Session 7: How Uncanny Report

General Summary

The Uncanny Valley does not sleep. At all hours of the day and night, as the Valley itself defines the two to be, there is something at work beneath the soil and high overhead in the boughs of the new, ancient trees. It is a region so isolated and so unlike any other beside or adjacent to it that it creates its own weather at will. The Running Man has begun his first loop of the day: the strange, pale figure out of time carries a large pack on his back, strange trousers of an unusual material that end unceremoniously at the knee, a hat of a type you’ve never seen before and a large walking stick in hand. He carries about him the usual air of delirium and determination, though none know where it is that he intends to end up. As he passes the Itsmy moths reflect his world, his time, his triumph wrapped in failure and in the chambers of the Aylward of the Valley in the boughs of Sourstrath a greying mirror with rusted bronze edges that must at one time have been of a fine filigree reflects him, the tragic, impossible green of the Lonely Grove, the hidden mucosal pits of Talmhan Stand, the ant-hill like movement of the Dimignonaed waking with the sun and setting about their business in service of Queen Bugg and Ser Lion, and… the strange party traversing its hidden depths.

The Mazarine Traveler walks adjacent to them, wakes the mixed company of Mortelle and Deminatural and Animist alike and spirits away one of the daughters of the Once and Future King - Absabeth, she calls her - with the permission of those that accompany her just as her missing sister - Godiva? - returns astride a unicorn foal, the smell of smoke and steel clinging to her like a daring perfume, no worse for wear beyond several nights spent riding hard across the Valley, cleverly following the path left behind by her compatriots. The Mazarine escorts Absabeth into the unintelligible gloom at the edge of the Druxy Forest and the two disappear into the mist, leaving the remaining Unblemished staring at the edge of the city. They do not know its defenses, they do not know the ways in which the Valley protects itself. It will be several days before they reach the lower level of Sourstrath, though it looked only a few moments away when first they looked upon it.

The Valley will watch and so will the things that live in the Valley, keen to discover the intent of these strange travelers who have made it further than any other. It will report back to its most trusted friend, the Breath of the South Wind Itself, and the Breath will ensure that its people continue to live peacefully. Perhaps, someday…even happily.

Our travelers stand, all their gear and their wits about them, on the edge of a massive city hidden in the heart of the Uncanny Valley, having just said their goodbyes to Absabeth Pendragon - in the early light of dawn they were visited upon once again by Le Voyageuse Mazarine, Cridhe Loch Fae, with an apparently urgent message from Morgana Le Fay that must be delivered immediately - Cridhe did not expound upon this point except to say that there’s an old shrine in the far southeast of the Valley at the next elevation where she can commune instantly with the standing Queen of Avalon on behalf of her party, though Morgana did ask Cridhe to give Mathilde the fondest regards and of her aunts and sisters in arms, who feel at all times a connection to one another bonded in blood and duty. Cridhe promised to return Absabeth hale and whole and ideally with information to guide the party and Absabeth, having either come to terms with the gravity of your situation or reached her breaking point entirely, surprisingly agreed to take a page out of her sister’s book and catch up with the group.

They have been walking for days - weeks? It’s hard to tell. The geometry of this place is strange, almost what they know but not quite - the distance seems to shift depending on the angle at which they stand and the shortest distance between two points has not proven to be a straight line for them at all. Fatigue has begun to sink in the way the chill seems to have sunken beneath their armor and outerwear and into their bones, their bodