5 | Capacity: 30 of 100]

After only a few hours of dreamless rest in the foundation, you return to the waking world. Anointment quelled your need to sleep, replacing frivolous dreams with an opportunity to collaborate with other shepherds. You didn’t mind the trade. You’ve seen how nightmares burden some of your flock.

Rising from your meditative pose, you unclasp your hands to reveal Emmis’ parcel. It ended up in the otherworld after all. An impossibility, but somehow you aren’t surprised the enigmatic derelict found a way. Between this and Gio’s new spell, you suspect the derelicts are far more capable than the loyalists realize. Even if you don’t come to fully trust them, it’s good to get a grasp of what they’ve learned. What they can offer. What they threaten.

You take your normal rounds patrolling the camp’s perimeter as the bulk of the ‘folk take their final hours of rest. As always, the warriors and scouts of the night watch breathe a sigh of relief as you pass their stations. They believe your few hours of retreat to the foundation present a terrible opportunity for the Vice. The evil doesn’t sleep, but it doesn’t strategize either, as far as you’ve seen. Even if some contingent of Vice attacks overnight, your senses would pull you from the foundation without trouble.

Your enhanced senses pick up no Vice nearby. You do, however, spot a party of echoes stationed downriver. Gio somehow got them to ignore their memories of sleep, or perhaps they cast them aside themselves. You reassure some unnerved warriors that they mean no harm. It’s hard to see echoes as anything other than mad apparitions, especially when they loom outside of camp for hours on end.

Dawn is soon to break as the first ‘folk stir from their slumber. Hopefully enough of them are willing to volunteer for Gio’s feast. Their fear could spell a disappointing turnout for the eager derelict.

You still have a little time until the volunteers assemble. Enough time to…

>Meet up with Turl and discuss the defense of the ‘van in your absence.
>Meet up with Lurenson and assist him in planning the day's production.
>Meet up with Lilian and show her the strange parcel Emmis gave you.
>Meet up with Eidus and discuss the moski’s role in the day’s events.
>Meet up with Gio’s echoes and confirm their intentions.
>Write-in

>>6046776
>Meet up with Lilian and show her the strange parcel Emmis gave you.

She's probably the most pissed at us so let's talk to her

You cross the ‘van as meager light peaks over the horizon. More activity than usual, you note. People are eager to keep themselves busy even without the need to move out as early as possible. The den of magi is no exception. Conjurors busy themselves pulling grain from the soil as a trinity of diviners enact their daily scrying rituals. The efforts of these few ever busy magi are integral to the ‘van, a fact Lillian is keenly aware of. You find the senior mage among her elite disciples, hurriedly outlining the day’s itinerary. She turns her attention to you. Her face bears the wrinkles and lines of someone ten years her senior, yet her eyes retain the sharpness of youth.

“Palmfast! There’s much to sort and very little time, so let’s not mince words.” She releases her cohort and marches over to you, her every footfall sharp and measured. “I have thirty magi in my retinue, eight of them initiates. Of the utility caste: twelve conjurers, four researchers, three diviners, all splitting their efforts with training. I need you to expend some of your cleansed energy for them, clear some Vice from the researcher’s tools, realign the diviner’s insight for more accurate portents, and allow a couple initiates to shadow you for the day. Please, sign here to appease Chern Du and her council.” Lillian thrusts a scroll towards you, her eyes already scanning the area for able magi to pass along orders.

Accustomed to the mage’s impatience and stern requests, you look over her missive briefly. The allocation of magi, yet again, goes against previously agreed numbers. It would take some negotiation to right Lillian’s stubborn attitude regarding Vice research. Her other demands ask a lot, in time and energy. Deflecting her with Lurenson and shunting the magi’s power yesterday no doubt agitated her, though she wouldn’t admit it.

[Energy: 25 | Vice: 5 | Capacity: 30 of 100]

>>[FACTION DEMAND: Cede one or more]
>Sign the missive reassigning magi from ‘folk duties to Vice research.
>Donate energy to Lillian to somewhat bolster all arcane endeavors. (Lose 5 Energy)
>Cleanse the enviced research tools. (Gain 5 Vice)
>Assist the diviners, enhancing their scrying of the surrounding area. (Lose 5 Energy)
>Take on two initiates for the day.

>>6047059
>Cleanse the enviced research tools. (Gain 5 Vice)
>Donate energy to Lillian to somewhat bolster all arcane endeavors. (Lose 5 Energy)
>Assist the diviners, enhancing their scrying of the surrounding area. (Lose 5 Energy)

This might be naive but I'm assuming we're mostly safe her so let's just take on the vice and spend some energy since we can replenish it using the vice.

Busy over the weekend, might update tomorrow if I got time.

“Good to catch up, Lillain,” you offer wryly. You hand the missive back to the stubborn mage. “But I can’t sign this. The ‘folk have been dealing with lackluster tools for weeks now, about time we lend them a hand.”

“Hm. ‘We’? Our efforts here are stretched thin as is, my magi’s skills are wasted mending baskets and the like.” You follow the head mage around as she manages her people. She quickly corrects some runic on a conjurer's circle before moving on.

“Pull some off of your research, then. Better to focus on the tangible.”

“I’d think you’d be more interested in the Vice’s mysteries. Every bit of insight brings us that much closer to destroying it.” She ushers you into the main tent. Sickly rawness of arcane energy mingling with Vice thickens the air.

“I’m interested in keeping the ‘van running smoothly. Vice festering here only begs trouble.” Researchers mill about, layers of treated cloth protecting them from acrid air. The smell alone threatens to overwhelm even your fortified senses.

Lillian dons some protective gloves and places the mangled, enviced tools before you. “I admit it’s a risky business, understanding the Vice. Methods are crude, but we’re making strides, I assure you.”

You wave your palm over the instruments, pulling strands of Vice as you go. “We agreed to keep this research a low priority. Frankly, it's a luxury we can’t afford.”

She removes her gloves and tosses them aside with a note of indignance. “As far as I’m concerned, we can’t afford not to. On behalf of those lost, and those remaining who haven’t the means to continue the good work.” Her leveraging of the dead agitates you. The magi of the true world expended everything pursuing the Vice’s destruction. It only meant so many more people lost their chance to survive.

She retrieves a pristine glass globe and holds it out to you. Her hands are blackened by years of overexposure to the arcane, arms wrinkled and drained of youth. “Alas, I must concede the decision to you.”

The glass font glows bright white as you infuse it with energy, a portion for the diviners and the rest to aid the magi as a whole. “Leave the Vice to us shepherds, Newsaint. You can use your expertise to help the living, not chase down some impossible solution. The academy wasted years attempting the same thing. Don’t add to their folly.”

[Energy: -10 to 15 | Vice: +5 to 10 | Capacity: 25 of 100]

Lillain bides your remark, ever the stoic. “It’s up to me to assure their efforts aren’t wasted, hopper. Every small step brings us closer to the evil’s end, even if you refuse to see it.”

You shake your head, unwilling to argue further. “I simply focus on helping those I can. Help me with that, and do what you must otherwise.” You consider leaving on that note, but remember Emmis’ mysterious parcel.

“In fact, you can help me right away.” You show Lillian the squirming thing. It rolls around in your palm, but doesn’t seem keen to escape. “What do you make of it?”

Lillian gives a confused look before her interest piques. She examines it closely with a trained eye, muttering some runic as her eyes light up. Some of her associates crowd around as well. Lillian snaps her fingers and motions to her gloves and some tools, her researchers quick to assist her. “Stinks of the Vice, though I’m sure you’ve gathered that much. Some unusual mutation? Where did you find this?” She attempts to grab the thing with some forceps, her assistants ready with treated glass.

You pull the thing away. “It’s been trusted to me on… shepherd business. Be delicate.” Lillian offers a rare smirk as she readies her tool, as if wordlessly saying ‘aren’t I always?’

The thing leaves your hand, but not without a hint of strange resistance. Lillian places it gingerly into a glass tube before getting to work. With ensorceled senses, she and her cohort go about a non-invasive examination while you hover over anxiously.

“This is not of the otherworld, that much is certain. Too dense, though not quite of true world make either. If you’d allow more thorough testing…” she trails off, engrossed by the oddity.

“I can’t allow it. This is the work I spoke of before, the shepherds work to undo the Vice.” At least, if Emmis was to be believed… “Besides, I’ll be handing it off to Alltask today, at his feast.”

“Unusual circumstances we find ourselves in,” Lillian muses as she offers the parcel back to you. “I can’t tell you much without more intense methods. But I ask you, would you prefer to be a courier passing along what you're told, or take control of this thing and learn what you can while you have the chance?”

Emmis’ words echo in your mind: ‘Faith, Dim. Only faith.’

>Take back the thing, unwilling to compromise whatever it holds.
>Relent to Lillian on the condition that she returns it to you as intact as possible.
>Hand over the parcel. Allow Lillian to use any means to discover the thing’s purpose.
>Write-in

>>6049261
>Take back the thing, unwilling to compromise whatever it holds.

I don't trust Emmis and that's half the problem. What if he rigged this thing a certain way to blow up in our faces if messed with? Hopefully Alltask can let us know what it is.

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>>6049261
>write in

>you will be with us at Alltask's feast. While the 'folk find their ease with bread and wine we shall ply our host with questions. He has been open enough to show me the fruits of his work, though I had burned it's bulk; it shall chance well that we shall learn something from his receipt of this... oddity. From there, your inference will be invaluable.
>Destruction for the sake of discovery will do worse than destroy a parcel: it will have broken my word, and who can say what it will take to repair that?
>Alltask and Totalseeker have broken their faith and their vows. Perhaps an example of how it is kept may serve better where counsel and history failed.

An excellent yarn QM. Late to it, but bookmarked.

>>6049437
Thanks! Been fun shakin the rust off

You shake your head, releasing the thing from Lillian’s custody. “Destruction for the sake of discovery will do worse than destroy a parcel: it will have broken my word, and who can say what it will take to repair that?”

The head mage’s ever calm expression warps with a flash of frustration. “Forgive my impertinence, but the shepherd we’re to meet broke his word once already. Why indulge him with brazen trust?”

You offer a shrug. “Alltask and his associate Totalseeker have broken their faith and their vows, true. But perhaps an example of how it is kept may serve better where counsel and history failed.”

Your faith in the reformation of your peers gives Lillian pause. Her untrusting, methodical mind seems to seize up, unsure how to rebuke your plan. “Trust me, Newsaint. Allow me to handle the shepherds in my own way.

“As for your part, you will be with us at Alltask's feast. While the 'folk find their ease with bread and wine we shall ply our host with questions. He has been open enough to show me the fruits of his work, though I had burned it's bulk; it shall chance well that we learn something from his receipt of this... oddity. From there, your inference will be invaluable.”

Finally, Lillian relents. “The ways of you holy folk… Very well. If this is what you offer, I’ll oblige. But I won’t let our host off without learning something of substance.”

“I expect no less.”

* * *

Making your way to the edge of camp, an unusual feeling creeps up: calm. With Lillian and her magi placated, the elite members of the ‘van and their people are largely set to rights. And with the coming feast poised to settle the commonfolk’s unease… You find it hard to come to terms with the feeling that things are actually going smoothly.

But calm invites complacency, all too dangerous for shepherds. You’ve seen the results first hand. Others have paid. Never again.

You’re pulled from your brooding as you stumble on Chern Du. She fusses with a group of children, pinning colorful tassels on their tunics. Such vivid threads are a rarity in the otherworld. Chern Du took pains to bring color back into the lives of her people. She insists that color is the essence of life, and that’s why the otherworld felt so dead. After seeing Gio’s court, you find it hard to disagree with her sentiment.

“Chern Du, did you manage any volunteers? We must leave soon if we’re to return on time.”

She straightens a young boy’s shirt and sends the group on their way. They scatter to various families in the surrounding crowd, giggling and shouting as they go. The matriarch rises and greets you with a smile. “I believe they’re more than ready, shepherd.” You look around at the dozens of buzzing ‘folk, now realizing you’d already stepped out of camp. There must be over fifty of them!

Chern Du steps close, keen to your shock. “Thank you for giving my people this opportunity, Dim. They haven’t seen civilization in years. The children only hear of such things from fading stories.” Her eyes gain a steely resolve, as if to preempt your concern. “We’re survivors. We know the risk. We’re willing to take it, to grasp this thread and weave new stories. To live.”

You find it hard to deny her. Surrounded by so many hopeful eyes… A promise is a promise. “Forgive me, I’ve underestimated your bravery, and theirs. I’m glad to offer at least this chance at normalcy.”

She lays a small hand on your arm. “Their bravery surprises me every day. But, truly, I think I know where it stems from.” She gives a last knowing smile before setting off to lead her people.

[RETINUE: 64]
[COMBAT STRENGTH: ~40] (One equals the power of one trained, unmounted warrior)
|4 Nobles: You, Vonus of the militia, Lillian of the magi, Chern Du of the ‘folk|
|60 Commonfolk: 18 Militia, 28 Other Adults, 14 Children|

>Bring along a proportional complement of warrior caste to protect the ‘folk: a battle mage, two moski drones, five warriors, and six scouts to flank. Combined with Lillian, Vonus, and your own considerable prowess, the ‘folk will be well protected. (Add 14 to the retinue, strengthening by 17)
>Bring along a few of the warrior caste: a battle mage, a moski drone, two warriors, and two scouts to flank. Lillian, Vonus, and you already wield considerable power, so the bulk of the ‘vans strength should remain fortified in camp. (Add 6 to the retinue, strengthening by 9)
>Keep the entirety of the warrior caste in camp. The militiamen already tagging along can protect their families. Lillian, Vonus, and you can handle the rest.

Or…

>>Write in. Some amount from the available warrior caste:
>… up to two battle magi, who each fight with the strength of three warriors. They can even fight off the Vice in your absence.
>... up to four drones. Each towering moski fights with the strength of nearly three trained warriors. Fearless and terrifying.
>... up to seven warriors. They’re adept at protecting their kin and fighting off echoes, though they need arcane or divine assistance to harm the Vice.
>... up to eight scouts. Not technically part of the warrior caste, but stronger than militia in a pinch. Most useful when screening.

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>>6050026
>write

>it shall be poor indeed if our gladness to please our tongues see our throats cut
>yet to take the mages to make us secure will leave the 'van too weak...
>>we touch nothing of the standing force in the 'van, nor rescind our word to Eidus Queen to leave her brood at rear
>we will take an additional complement of 4-6 Moski harvesters, who shall bear their bounty of the choice of Gio Alltask's hospitality to their Queen
>they will sense danger at a longer range than those with us, which should be all we need for our Nobles, half the total in the 'Van, to get a decisive opening advantage
>not to mention if the food has been laced with anything Vice-derived they shall be the first to reject it and return hostility for treachery
>the presence of the Moski harvesters will excuse an additional 2 Moski drones as their (our) escort without putting us in Eidus Queen's debt or disfavor

>>6050136
edit
>to get a decisive opening advantage should anything fall amiss.

>>6050026
>Bring along a few of the warrior caste: a battle mage, a moski drone, two warriors, and two scouts to flank. Lillian, Vonus, and you already wield considerable power, so the bulk of the ‘vans strength should remain fortified in camp. (Add 6 to the retinue, strengthening by 9)

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Rollin for
>5 moski workers and 2 drones. (Add 7 to the retinue, strengthening by 6)
or
>Bring along a few of the warrior caste: a battle mage, a moski drone, two warriors, and two scouts to flank. Lillian, Vonus, and you already wield considerable power, so the bulk of the ‘vans strength should remain fortified in camp. (Add 6 to the retinue, strengthening by 9)

Though I like the idea of involving some moski workers, so we'll throw em in either way.

Shepherding the apprehensive yet excited group of volunteers reminds you of the formative weeks of your second ‘van. Only you and a few key others stood between some dozens of ‘folk and the then fresh chaos of the otherworld. Having those few survivors relying totally on your strength sharpened your resolve like nothing you'd experienced. Truth be told, it’s a little refreshing as well. Your retinue numbers less than a third of the main camp. All under your charge are close at hand, you didn’t have to relegate command or juggle conflicting interests.

Your mind drifts to your old friends Lenn and Talm. They kept smaller flocks than most, but especially compared to yours. You’d been so harsh to them because of it, especially to Lenn. But the sense of ease, of control you feel at the moment… You understand their decision, if begrudgingly.

Your retinue keeps a brisk pace; another advantage you had to admit. Gio’s outriders lead on wordlessly as you cross the river and head into the dark thicket. Your flock continues to surprise as they walk along the recently hewn path without hesitation. In fact, most seem quite enamored with the strange flora. You have to hurry stragglers along at times. Luckily, Gio had the forethought to station echoes along the path. They bore decorative crests and dyed furs, falling in line behind your retinue as you near the city. Chern Du and her people are already enthralled by their pomp; you wonder if they can handle all Gio has in store.

Entering the clearing surrounding the city, you wonder if the echoes toiled even overnight. Camps are tidy, wide stumps already pulled and disposed of, and the dirt path cleared and flattened. Most notable, though, are the dozens of soldiers assembled near the front gate. They stood ready in two groups, two columns firmly at attention. Your escorts make a fine show of marching in unison ahead of your comparatively disorderly pack, filing into formation with practiced precision.

Finally, your eager flock’s caution gets the better of them. They hesitate at the sight of the colorful battalion, bunching up behind your steady lead. It wouldn’t last though.

The city gates open, parted by yet more soldiers. Streaks of color burst forth, spectacle clashing with the soured otherworld and pristine white walls. Children and adults alike rush forward to behold the display. Bits of red, yellow, and purple paper scatter in the wind and drift over your wide eyed flock. Growing sounds of foreign strings and flutes draw the party ever closer, utterly captivating.

Your base instincts demand an eye and ear on your flock at all times, but the grand display threatens to overcome even that. Even in the true world, you’d never left the drab coastline that hosted modest Emberlin. To see such ostentation in person…

Eager ‘folk probe ahead, the less sure following close behind. Vonus wordlessly leads the smattering of militia ahead of the pack, the few warrior caste you brought along keeping to their flanks. You begin to raise a hand, ready to call them back. Chern Du sidles up, laying her own hand over yours. “They’re safe with Vonus, don’t worry yourself overmuch. Let them drink it in while we have the time.” You shoot her a distraught look, unsure how she can be so lax. “You should do the same, Dim. You’ve earned it.”

* * *

Much of the retinue gawks and ambles about a central plaza, drunk on the festivities laid before them. Even the impassive moski seem overwhelmed by the splendor. They huddle together near the center, passing echoes unbothered by their monstrous forms.

Just last night you rode through these bare white streets, but today they’ve been totally transformed. Echoes once hidden from view walk the streets in practiced hustle and bustle. Stalls hastily crafted from the felled jungle bore jewelry and treats, enchanting eyes and noses alike. So-called merchants call out to passersby, entreating them to sample ‘Otmon’ goods. The most colorful of the citizens: a troupe of garish musicians plucking at strange instruments, covered head to toe in fine silks of every color, overlong feathers sprouting from hats and armbands.

“Welcome, companions of Palmfast!” an echo calls out from a balcony overlooking the plaza. The regal figure wears a fine gold diadem, encrusted with rubies and one enormous purple tourmaline, furs stacked on its shoulders, its too-many ringed hand thrust skyward. “Our riches are yours, as your struggle is ours. Let us feast and make merry, so that the otherworld must take heed of our cheer and plenty!” The crowd, mostly the echoes, belts out a cheer in eerie unison before setting to work pulling tables and chairs from nearby doorways. Commonfolk stumble around their host’s uncanny coordination as concentric arcs of tables crop up radiating from the plaza’s center. The moski are especially put off, the drone wrapping around its delicate worker caste in a defensive coil.

The pace of everything, the grandiosity, it overwhelms you. Control of your group slips from your grasp as they spread across the plaza and even deeper into the city. And where is Gio? You felt certain he couldn’t resist addressing his guests in person, but that gaudy herald did so in his stead.

“Sir Palmfast,” an armored echo says, pulling your darting gaze from the crowd. “My lord invites you to his manor while the people assemble. Please, this way.” He motions to a grand building towering over the plaza, the one which housed that herald. You toss a concerned look to your people. Vonus watches over Chern Du as she speaks to a number of overwhelmed ‘folk, her gentle warmth obvious even from here. Militiamen and warriors keep watch over the crowd, careful to correct what stragglers they spot. The lone battle mage and couple scouts are especially attentive, passing messages along to each other as they take survey.

Lillian marches up to you, seemingly unimpressed by the wonders surrounding her. “Have faith in your people, hopper. It’s what you do, yes?” She keeps her eyes squarely on the manor. Her mind’s fixed on only one thing.

>Attend to your people. Until you’re certain they’re safe and accounted for, you can't meet with Gio.
>Enjoy the festivities. If the people see you’re at ease, they’ll follow suit. Delay Gio’s meeting.
>Assert control of the stragglers, harshly if you must. Spectacle is no excuse to let our guards down.
>Accept Gio’s invitation. Time’s of the essence, and you have much to learn from him.
>Write-in

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>>6050785
>write

>though surrounded by the wealth and gaity of Old Otmon in the flower of its age, the essential does not escape you:
>you are surrounded.
>Gio Alltask remains a shepherd who has abandoned the faith, and the lives of those entrusted to him to their fate.
>Until he has proven himself again, to his own hurt if need be, it shall be taken that he might as lightly do the same to your people:
>to use them up for the maintenance of his sentimental delusion of Old Otmon, dead and fallen,
>or sell their souls to Totalseeker, for him to find ways ever further from the faith, and draw others with him to error.
>The colors of life were cut from us to serve the greater need:
>To keep the people until the vicars come,
>against which the yearning of Alltask and ambitions of Totalseeker together must weigh less.

>We remain watchful of all with us.
>If they stray, we chide, to learn them to be watchful
>And to give Alltask a complete example:
>Thus, a shepherd.

>>6050785
>Assert control of the stragglers, harshly if you must. Spectacle is no excuse to let our guards down.

We've given the common people enough slack already. Revelry does not mean foolishness

Some shit came up, just got home. Should be able to update tomorrow if things settle down

>>6051422
: D

>>6050785
>>Assert control of the stragglers, harshly if you must. Spectacle is no excuse to let our guards down.

You wave off the eager head mage. “I’m not going until I’m sure everyone’s accounted for.” You set off into the crowd before Lillian can protest.

It’s time to shake off doubt and hesitation, whelm the spectacle and set your mind to your sole purpose. You march along the edges of the plaza, pulling ‘folk from streets and alleys as you go.

Vonus is quick to fall in line. He commands militiamen to sweep in your wake, calling out to some wayward ‘folk by name. You’re glad you brought him along, though his familiarity with the commonfolk shames you at the same time. You haven't committed many names to the myriad faces of your people. On some level, this was a conscious decision. Common wisdom from fellow shepherds and years of loss pulled you away from them. Recognizing their bravery and inquisitiveness now, you can’t help but think you’ve drifted too far.

Luckily, most ‘folk didn’t get far into the city without Gio’s echoes blocking their path. They stand guard, blocking streets, plain white buildings beyond largely empty and unadorned. You catch sight of a few children running in and out of barren buildings.

“You there! Back to the group now!” you command. Your booming voice immediately corrects them. They fall in line and head back to their families, avoiding your gaze as they pass, adorned with many baubles snatched from the Otmon vendors.

Back in the plaza you find rings of tables assembled, echoes spreading plates of colorful foods along them with quick precision. Much of it is preserves and dried or smoked meats, though the echoes did an admirable job transforming these non-perishables into an impressive array of foreign dishes. They even managed a few confections in the bunch.

Your efforts, aided by the enticing scent of the feast, pulls your people back together at last. Before you begin counting the eager ‘folk filing into the series of tables, Vonus appears from the crowd, ready to impart a rare word. “All sixty accounted for, hopper,” he reports before returning to Chern Du.

Lillian marches up to you. “Are you satisfied?” she asks, masking her agitation.

“Never. But that’s the lot of a shepherd.” Despite your words, you finally allow Gio’s guardsman– who hasn’t budged an inch this whole time– to usher you away. The people would have to attend to themselves for a while.

* * *

You pass through a luxurious foyer and up a flight of stairs. Gio seems to have a forward facing idea of decor; the halls and upper floor are practically barren. A few crates, a simple table with one chair, and the odd pile of silks piled against bare white walls. Your host stands stooped near a tall stained glass window overlooking the plaza. The thick glass shields him from the many ‘folk commencing their feast below, yet still he masks most of his body behind cold stone.

“Your guest is here, my lord.” It was Gio’s personal aid, looking rather uncomfortable under layered finery, a diadem crooked on his brow. He wrests the many rings from fingers, a few scattering to the floor.

“Don’t lose those! You’ll need to put them back on soon enough.” He fusses over his assistant, pulling edges of fine fur in some elaborate manner. “See? One-over-three, seven in all. Just like the portrait.”

“Perhaps, now that I’ve had the first words, you can–”

“No no! You look stunning, Antony! So regal, you were born for this!” He pats the echo’s burdened shoulders before turning to greet you, straightening his posture. “The ever steadfast Dim! And you’ve brought a friend?” He gives Lillian a swift bow while holding one palm vertically. “I admire the commitment to your people’s safety, though I assure you they’re in good hands.”

You brush aside Gio’s assurances, gesturing to your companion. “This is Lillian Newsaint, head mage of my flock. She’s come to assist in arcane matters.”

“And matters of the Vice,” Lillian adds.

“Oh? A fellow academic, how exciting! I’d love to compare notes– ah, though you might find my research lacking,” he gives a shrug and mock-rueful glance your way, though neither you nor Lillian are amused.

“I believe you have much to teach me, actually.” She nudges you impatiently. You almost shoo her off, but think it better to show solidarity in Gio’s presence.

“Eh… Yes. I visited a shepherd last night, Emmis Totalseeker. He invited me on your recommendation.” You aren’t thrilled to divulge such matters to Lillian, though you had little recourse now.

“Ah, Emmis. Quite the brilliant sort, isn’t he? I figured, with how well things went yesterday, you’d be happy to meet with him,” his eyes are full of eager joy, though you sense he expects more from your meeting than stories of budding friendship.

You think back to Gio, crumpled and withered after your ‘duel.’ “You have a generous look of things, Gio. Though I suppose it's served you well so far.” You retrieve the parcel and offer it to him, though out of his reach.

His eyes light up. “I simply have faith in my fellow man.”

You keep eyes level with Gio, though you feel Lillian’s disapproving gaze boring into him. “I’ve heard enough of faith. Tell us what this is, and plainly.” He looks somewhat shocked to be ordered around by an unanointed, but you do nothing to overrule her.

“Eh, Miss Newsaint–”

“Lillian will suffice.”

“Of course.” He gives an apologetic bow. “Lillian. Are matters of the arcane so simple that they can be explained ‘plainly’? Well, steep such technicality in the mystics of the divine and, well, things get quite muddled.” He motions for you to follow as he heads down some stairs, explaining as you make your way to a wide basement. “Emmis, some others, and I have set about unraveling what divides the arcane from the divine, and how it relates to the Vice.”

“The arcane and divine are one and the same,” Lillian asserts.

Gio leans into her sacrilege. “Yes! In essence, true; though with some key, subtle differences. Free of the vicar’s dogma, we set about exploring these hidden corners of magic, and found Vice nestled in its shadows.” He retrieves a plain metal box from a nearby shelf, caressing its smooth, reflective surface as he speaks.

You decide not to protest their sinful dissection of your faith, allowing Lillian to counter. “Any competent mage could tell you as much. The Vice didn’t materialize from nothing, it exists as a dark reflection of the arcane. Please get to the point.”

“Tsk, tsk. So impatient. Here: see what unfettered exploration has earned us.” He opens the box, revealing some shards of deep black stone. You're unsure what more jewelry proves, though Lillian’s intrigue beckons the both of you forward. She plucks a thin shard from the box, examining it with dimly lit, ensorcelled eyes.

“It’s Vice?” she balks. You lean over, confused. You sense nothing, it sits dormant in her ungloved hands. It seems nothing more than smooth rock.

“It is,” Gio says, holding back welling excitement. “Wrung from the air, from trees and stone, and from echoes. This is the Vice that taints the otherworld, and we’ve extracted it. We’ve formed it to our will.” Emmis’ parcel feels heavier by the second.

You hold back your questions, sure Lillian holds many more.

She settles on only one after some time affixed on the sheer black stone. “If this is true, then to what end?” You know the answer she wants, but recalling Emmis’ dismissal of the Vice’s destruction, you fear Gio couldn’t oblige her.

“The only end: a new beginning. Restoration of the true world. It’s Emmis’ vision, and after what we’ve learned, it’s mine too.” He shuts the box and gestures to the bit of dormant Vice in Lillian’s hand. A gift, it seems.

“And what of those who die in the meantime? We can use this to ward the Vice off, maybe even fight it! It stands to reason that they won’t be able to annihilate this so easily.” She sheds her even tone, frustrated yet pleading.

Gio ignores her, turning to you. “What say you, Dim? You’ve known the Vice. Its totality. Its sheerness. Do you agree with your mage? Or can you see the bigger picture?”

>[The Anointed] Support Lillian’s claim. Agree that if there’re means to fight the Vice, they must be utilized.
>[The Shepherd] Disagree with the dilemma. Assert that one goal serves the other. Are they not essentially the same mission?
>[The Hermit] Admit the Vice is too powerful to be fought directly. Concede that a more decisive solution is needed.
>[The Hopper] Dismiss the whole affair. Contend that your flock's survival is more important than a half-promise.

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>>6052521
first choice
>[The Hopper]
Until the Vicarage is proven utterly false, the heterodoxy of Alltask and Totalseeker is to be regarded but not relied upon. Let them furnish the proof of its effectiveness in real terms, which is presently lacking: Alltask has a Vice blob loose in his domain, and it seems he has either not detected it or elected to ignore it. Vice shards in a box is very impressive, but the Vice blob that is as far as we know still loose in his city remains a threat to our sixty souls. If not to the Vicarage, we will be faithful to the people.

2nd choice
>[The Shepherd]
Lillian for all her training remains a mage. Shepherds seem to be big picture types. One seed is a forest, to a shepherd. So long as a remnant is kept, the people will bloom again. If we can end things at a stroke, we shall spare the suffering of a long war; the dead will number the same.

“Sorry to disappoint the both of you, but I can’t match your grand visions. I only see a box of rocks. Until you can demonstrate how exactly this helps my people, I haven’t much to say.” Truthfully, you don’t doubt the potential of Gio’s findings. But you’d prefer to steer the conversation away from the two visionaries’ wild ideas.

Neither seem happy with your deflection. Lillian’s ready to press her argument, but Gio raises his hands in concession. “The man of one mind. I’ll have you convinced in time, I’m sure.” He steps to the center of the room and clasps his hands together. “Let us focus on the concrete, then. Something of indisputable utility!”

Gio demonstrates his shield trick, carefully outlining the arcane methodology for Lillian to absorb. “You see, it’s less about creating a wall, and more about occlusion. It’s not a shield to match the Vice’s strength. It’s a veil to separate oneself from the otherworld. A pocket replete of this vicestone, so that Vice cannot sense you, so it washes over you unknowingly.” You feel lost as he goes on, detailing specific arcane somatics, invocation gestures, and theory. Lillian drinks in the details, but your eyes glaze over.

“Don’t despair, Dim. Focus of the divine half, that which you must feel, you must wrest from your devotion. This much is difficult to impart, as you well know.”

It’s true. Anointed powers contrast with spellcraft in that one is emotional and innate, while the other is practiced and calculating. This led to each shepherd wielding their powers in their own distinct way. Among shepherds, you’ve excelled at controlling your powers and exerting your will over the Vice. But you wouldn’t have the faintest clue how to teach what you’ve learned to others. Hopefully, the arcane side of things could bridge the gap.

Lillian, apparently, takes to Gio’s instruction well. She matches his movements uncannily, her mastery over the arcane on clear display. Nonetheless, her spell fizzles at each attempt.

“You’ve taken to it wonderfully! I’m humbled– and abashed– to be your teacher,” Gio says as he gives an apologetic bow. It does nothing to quell Lillian’s annoyance.

“These cobbled methods amount to gibberish! You may as well have cut half the letters from a smattering of sentences and called it poetry…” Despite her criticism, she continues practicing.

“Ah, if I may correct: It’s my own amateur attempt at a poem in two languages. I can only act as a conduit between your considerable knowledge and Dim’s natural mastery. I must say, between the two of you, I have no doubt Dim can master– and even build upon my quaint spell! This could be the start of a new formal school of magic…” Gio trails off, his airy idealism carrying him away from the task at hand.

“Gio, focus! What of my part in this, can you give me some direction?” you ask.

“Well, that will prove difficult without my arcane framework… Let’s start here: your attack yesterday, how did you control the Vice so keenly?”

You turn the question in your head for a time. “I suppose… I imposed a rein on the Vice, so to speak. Driving it ahead like a horse, but giving it slack where I had to.” Your explanation feels lacking, but Gio seems satisfied.

“Yes, this kind of visualization is fundamental to the arcane as well, though much more technical.” He holds his hands up, slowly repeating his spell once more. “Don’t focus on the somatics too much. Follow along roughly as I paint you a picture.

“Your body, a candle. The air, full of moths. Your powers, a shadow. Pull shadow over flame, but do not snuff it! Guard the gentle flame with shadow. Gently push the moths away, so they forget the light they so greedily sought. Do not be overwhelmed! You are utterly surrounded, but you are flame, not to be quelled.”

You follow along clumsily, unsure how to follow through. Energy wells within you, eager to act, but your uncertainty stills it.

“Perhaps a more assertive method.” Gio walks up to you and waves a piece of vicestone in your face. “Keep to it! Focus on this. This is Vice. It hangs in the air always. Reject it! Do you hate it? Use your power to reject it! It pollutes our world. Don’t let it fool you! Reject it from the air, create your sanctuary!”

You stand resilient as Gio yells, refusing to flinch as he menaces you with the shard of Vice. You’re returned to the Emberlin abbey. Vicars drilling you endlessly after your anointment. They allowed you no rest, no reprieve from their strict commands, no time to grieve your friends lost to the ceremony, only a guarantee of death should you allow the Vice to overwhelm you.

“Focus!” Gio slaps your clumsy hands with the shard. “It surrounds you! Fills your lungs. Rots your food. Seeps into your people. Reject it!”

[Energy: 15 | Vice: 10 | Capacity: 25 of 100]

>Lean into your anger. Reject the parasitic Vice wholly. (Use 6 Energy)
>Demonstrate your will to live. Loose a pulse of energy to ward off the Vice. (Use 3 Energy)
>Harness this feeling, but spend nothing on the demonstration. Your energy is best conserved.
>You are a flame, the Vice are moths. Shield yourself in shadow. (Use 4 Vice)

>>6053319
>Lean into your anger. Reject the parasitic Vice wholly. (Use 6 Energy)
Let's see if Gio's actually got anything to his theories. Don't half-ass the experiment. Commit to the bit.

If we gain understanding we'll be weak for a little bit, but better equipped for the next cycle, which Gio might or might not survive.

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>>6052521
(QM)

(what are the ramifications of the [Titles] we are offered? [Anointed] is naturally the most enticing, it sounds like [Chosen One], but since it is linked to agreeing with Lillian the manic scientist with magic burns it's sus af.)

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>>6053434
Each title represents the six aspects of Dim's arcana, set along three opposing axes.

The Shepherd, who protects all, aspect of passion
vs
The Hopper, who leads unladen, aspect of control

The Stripling, who garners youth, aspect of desire
vs
The Vicar, who suffers no lax, aspect of duty

The Anointed, who scours the world, aspect of faith
vs
The Hermit, who withdraws from them, aspect of self

The Anointed, for example, epitomizes Dim's zeal for destroying the Vice at every turn,

Dim's arcana acts as a kind of reputation and guiding ethos for him between votes. The labeled options have a larger impact, but many others nudge his arcana to a lesser degree.

I've flirted with the idea of giving these some kind of mechanical impact, but I didn't want to gamify story decisions too much, e.g. voting for Anointed repeatedly to maintain some bonus vs the Vice. For now, the arcana directs Dim's smaller decisions, especially for future time skips.

>>6053319
>Lean into your anger. Reject the parasitic Vice wholly. (Use 6 Energy)

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>>6053925
Good post.
And good call on votes mainly informing character development instead of mechanical power. Because you already know we're going off-road the minute we get the keys.

You can see it. The Vice. It hangs in the air.

No more.

A flash of energy swarms around you and blasts outward, strands fluttering through the air like loose feathers before tapering off into nothing.

Gio sits on the floor, knocked backward by your outburst. His eyes are wide for a moment. Once he realizes what happened, his face brightens with excitement. “Such raw effort, brilliant! And look,” he scrambles to his feet, brushing his hand against the tarnished stone floor. He offers out his palm eagerly. It’s covered in a fine layer of dark dust.

Lillian leans down to collect a bit of the debris herself. “It’s true, then. The very air is poisoned,” she intones, intrigue met with listlessness.

“The evil hides everywhere,” Gio says, brushing the dust away with a flourish. “But not from you, not anymore. Let’s continue!”

You settle your breathing and pull back a heavy arm as Gio rattles off some jargon to Lillian. The technique is fresh in your head, something more nuanced than anything you’ve tried before. A slight pang in your bones makes the cost clear, Vice roiling in rebellion deep within.

[Energy: -6 to 9 | Vice: 10 | Capacity: 19 of 100 | Very Slight Vice Shock]

Gio drills you and Lillian for over an hour, carefully outlining every step tirelessly, his academic background clear on display. You wonder how such a man ended up anointed. In Emberlin, young men without prospects like yourself were plucked from the countryside and trialed in droves. Mages and scholars were considered too valuable to the academy’s efforts. But, looking at how anointment affected Gio’s body, you can only assume his local sect’s priorities differed greatly from your far flung abbey.

“Yes, and here on the third invocation, that's when you tap into your energy.” Gio flips his wrist with some barely perceptible nuance a few times.

You mirror his motion once again, drawing energy to the surface at the very end. “Like that?”

He shakes his head once more, ever patient. “Too much pause. You must match the somatics with your energy seamlessly, or risk warping your veil. It’s a fine thing, to be certain. Lillian?” He nudges her to your side, much to her chagrin.

“Hands off me, hopper. I’m not one of your dolls to be jostled,” she says, snatching your outflung hand from the air. Gio steps back, hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “This won’t be easy, with how the vicariate mangled your hands. I’ll have to adjust some initiate drills for you…” Her blackened, withered hands push your own stumpy digits in place, jabbing your left palm inwards. “You must bend here as best you can, as if pinching a focus between outstretched fingers, but pinch gently!” Your blocky hand settles into the strange gesture, but your ever dissatisfied tutor only twists her face in irritation. And it’s only the third of seventeen invocations…

“If I may?” Gio slips forward, giving Lillian a wide berth. “I faced similar difficulties adapting somatics to these,” he wiggles his outstretched, gangly digits with a small smile. “Provide him the framework, and I can adapt the rest. With your guidance in the otherworld, and mine in the foundation, Dim will have it in no time.” Lillian looks unconvinced, but it doesn’t dissuade the derelict’s eager eyes.

“How are you so certain? I’ve never had arcane aptitude. As far as I know, I come from mundane stock. Is it possible to wrest such talent from nothing?” you ask, unaccustomed to being on the backfoot like this.

“Oh, it’s certainly there. Even if it’s generations removed, anointment pulls your potential to the surface by violent means, corralled by the vicar’s clumsy methods,” Gio says, his tone turning rueful as he taps scars running up his elongated neck. He shakes his head, brushing away his sudden anger. “Desperate times, I admit. Better to make the best of it!” he chirps, resentment buried beneath his practiced smile.

“My lord?” Gio’s aide calls out as it waddles down the stairs, layers of finery still weighing it down. “The feast is well under way, shall we address the guests before the show?”

“Oh how the time flies! Yes, let’s gift them with some true Otmon flair! Antony, hurry with the rings, you shall commence the performance!” Gio hurries to the echo's side, pushing him back up the stairs.

“B-but, my lord. It’s your last chance to grace the people! Surely you’d–”

“No, no, it wouldn’t do! Dim, Lillian, and you at the head, it’ll be such a picture. Let’s hurry along, everyone.”

>Follow along with Gio. See this ‘show’ with your flock. Your time in Otmo was almost at an end, you should spend it with your people.
>Follow along to attend the ‘show,’ but insist Gio attends as well. It’s his idea, after all. No need for him to hide behind windows.
>Follow Gio to the upper floor, content to watch this ‘show’ from afar. Have some final words with the derelict away from the crowd.
>Insist Gio continues with his drills. Practicing in the foundation won’t be nearly as effective.
>Overrule Gio’s plans. You have what you came for, and the people had enough rest.

>>6054120
Yeah, I think it's best for me to reject the siren call of shoving mechanics everywhere. I can't trust myself not to go completely overboard. Even as a player, I'm often torn between metagamey bs and story in crunchy quests, though I admit that's likely up to skill issue

>>6054203
>Follow Gio to the upper floor, content to watch this ‘show’ from afar. Have some final words with the derelict away from the crowd.
He's about to be returned to a pantomime of life in Old Otmon. Now's the time he might be psychologically weak, so we can press him to change, or leak secrets.

Being right next to him, we can also immediately knock his block off with our superior powers the minute some weirdness happens to the people in the theater.

>>6054203
>>Overrule Gio’s plans. You have what you came for, and the people had enough rest.

>>6054203
>Follow Gio to the upper floor, content to watch this ‘show’ from afar. Have some final words with the derelict away from the crowd.

“You go on ahead, Lillian. I’ll watch from above.” You follow behind Gio before he can protest. It’s not that you don’t trust your head mage, you simply feel shepherd business is best discussed in private. Perhaps you can wrest a little more from the derelict away from prying eyes and ears.

Gio didn’t seem bothered, fussing over his aide’s attire before rushing him towards the balcony. “Just like we rehearsed. Give them a proper cue!” He waves you over to the imposing stained glass window overlooking the feasting ‘folk. “It’s not the best view, I’m sorry to say. Though my people’s boon shall shine through nonetheless.” He peers on, entirely rapt.

You fold your arms, not half as invested. “I’m more interested in discussing Emmis’ parcel, I noticed you sidestepped the topic earlier.”

“Oh, Dim, allow yourself a moment's rest. This is my gift to you as well as your people. Enjoy it!” He dares not look away as his aide begins its speech.

“I suspected the thing was merely a token. Lillian was keen to dissect it, anyway,” you shrug, turning your focus on the crowded plaza. At the same time, Gio tears his eyes away to shoot a glare your way.

“You incessant– Allow me this, please. To spread my dying culture… It’s more important than anything. I’ll explain the probe after, I promise,” he grumbles, his pomp finally ruffled.

You relent, content to listen in on his stand-in's mounting announcement. “... to share with you our plenty, and be graced in turn. And now, to assure everyone a blessed and safe journey, I offer you a parting gift: our Otmon boon of the wayfarer!”

Echoes painted in vibrant reds and yellows leap into the plaza as music swells. Your ever-jumpy flock reel at the surprise, but their worries melt away as the Otmon spectacle unfolds. The echoes leap over tables, twirling ribbons through the air in grand arcs over starstruck commonfolk. From your vantage, you realize the arrangement of tables isn’t haphazard at all. Each finely measured gap allows the dancers a path, each bounding in layered synchronicity. They even demonstrate remarkable adaptability for echoes; leaping over bunched together families, avoiding the moody crew of moski, using vacant stools as leverage at each step.

“Fitting that we stand here, so removed from them,” Gio mumbles, eyes glistening.

“I’m content with it,” you reply simply. “Address them though, if you're so bereaved.”

“No. I’m simply a curator now. To don the lay-firmament on these shoulders… It wouldn’t do. Such honors are meant for them, not for us.” You bite back some curt words and let his weepy sentiments trail off. His weakness sours you some, but you figure it’s better not to offend.

“To watch over them. To protect them. To preserve them. These are burdens, true, but they’re great honors as well, you must admit.”

His eyes stay locked on the dancing echoes. “I suppose greatness never comes easily, without sacrifice.” He glances down at a slender, warped hand.

“And despite these burdens, look at what we’ve preserved. I’d say it’s worth being so removed, so that there’s something left to be removed from.” The two of you watch on as the show draws to a close, music reaching a complex crescendo as echoes leap away from your flock.

Gio wipes tears from his eyes as he turns to you. “Truly, you’ve blessed me more than you know, Dim. Your folk will carry a bit of Otmo with them should I fail my mission. Allow me to assist you further, to guarantee this kernel of hope is preserved.” He draws his sword and lays it flat on his palm. When you first saw the blade yesterday, you assumed it was merely ceremonial, some other gaudy piece of echo treasure. Seeing the incredible make, metal shimmering with infused energy, you understand why he keeps it close.

“A sword made to destroy the Vice, even out of a shepherd's hands. If it doesn’t suit you, I have precious few others to choose from.”

>Accept the sabre, a swift blade.
>Accept the flanged mace, a crushing bludgeon.
>Accept the dual-toothed glaive, a reaching polearm.
>Accept the javelin, a flight ready spear.
>Accept the shield, a round ward.

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>>6054865
>Flanged Mace
Looks like a cathedral, lands likewise.

We're going golfing.

Despite your brief training in the way of arms in Emberlin, you’ve mainly preferred to use your bare hands over the years. Though, a weapon able to withstand the Vice itself…

“I’ll gladly accept the mace.” Better to keep things simple, dependable. Grappling with the more nuanced weapons only beleaguers the point: to destroy the Vice.

Gio sheaths his blade. “Use it well, Dim. I’ll have it delivered before your departure.”

“These weapons, they’re made possible by the vicestone?” you ask, still awed by the blade.

“And so much more. Consider it a gift from our coalition… though I ask you not to spread the word just yet. You know how covetous those cabalists can be,” Gio says, almost a whisper.

“And what of the probe? How does it serve you and Emmis?”

He shifts and offers a shy smirk, wrestling with some unspoken thoughts. “Ah, I suppose I gave my word. Though I can’t offer you too thorough an explanation. I’m but a courier, much like yourself.” He pauses, a silent insistence. Keen to the message, you hand over the parcel at last.

“If I’m to be a part of this, tell me what you know.”

He takes the thing and holds it with care, marveling at some beauty hidden beneath its grotesque form. “As you know, my people and I are poised to weather the vicewind. A unique opportunity, to say the least,” he says with pride. “Once engulfed, I’ll send the probe off into its depths, into the unknown. A first step in unraveling the evil’s most guarded secrets!”

You fail to match his excited tone. “Such intrusion has only invited disaster in the past. The Vice doesn’t take prodding lightly.” Memories flash in your mind: a circle of farseers, esteemed magi all, withering and bursting in unison; foolhardy shepherds enshrouded in energy blasted apart or lost to the abyss; those desperate last armies ensorcelled and blessed, completely devoured. Each a cautionary tale warning of the vicewind’s spite, its capacity to retaliate.

“The boorish aggression of the vicars and magi taught us well. Occlusion, subversion, subtlety. These are our tenets, forged in their blood. Our probe, encased in the Vice itself, shall succeed where their more overt attempts failed.”

You gesture to his sabre, ever skeptical. “And your weapons? Where do they fit in your schemes, if not to meet the Vice in battle? You could lend your methods to Lillian and her peers, to the loyalists, to all the others eager to fight.”

“To satisfy their petty bloodlust? No. It would only invite the Vice’s wrath once again. Encourage its already relentless fury. These weapons are meant to empower only the special few, the key architects in the world’s reconstruction.” Gio’s cold words hang in the air; you feel Emmis’ shadow fall over the room. “You may not realize it yet, but humanity is better off cowed. Give the evil ground, lull it into complacency, wait for the proper moment to strike back. Patience is key, as is sacrifice.”

>”You would temper the evil’s hunger with yet more lives? You’ve forgotten what the Vice is, Alltask, steeped in your collusions and plotting. It’s not some animal to toy with. It’s annihilation, to be met in turn.”
>”You can’t believe that, Gio. Would you sacrifice your city, your people, your history in service of this gambit? Do you expect I would do the same? They’re not ours to use, we’re here to serve them.”
>”I can’t deny humanity’s failings, but what of our own? Are we ‘special few’ above foolhardiness? I think you’ve just painted it a different color. I won’t be blinded by airy overtures, and neither should you.”
>Write-in

>>6055537
>”You would temper the evil’s hunger with yet more lives? You’ve forgotten what the Vice is, Alltask, steeped in your collusions and plotting. It’s not some animal to toy with. It’s annihilation, to be met in turn.”

This guy i definitely batshit but at least he has some useful stuff to give us. I’ve given up on swaying him to our side, but I hope we can atleast continue to divulge information to each other. We’re still enemies against the vice.

>>6055537
>"You can’t believe that, Gio. Would you sacrifice your city, your people, your history in service of this gambit? Do you expect I would do the same? They’re not ours to use, we’re here to serve them.”
Gio's gone. All the sentimental posturing about Old Otmon is powerlording ambition at the core. If this is Emmis' influence, they are both rotten now.

Good that they ejected themselves as shepherds, to spare the effort of weeding them.

>>6055537
>>”I can’t deny humanity’s failings, but what of our own? Are we ‘special few’ above foolhardiness? I think you’ve just painted it a different color. I won’t be blinded by airy overtures, and neither should you.”

Rolled 3 (1d3)

Rollin. Will update in a few

The derelict’s dismissal of humanity doesn’t sit well with you. Whatever’s led him down this path, you can’t reverse it in the short time you have left in his city. At least you can offer some wisdom. ”I can’t deny humanity’s failings, but what of our own? Are we ‘special few’ above foolhardiness? I think you’ve just painted it a different color. I won’t be blinded by airy overtures, and neither should you.”

Gio shakes his head and gives you a knowing smirk. “I don’t blame you for holding to skepticism. You’ve shown yourself to be a practical man, I can respect it. I’ve no doubt you’ll see the efficacy of our plans in due time. I only ask that you keep your mind open until then.”

A smattering of cheering and applause pulls your attention outside. Some commonfolk toss fallen ribbons to and fro while others finish what remains of the feast. The echoes’ performance is over, it’s almost time to move on.

“So long as you care for your people as I care for mine, you’ll have my ear. I can’t promise much more,” you say after some thought.

He clasps his hands together before giving a quick bow. “I’ll gladly have it! May our common duties bind us, despite all that’s happened.” He gives a grand gesture towards the stairs, returning to his more regal posture. “Let’s return to our people. I’ll see you off, laden with gifts.”

The man is surely addled, far away from regaining proper shepherdship, but you couldn’t deny his usefulness.

* * *

After a stint of hesitation, the shy pauper king follows you back to the plaza. Your people’s many curious eyes fall on their host. He struggles to retain his prized regal airs in this sea of strangers.

Chern Du parts the curious onlookers without a word as she approaches. “I thank you, Sir Alltask, on behalf of my people,” she says as she gives a deep bow, palms upturned. “Yours is a truly wonderful city. Us ‘folk are humbled by your culture, your wealth. Please accept this token, pale as it is.” She keeps her low bow as another of the ‘folk presents their humble gift: a ‘tailed’ necklace adorned with painted bone, a vibrant tassel hanging loose on one side.

Gio is stilled by the gesture. He hurriedly straightens up before leaving the safety of your shadow. He receives the gift gingerly, stammering a response. “Eh– Yes. That is to say–” His eyes keep to the gift for a moment before he continues with renewed confidence. “Our riches are yours, as your struggle is ours. I’ve opened the gates to you, and so the city is yours as well. I’ll treasure this always. As a gift from my new brothers and sisters.” He too bows, in his own Otmon way.

They rise in unison, exchanging mirthful looks. You struggle to match their budding cheer. Where the cold derelict began and the generous king ended, you couldn’t be sure. Despite how well the exchange has gone so far, you're glad to be nearly returned to the mission. Away from this unpredictability. Away from this dead city.

“Let’s have a headcount and be on our way. It’ll be midday soon,” you insist, dampening the mood. Chern Du and hers acquiesce, dispersing to pull the rest from their revelry. Vonus and Lillian set to corralling the ‘folk. You feel they share your ambivalence.

“I’ll be sure to make the next feast so grand even you’re forced to relax a bit,” Gio prods, loosening up, free of the ‘folks leering.

“I’ll relax when my mission’s done,” you reply, watching over the milling ‘folk.

“Ah, then it's a promise. We’ll feast again once the world is restored,” Gio asserts with confidence. You can’t help but let out a dry chuckle.

“Aye? I can keep to that, if you somehow manage your schemes. In the meantime, forgive my dull efforts.”

“Of course, of course,” he says simply before setting off to gather his gifts. You get a strange feeling; your ‘promise’ feels a little heavier as the derelict’s guarantee hangs in the air.

* * *

Your retinue bristles with renewed vigor. ‘Folk bunch together in orderly groups, eagerly exchanging Otmon baubles and finery. Even the moski seem content. They huddle together bearing many armfuls of foods, clinging greedily as ‘folk pass by only to get menaced by their guardian drone. Echoes continue their routine, some offering well wishes as they pass by, others calling out from stalls and windows as the group nears the front gate.

True to his word, Gio leads a crew of gift bearing echoes to the fore: cattle packed with days worth of food, crates full of tools and raw goods, mounted soldiers bearing bundles of Otmon arms. Truly, this boon would do wonders renewing what was lost in the hop.

[+100 Food | +50 Supplies | +5 Pack Animals | +5 Mounts]

Gio walks over with a proud stride. He offers you your final gift: a flanged mace of incredible make, imbued with holy energies. “We’re making history today, my friend. No need to deny it! Simply use this well, and behold a sliver of what's to come.”

Stemming his enthusiasm is a fool's errand, you’ve come to realize. “I will. Thank you for all you’ve lent my people. May you brace the vicewind well, Alltask.”

He nods with a serene look. “Soon, you’ll wield the same–”

A familiar whistle cuts through the clearing.

A mounted scout charges from the treeline, belting out sharp whistles as he barrels down on Otmo. You’re already outside the gate as he arrives.

“Sir Palmfast, the ‘van!” he shouts out, breathless. “Flying Vice! A dozen of them, maybe more. The magi hold as best they can.” You look back at Vonus, Lillian, and the mass of ‘folk stunned to silence.

Gio rushes forward. “Your people are safe here. Let’s meet this evil as shepherds united!” He beckons his mounted soldiers over, intent to ride with you.

>Have the retinue remain in Otmo, warrior caste included. Leave Vonus in charge of their defense while you, Lillian, and Gio ride ahead to assist the ‘van.
>Leave the ‘folk in Otmo behind while you, Gio, and all capable warrior caste sally forth.
>Leave the entire retinue behind. Ride to the ‘van’s defense while entrusting Gio to defend the city and your people.
>Have the retinue follow you out of Otmo, but ride ahead with Gio while Vonus, Lillian and the other warrior caste guide them in your wake.
>Have the retinue follow you out of Otmo, but ride ahead while Vonus, Lillian and the other warrior caste guide them in your wake. Insist Gio stays out of the conflict.

Or…

>Write-in some combination including
>>... If the retinue says in Otmo or follows you back to the ‘van.
>>... Which of the warrior caste follows you to battle (Lillian, Vonus, a battlemage, a moski drone, two warriors).
>>... Which of the warrior caste remains with the retinue.
>>... Whether or not you accept Gio’s assistance.

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>>6056876
>scouts to start immediately sweeping the Otmon surrounds, signal if a significant Vice force detected
>Dim and Gio and 2 warriors of the retinue ride out, plus Gio's mounted echoes; in case of a Vice ground ambush
>Vonus, Lillian, battlemage and Moski drone back at Otmo to conduct defense
>'folk remain at Otmo

Flying Vice means ranged magic only. The retinue of mostly melees will be fairly useless against aerial Vice; they'd serve better as siege defense, to stall while Lillian and her battlemage doing the hard work.

Rush the flying Vice quickly to let the 'van disengage, then fighting retreat back to Otmo.

When we sally again it will be in full force.

You’re in no position to deny the help of another anointed, addled as he is. “Vonus, Lillian; stay with the others. Prepare what defenses you can. Scouts, we may return with guests, spread out and be ready to give the signal. Warriors, fall in!” Dutiful echoes bring forth mounts immediately, allowing you, Gio, and your two veterans to head out right away. A dozen echo outriders charge ahead, keen to protect their king.

* * *

As you break from the thicket, the Vice’s unmistakable presence washes over your mind. Fluttering blots of the evil circle over your flock in the distance, growing as you cross the river at full speed. Bolts of arcane energy arc from the camp. The battlemagi and their auxiliaries are doing everything they can to repel the attackers. Their relief is soon at hand.

Flying Vice the size of hawks swoop down in a frenzy. Some are blasted off course by arcs of lightning and ensorceled missiles, but they couldn’t be destroyed decisively without your powers. They seem to be focused on the magi camp. The Vice always coveted something about magi, seeking their essence jealousy.

You barrel into camp, passing tents full of huddled commonfolk, for what little protection it offers them. Their militiamen kin cling to entryways, ready to put up a fruitless last ditch defense if the worst comes to pass. Their eyes light up as you and your derelict peer rush by. Some even trail behind as you continue riding on.

As you expect, much of the destruction is focused in and around the magi’s camp. Warriors huddle close to your elite magi, ready to strike back with ensorcelled weapons at any evil that makes it through the furious storm of bolts. You glare at the swarm of Vice overhead. There’s near two dozen of them now, furiously probing the ardent magi’s warding arcs.

The harried defenders have held out well. You spot no fallen, much to your relief. They’ve made good use of your donated energy so far. Now it falls to you to turn the tide.

Gio canters up beside you, sabre at the ready. “It’s your command, Sir Palmfast. Me and mine are at your disposal!” His host of echoes line up behind, eager to act on their memories of valor.

[Energy: 9 | Vice: 10 | Capacity: 19 of 100 | Very Slight Vice Shock]

[The more disparate your ratio of Vice to Energy, the greater the risk of Vice Shock. Vice is more tolerable at lower capacity, even in the absence of Energy. Vice Shock induces wracking pains, hampers your combat abilities, clouds your senses, and, at severe levels, can knock you unconscious. Roughly advances along this track: Slight - Mounting - Moderate - Severe - Overwhelming]

>Unleash a measured volley of bolts, aiming to obliterate the Vice already stunned by your magi. Encourage Gio to follow suit while your veterans and his soldiers join the ground defense. It’s a slower and more costly tactic, but the threat is too great to be met with half-measures. (Lose 5 Energy, advance to Mounting Vice Shock)
>Have Gio and his guard follow you in circling the camp, harrying the mass of Vice as you ride. Vice typically avoided attacking shepherds if they could prey on the defenseless, but a swarm this size may be emboldened to attack even two anointed, if you give them some encouragement. Throw out some halting attacks, intent to pull the evil away from camp. (Lose 2 Energy, advance to Slight Vice Shock)
>Lean on Gio’s abilities and reserves of energy. Have him employ his shield trick to defend your beleaguered people, leveraging his echoes as he sees fit. Meanwhile, ready your new weapon, intent to conserve what energy you have while pulling the weight of the Vice’s fury squarely to you while your people recover. (Lose 0 to 4 Energy, potentially advance to Mounting Vice Shock)
>Lean on Gio’s abilities and reserves of energy. Have him join you in unleashing a flurry of bolts, intent to scatter the evil and stunt its assault. Rely on Gio to supply the lion's share of energy, while you focus on more surgical strikes. Have the echoes and veterans defend you as best they can as you join the magi’s counterattack. (Lose 1 to 3 Energy, potentially advance to Slight Vice Shock)
>Order Gio to use his echoes to save the still living even if it means their own destruction. Bring your new weapon to bear as you join the veteran battle line. Crush any Vice that comes close and encourage Gio to do the same, intent to whittle away the arrogant evil bit by bit. (Lose 0 to 2 Energy, potentially advance to Slight Vice Shock)

Or…

>Write-in some tactic including
>>... How much Energy, if any, you intend to spend. Wider ranges may be induced.
>>... How you direct Gio and his echoes.
>>... If you stand and fight or otherwise change the flow of battle.

>>6057366
>>Order Gio to use his echoes to save the still living even if it means their own destruction. Bring your new weapon to bear as you join the veteran battle line. Crush any Vice that comes close and encourage Gio to do the same, intent to whittle away the arrogant evil bit by bit. (Lose 0 to 2 Energy, potentially advance to Slight Vice Shock)

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>>6057366
>write

>Team Dim and Team Gio split up, make targeted shots at the Vice already stunned by the defending magi
>their followers follow them as they circle the camp, Dim clockwise, Gio counterclock.
>having two separate targets will slow down the Vice a little more.
>watch for any weakening defenses while circling; send the escorts to bolster any parts that are getting focused on by Vice.
>Gio to do the lion's share of shooting; Dim to take guaranteed kills. Conserve as much energy as possible, in case of a second wave.

If the riders' weapons are not already charged:
>half of riders mill into the defenders' numbers
>swap uncharged weapons with defenders' charged weapons
>mill back into either Team Dim or Team Gio when they gallop past on the second round.

I'll merge these two votes, they'll work well together.

“Circle about! Draw their ire and loose all you can spare, Alltask,” you yell out, directing him right as you peel off to the left.

“Let us show them, men. Let us share their struggle!” Gio calls as he releases a flurry of raw energy. His undisciplined bolts careen up to meet your enemy, splitting blots of Vice apart as they pierce the swarm. Echoes fall in, some behind each shepherd. The rest ride to bolster the magi’s defense more directly.

Your echo mount shares their same steely resolve as you ride into chaos. It’s steady gallop matches the repeating crack of arcane lightning, soft otherworld dirt driven from the earth as the two groups circle round. Gio’s assault splits the mass of attackers loose, revealing the hobbled and faltering hidden within. You choose your targets carefully.

Every couple precious seconds, you fire off a thin dart of energy into the mess, blasting the weakened Vice apart in a flash of white. Your combined efforts stall the enemy's swooping for a few moments, but they’re not dissuaded for long.

As you hoped, their attention is pulled to you and Gio. The swarm splits in two and follows the riding shepherds. You focus on evasion as sleek blots split off and swoop down with renewed vigor. Gio blasts several away as they near, but you have no such reserve of energy. You swing your new weapon as best you can, warding some Vice away. They sense the power hidden within its treated metal. The power to annihilate them.

Though it isn’t enough.

You overextend your focus while shooting down another straggler above Gio. The subtly keen Vice takes the opening. Another swoops down, its approach lining up perfectly with your mace. You swat the lazy evil with a square strike, sundering its foul form; mauve bits scatter in the wind, burning away to nothing. At the same time, several more blots break up their attack by staggering their descent, catching you unprepared from behind as you destroy the too-easy target.

[Energy: -2 to 7 | Vice: 10 | Capacity: 17 of 100 | Slight Vice Shock]

Sickly purple streaks form on your shoulder and left side as two fliers glance off your anointed flesh. You bide the searing pain well, but their terrible force twists you abruptly. Your steed turns obediently, sealing its fate.

Three more follow close behind, intent to overwhelm your holy protections by brute force. You leverage your off-kilter spin to smack another flier from the air. This snap attack is enough to ward off one of the blots, who dives straight through your loyal mount. The last strikes unerring.

Air is forced from your lungs as the damned thing plows into your chest. You’re driven violently from your saddle, smashing into cold earth just as your steed topples over, sundered and dead.

A dismount like that would kill any mortal man, but not you. Your mission doesn’t allow it.

You scramble to your feet. Blood wells in your chest, a horrible near-black welt forming quickly, the pain gripping your heart and clouding your mind. The seconds creep by as you inhale deeply, glancing about the field of battle. Gio rushes by and blasts your assailant away. He shouts something out as he goes, but you can’t hear it.

You focus wholly on the Vice swarming above. Their numbers are thinned, surely, but they fight on more fiercely than before. You feel as a wounded animal circled by carrion birds.

The world shrinks. You focus only on your weapon and the cloud of evil. They fall like a torrent, ravenous, eager to end their most dire enemy in an all out attack.

Despite spidering bolts of arcane lightning, despite bright white waves of holy energy, the greedy Vice charges on.

Utterly focused, you swing your weapon overhead in wide arcs, splitting blots apart if they break through the storm. It’s only you and the Vice. You’re freed by the simplicity of your task. Each swing, each scattered bit of evil bolsters your battle frenzy. Energy crawls from your palm-well, resonating in your new weapon, streaking overhead with each swing and forming a bright dome overhead.

Bathed in this glow, you feel invincible. The deep purple mass of Vice pales in comparison to your shield of energy. Brighter and brighter, soon all you see is white.

[Energy: -2 to 5 | Vice: 10 | Capacity: 15 of 100 | Mounting Vice Shock]

A terrible force mounts. The Vice could not be dissuaded.

More and more fliers slip through the defender’s considerable efforts. They pile on your shield, uncaring as some burn away, caught between the mass of evil and your scathing ward. It’s not enough to stop them.

Your shield buckles, holy energy smothered, made brittle and wavering. As a last ditch effort you fling the sundered ward outward. Shards of light break free and shear your foe. They reel and scatter. But not for long.

The whittled, untiring swarm of Vice gathers once more. Again, they attack.

A guttural roar rings out, perhaps your own. You grasp your weapon with both fists and brace.

Spears thrust overhead.

Gio’s echoes swarm around you, utterly synchronous. They jab ensorcelled weapons with such precision and grace as to repel the Vice once more. Their mounts stomp all around, hooves digging into the ground inches from your feet, twisting about in finely controlled chaos.

The swarm spreads out, desperate to find some opening. Even the echo’s inhuman grace couldn’t repel them forever. Under fire from the magi on one side and Gio on the other, the Vice commits to a last desperate attack.

They attempt to dart through openings in the echoes dance. Fortunately, they’re not the only ones willing to die for a cause.

In a terrible cascade, the vile blots misjudge your protectors at every turn, smashing into Gio’s soldiers as they throw themselves in harm’s way. The flimsy echoes rot away as they’re unhorsed one by one, falling to the earth in pieces. Their steeds canter off, undisturbed by their owners’ sacrifices.

You’re left surrounded by a mottled ring of earth. Grisly mauve pools simmer all around, the fliers broken down into a putrid emulsion of echo and Vice. Eight fliers, eight echoes, reduced to puddles. A calculated exchange.

Gio rides up as the din of battle calms. “Sir Palmfast! By God, your reputation precedes you,” he hoots, sweat pouring from his lean face. “Forgive me for interfering with your herculean efforts. I fear there’s yet more Vice to cleanse, and I didn’t want you completely spent.”

You steady your haggard breathing before glancing about the camp. Only two of Gio’s twelve outriders remain while your magi and veterans, by God’s grace, appear wholly intact, despite a few wounded. Auxiliary magi tend to those who suffered glancing hits, though from the Vice even slight contact could spell death for the unanointed.

Clearing your mind, you sense Gio speaks true: more Vice flits about the camp, likely seeking consolation in easier targets.

The festering wounds on your shoulder, side, and chest scream out, eroding your focus. You grit your teeth and press on. It’s not your time to die. Your mission doesn’t allow it.

>Mount up and sweep the camp with Gio at once, despite your injuries. Rely on his strength as you two cleanse the camp. The warriors have risked enough.
>Augment the auxiliary’s healing efforts while recovering some yourself. Have Gio and the battlemagi sweep the camp, intent to join them shortly.
>Assemble all able bodied warrior caste and scour the camp. We can rest when the evil is utterly cleansed, not before.
>Send off Gio and the able bodied warrior caste. Remain here and center yourself with cleansing meditation. Rest some and rejoin the battle with a clear mind.
>Write-in

>>6058296
>Augment the auxiliary’s healing efforts while recovering some yourself. Have Gio and the battlemagi sweep the camp, intent to join them shortly.

No new elements have appeared, so play slow and safe. Pity about the redead echoes. And the horse.

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>>6058294

You strike down on the festering puddle of evil. The weakened Vice shudders and evaporates, unable to resist your imbued weapon. “Go. Sweep the camp for remnants. I’ll follow soon,” you grunt, leaning on your mace. The rattled magi shake off their weariness and follow behind Gio and his remaining echoes, leaving you a few scarce moments to recuperate.

Your harried warriors huddle around their commander, Turl, as they steel themselves for yet more combat. Auxiliary magi split their efforts between enchanting weapons and stemming the spread of Vice rot. You lend your palm to a few survivors; the mere brushing presence of energy should stabilize them. Healers do what they can to ease your pain in the meantime.

“A glorious display, hopper! And what a beautiful bit of craftsmanship,” Turl comments, ogling your weapon, at uncanny ease despite the surrounding desolation. He’s earned a few new injuries on top of the terrible welts he received in yesterday’s duel. Sickly discoloration mars his fingers and forearms, though the taint isn’t enough to keep the veteran from battle. He smirks as you size up his wounds. “Not the first time I’ve had a brush with the Vice. They say it gets easier after every exposure.” He plunges his greatsword into soft earth and flexes his battered fingers.

You keep focused on cleansing your fallen warriors, eager to return to your mission. “Have your men sweep as soon as they’re armed. You and I will handle the west side as Gio clears the east.” He grabs his sword in a flourish before barking orders to the rest, leaving you a moment of peace.

Spidering veins of mauve run up your arm. A tell-tale sign of Vice shock, though neither the healers nor Turl had the gumption to point it out. You’re not sure if they trust your vitality or fear questioning your resolve. It didn’t matter. As long as you can stand, you can fight. No more have to die on your watch.

You, Turl, and a couple veterans mount up and set off. The Vice is merciless, but its not above craven tactics when pushed to the brink. After so much of it crumbled before your and Gio’s power, the rest darts about the camp in wild retreat. They scurry to the edges of camp, fear overcoming their overt greed. Oftentimes, Vice broken in such a manner reverts to their base instinct: to annihilate any survivors of the true world they could reach. Something more drives these remnants, though. They flit between tents and pass over your huddled flock in a bid to escape.

Their purpose becomes clear. They pool up outside of camp before darting towards the jungle, towards Otmo.

Your party rushes out from camp just in time to see a growing blot of evil slither into the river. You almost shoot off a snap volley of energy, but think better of it. What little power you have left barely tempers the Vice imprisoned deep within your well. If you’re going to risk succumbing to Vice shock, it would have to be for a sure shot.

You push onwards. Lillian and her disciple could hold off the Vice remnant for a time. Time enough for you and Gio to deliver it to oblivion.

* * *

Gio meets up with your party at the river crossing. A soured patch of earth furrows from the riverbed and towards Gio’s dead city. You and him are of one mind now, the seeping presence of Vice overwhelming your differences. Derelict or no, his instinct to hunt the Vice now meets your own.

“The magi?” you spit out, clutching at faded reins, incensed by the Vice’s cowardice.

“Back in your camp, to renew its defense,” Gio says between breaths. He began this battle with such vim, clearly his dereliction has shallowed his endurance.

“Good.” You hurry forward without another word, before the worry creeping on Gio’s face led to unneeded words. He knew the risks of Vice shock well. But you knew your limits. Your small reprieve will carry you through this fight.

Your party barrels down the marred path towards Otmo. You pass yet more fallen echoes, their arms and armor no match for the unrelenting Vice. Each of their sacrifices slowed its advance, each lost soul further eroded in service to a long dead city.

Soon, the careening blot comes into view, dappled by pale light slipping through the canopy high above. Gio’s people will not have died in vain.

You and Gio ride ahead of the pack; the thing is primed for a coup-de-grace. But this itch in your mind…

Gio feels it too. The both of you rear up before the Vice springs a desperate trap. Ribbons of Vice shoot out from the surrounding thicket just ahead of you. They split trees apart in a violent flurry, shivers of wood blasting on either side, their final bit of ardor spent on a lost gambit. You and Gio leap from your steeds, unsure if they could handle their sudden stop without bringing you down with them.

The final mass of Vice shivers in fury, its every attack thwarted. Even outmatched as it is, the thing turns to fight, any sense of survival cast aside. Its bulbous form seems to float weightlessly for a moment before shooting towards you. You dodge away as the massive thing smashes into the jungle floor, leaving a rotted crater as it bounces aloft. It flits overhead briefly before smashing into the earth once more. Again, you tumble away from the clumsy attack. It floats away, suddenly lighter than air as Gio slashes short.

“It’s learned! Gio, destroy it!” you command as you scramble again to your feet, bracing for another attack.

“I can’t! My reserves– I need enough for the coming Vicewind!” he pleads, uncertain in the heat of combat. The bulbous Vice crushes down once more, its otherworldly body amassing as it narrowly misses you. Gio thrusts after the thing to no avail. Your warriors and Gio’s two outriders near as you regain your footing, though you haven’t enough time to ready your mace for a proper counterattack. The blob crushes down again, gaining evenness as you tire. The thing’s ire lies solely with you. Just one chance, a momentary advantage, and you could destroy it!

[Energy: 5 | Vice: 10 | Capacity: 15 of 100 | Mounting Vice Shock]

>Oder Gio to tap into his reserves at once, despite the risk to his city. It’s the only way to decisively kill the thing.
>Order Turl and his veterans to strike the Vice in Gio’s place. They must make up for his clumsiness, even in the absence of healers should they be attacked.
>Order the echoes to throw themselves to the Vice. They’ve proven willing and useful so far, what’s two more?
>Order Gio to absorb the blob with you. It senses your mounting shock. Show it your resolve. (Gain 7 Vice, advance to Moderate Vice Shock)
>Chance a counterattack. The thing’s huge and clumsy, even a glancing blow should break it apart. Though, should you miss…
>Skewer the blob with energy. Enough to split the thing apart and give your allies an opening. (Lose 3 Energy, Advance to Near Moderate Vice Shock)

>>6059658
>Chance a counterattack. The thing’s huge and clumsy, even a glancing blow should break it apart. Though, should you miss…

>>6059658
>>Chance a counterattack. The thing’s huge and clumsy, even a glancing blow should break it apart. Though, should you miss…

>>6059709
+1

need to keep some reserves or Lillian will be stuck later.

Let's have three rolls of 1d100. Lookin for at least 70.

Rolled 64 (1d100)

>>6059980

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Rolled 80 (1d100)

>>6059980
>ooh

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>>6060544
byaw!

Rolled 29 (1d100)

>>6059980

Enough has been surrendered to this evil. It’s time to remind it what you herald: the utter annihilation of its kind.

You scramble to face its attack once more, crouched over, feigning an opening. The greedy thing barrels down into your trap. It renews its weight, spinning towards you with inhuman force. Too late it senses your weapon just below. You swing in a furious upward arc just as the blob nears. It struggles to fly free, only to provide you an avenue of escape. Your mace crushes into the blob’s soft form from below, splitting it in two burning halves as you slide forward.

You rise triumphantly away from the thing’s tilt, unscathed. Its two halves struggle to recover. They flit above the ground as twirling crescents. Searing white flames cling to their forms. Finally, they know fear.

Gio takes his chance. He leaps after one of the halves to deliver a decisive slash. The power of another blessed weapon sunders the Vice utterly. It loses cohesion as blasts apart in wads of burning ichor. The other half sheds off burning lumps of itself in a bid to escape.

You rush forward to end it. The Vice shows remarkable tenacity in the face of death, abandoning much of its form to float free of your reach. Even a running leap won’t be enough to catch it.

Turl gallops past you and beckons his horse into the air. He swings his greatsword upward after the fleeing evil as his steed reaches an apex. His quick thinking, and oversized weapon, close the gap just enough to nick the Vice, sending it into a downward spiral.

Now robbed of its retreat, it turns to spite, spinning after Turl as it dives to a certain death. You and Gio rush ahead on foot, ready to annihilate the thing. Turl would have to pull the Vice back your way. But it threatened to overtake him, incensed, committing its final moments to this last act of retribution.

A flash, then a thunderous boom.

A bolt of arcane lightning splits the earth below, stunning the Vice as it arcs further to Lillian’s guiding hand. Even near fifty meters down the path, she looses a steady torrent of lightning as she rides to join your battle, two scouts on her flank. You, Gio, and Turl meet her over the quivering mass of subdued evil.

“Ack, Newsaint! You couldn’t give me the final honors?” Turl says from his mount, greatsword slung over his shoulder in an awkward yet practiced balancing act.

Lillian keeps an evenly gestured hand pointed at the evil. “Is there honor in culling rabid dogs? I think not. This is simple extermination.” She pauses before looking over to you. “Or perhaps an opportunity? If you’d allow me a sample, Palmfast, I might learn something of this new mutation.”

“If I may,” Gio interjects, “Allow me to absorb this final bit. I’ve expended quite a lot of energy– for a fine cause, certainly! But the Vicewind looms. I’d like to replenish what I can before my city is engulfed. I’ll even offer a bit of energy in exchange, to ease your…” he trails off, unwilling to point out your weakened state among your subordinates.

“Such pedantry! Just crush the pathetic thing and let’s be off,” Turl scoffs.

[Energy: 5 | Vice: 10 | Capacity: 15 of 100 | Mounting Vice Shock]

>Destroy the Vice. If Gio had thought ahead, he would’ve absorbed the Vice he foolishly toyed with in his lab. And having this evil lurk among the ‘van? You perish the thought.
>Allow Lillian to collect a small sample before destroying the rest. It’s a new cycle, and so the Vice could have any manner of surprise in store.
>Hand over custody to Gio. He could make good use of it, and you preferred some energy up front instead of risking Vice shock while processing your own. (Gain 6 Energy, alleviate Vice Shock)
>Grant both of them their requests. If you could gain some energy and potentially uncover the evil’s secrets in one motion, all the better. (Gain 3 Energy, regress to Very Slight Vice Shock)
>Absorb the Vice with Gio, asking for any energy he could spare. Lillian and her magi could stem your shock for a time. So long as there were no further attacks today, you’d awaken tomorrow better prepared for the coming march. (Gain 6 Vice and 2 Energy, advance to Near Moderate Vice Shock)

>>6061073
>Grant both of them their requests. If you could gain some energy and potentially uncover the evil’s secrets in one motion, all the better. (Gain 3 Energy, regress to Very Slight Vice Shock)

Lillian is a hitter.

Let's not deprive Gio just to prove a point. It would be like whipping someone mentally challenged.

>>6061073
>Grant both of them their requests. If you could gain some energy and potentially uncover the evil’s secrets in one motion, all the better. (Gain 3 Energy, regress to Very Slight Vice Shock)

You lower your weapon and wave limply at the writhing evil. “Have what you need, Lillian. The rest goes to Gio.” Lillian pulls a vial from her pack without another word, ever prepared. She gingerly plucks a bit of Vice while Gio offers you a hand.

“I’m glad for this opportunity to return to the fight, if only for a short time,” he says. You straighten up and meet his well to yours. Obstinate pain subsides as he gifts you a bit of energy.

[Energy: +3 to 8 | Vice: 10 | Capacity: 18 of 100 | Very Slight Vice Shock]

As he absorbs your fallen foe, the itching presence of Vice retreats from your mind. At last, the area is cleansed, aside from Lillian’s prize.

You and Gio mount up and ride to Otmo as the dim otherworld sun crests overhead, far above the jungle canopy.

* * *

Turl and Vonus assemble your retinue in short order. Gilded with gifts and contented by food and pageantry, the commonfolk appear quite at ease despite the recent battle. Hopefully their merry would spill over to the others once reunited…

You take stock of Gio’s substantial donation: enough food to feed a hundred followers; packs of metal, cordage, and other artisanry; all carried by hale oxen, who would surely hasten the ‘van’s pace. The horses, however, are absent.

Gio jogs from the front gate, waving to ‘folk as he passes. His part in the fight emboldened him, it seems. “My friend! Glad I caught you before you hurried off.” Hints of mauve discolor his neck and arms, but his Vice shock does nothing to dampen his chipper mood.

“I wouldn’t dare,” you say, half sarcastic, as you tighten your new oxen’s lash cinch. “Though we must be off soon. We’ve lost enough daylight as is.”

“Of course, of course. You’ve indulged me quite enough as is!” he laughs. “But I’ve come to, regretfully, rescind my gifted mounts. The fight took some toll on my forces, you must understand. Though I offer those loosed in your camp as recompense.” He bows apologetically, despite giving over more horses overall.

[+~3 Mounts (-5 gifted, +~8 recovered from battle)]

You glance around. The ‘folk chatter among themselves with uncharacteristic cheer, a stark airiness you scarcely recognize. And in the shadow of this bounty? You’d be remiss to shrug off the derelict’s attempts at humility.

“Thank you for everything, Gio. My flock will carry this Otmon generosity close to heart, I’m sure. The sacrifices of your men, too, will be well remembered.” You offer an old supplicant’s gesture from your youth in the abbey: hand over fist, head bowed.

To your surprise, Gio mirrors the holy motion. “Consider us even, under God,” he intones. In this moment, he almost passes as faithful. “Remember your promise, Dim. Live on! We’ll feast again upon the true world’s dawn.” You simply nod.

Chern Du approaches with a bow.

“All accounted for, I take it?” you ask, eager to march on.

She pauses for a moment, uncertain. “Yes. But, some have a request.” She beckons a group of ‘folk forward with a gentle wave.

“Sir Palmfast and Sir Alltask, exalted shepherds both,” an elder among them starts, steeled against your anointed presence, “We come with a humble request. My family and these youngins here, we wish to stay in Otmo. These years of exodus… They’ve worn us terribly. Have us as citizens King Gio, we’ll serve you well.” He and his kneel with deference, sixteen of them total.

Gio stares at the group wide eyed, stunned to silence while Chern Du whispers to you. “Their hearts are set, Dim. Some long for these familiar comforts. The others– Shell and Lara– only seek to protect their children after losing their husbands. Lara’s eldest, Eric’s brother, Talna’ak’s two grandsons… these losses impose an impossible burden. Still, I’ve done what I can to sway them. I leave their fate to you.” She turns to face her people. She mimics her late mother’s maternal presence, her deep sadness hidden beneath a veneer of stoicism.

You look upon these ‘folk with mixed feelings. Have you failed them? You’ve committed everything to the mission. Sworn to guide and protect them. True, recent years have bled together in a kind of solemn morass, but you’ve attended them dutifully despite that. Has your zeal against the Vice blinded you? Have you been too cold, too harsh? You can’t even match their names to their faces.

Nine adults, two of them militia, and seven children. Could you trust Gio with them? Deny them the sacred Font? Relieve them of the exodus?

>[The Shepherd and The Stripling] Let them follow their hearts, but warn them of their decision's gravity. Renew your promise to guide and protect them. Remind them of the Font’s salvation. Remind them of their kinsmen who depend on them back in the ‘van.

>[The Anointed and The Vicar] Refuse them, unwilling to trust a derelict or heavy-hearted whims. Remind them of the Vice’s promise and the coming Vicewind. Warn them of Gio’s apostasy. Dispel their grandeur for their own good.

>[The Hopper and the Hermit] Allow them the freedom to choose. Their heavy hearts would only hinder the ‘van, for what little they offered in exchange. You were no warden, no saint. You’re a guide to the willing. If you couldn’t save them yourself, you can at least offer them something you’ll never have: a choice.

>>6061768
>The Hopper and the Hermit] Allow them the freedom to choose. Their heavy hearts would only hinder the ‘van, for what little they offered in exchange. You were no warden, no saint. You’re a guide to the willing. If you couldn’t save them yourself, you can at least offer them something you’ll never have: a choice.

Consider it a hedging of bets. If Dim fails, perhaps Gio might by strange providence keep the few.

>the young, the old, and the beaten
Escort mission, hostage defense mission, NPC allies with laggy AI. We tax the 'van by keeping them.

>>6061768
>[The Hopper and the Hermit] Allow them the freedom to choose. Their heavy hearts would only hinder the ‘van, for what little they offered in exchange. You were no warden, no saint. You’re a guide to the willing. If you couldn’t save them yourself, you can at least offer them something you’ll never have: a choice.


Perhaps time with real people will temper his ego. His heart isn’t reachable by us, but may be touched by those of his own flock.

>>6061768
>>[The Shepherd and The Stripling] Let them follow their hearts, but warn them of their decision's gravity. Renew your promise to guide and protect them. Remind them of the Font’s salvation. Remind them of their kinsmen who depend on them back in the ‘van.

Your flock will carry a piece of Gio’s culture with them, it’s only appropriate that you leave something of your own here, should the unthinkable happen. These weary souls can fill this role, relieved of the exodus; for their own good and the good of the ‘van.

You turn away from the beleaguered ‘folk and to Gio. “Would you have them?” you ask, already sure of his answer.

His flair and confidence wavers. Eyes wide and watery, Gio can only muster a thoughtful nod in your direction. He straightens up and steps forward, gathering some courage to face his would-be citizens.

“Rise, rise my friends and take heart,” he beckons. The ‘folk break from their prostration as their new king continues. “I’m only too glad to have you! Join me, not as servants but as kinsmen. Share with me my duty to this finest of cities. We’ll stoke the fading flame of civilization together!” He walks among them, offering some foreign gesture of blessing to each as he passes. Their nearby friends and kin sweep in to say their final goodbyes as Gio returns to your side.

You size up the derelict, still unsure of his true intentions. “Assure me of their safety, Gio. Swear you’ll uphold at least this part of the mission,” you demand. Whatever pomp the derelict responds with, you’d be remiss not to ask for some promise from him. These are your people, your sacred responsibility. Gio, as dismissive as he is of the vicar’s and their vision, must acquiesce to at least this.

Gio matches your stern eyes with a new softness. His regal veil, his bitterness towards the vicariate, his eccentricities set aside to reveal something genuine. “The mission… It’s been years since I’ve reckoned with it. Seeing your people, and your zeal to protect them… It reminds me of those first naive promises I offered my flock. When they died, so too did my naivety.” He glances over to his tearful new citizens, a glimmer in his eyes. “And damn you, you threaten to restore them both.” He lays a palm to his chest, a gesture not Otmon nor holy, but simply human. “I swear to guide and protect them always, till the world’s end and after.”

He omits God from the shepherd’s oath, but it’s enough to meet your demand. “Guide them well, Alltask.” You motion for your retinue to move out. ‘Folk peel from their kin and march on, tossing back parting waves and prayers as they go.

You take one last look at the dead city before you cross into the jungle. Faded, stark white masonry towers over droves of echoes. In the center, Gio and his new citizens huddle together, an island in this sea of unlife. Their presence would restore more warmth to this place than paints and trinkets ever could. Perhaps even Gio’s addled mind and iced heart could be tempered by their light.

You press on to the head of your retinue, remembering your promise to Gio. God willing, you and yours could return one day even if Gio’s lofty plans didn’t pan out.

Preparations to uproot the camp and move on are well under way. Progress is somewhat stalled by the excited chatter resonating from the ‘folk rejoining from Otmo. They regale others with tales of Gio’s city and its stunning riches, tame echoes, and vibrant colors. Baubles and treats spread among the people with striking efficiency; years of close collaboration stymied any attempts to hoard such riches. Along with Gio’s more material gifts of food, supply, and livestock, the people’s confidence swells, even despite the recent attack.

Lars Lurenson, your attentive bookkeeper, leads you to the heart of camp. “Only two lost to the Vice, Sir Palmfast. Rather surprising. And the nature of their attack– Well, I thought it best to show you before I assert any uneducated theories.”

You meet up with the leaders of your ‘van, all assembled before the shredded remains of the night council’s tent. You thought most of the flying Vice’s fury landed on the magi camp, but seeing the devastation here…

You pass by Chern Du, heavy heart hidden beneath a guise of serenity.

You pass by Lillian Newsaint, Vice sample in hand, eager to wring it of secrets.

You pass by Turl, content in victory and hegemony.

You pass by Vonus, ever obscure, accepting his place in Turl’s shadow. For now.

You pass by Erben Tol, antsy, yearning to rush into the unknown reaches of the otherworld.

You pass by a moski worker, Eidus’ judgemental eyes mirrored even in this lesser thrall.

Beyond their leering eyes, where no mortal dare walk, in the husk of the night council’s tent, you find the earth utterly despoiled. Two blackened lumps meld into the ground nearby. The Vice must have swooped down with such a fury as to take these unfortunate two completely unawares. Before you set to cleansing their remains, you step to the tent’s center. Beyond where the council table once sat, just at its crest, you find the focus of the Vice’s attack. A deep, deep rut carved in the rotted earth where you awoke this morning. They must’ve brought the whole of their strength to pummel the ground like this. Such concentrated fury… You recall the last blob of Vice’s desperate attempts to crush you during the battle. Their overt obsession with you while overlooking defenseless ‘folk. As you feared, there’s more to this attack than mere blind hunger.

You exit the tent to meet the curious eyes of your nobles. “Lillian. Parse what you can of that damned evil. We may see others like it soon enough.”

May the naked truth guide and protect them.

Meanwhile, in the magi camp, images of swirling, scouring sand overwhelms your farseers’ portents. At the edges of their vision, leagues and leagues of inhospitable otherworld dominates the land to the east. A diviner pulls himself from his visions and steels himself to deliver the news. Another foul omen, another trial for you and your flock to face on this exodus.

Imma wrap up the first thread here. I’ll draft up a proper OP and have thread two up when I get back home to more stable internet, probably next week if everything lines up properly. Thanks for reading!

>>6063158
Thanks for running!

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>>6063158
Spiffing job so far QM!

Take your time! Rest well!

=D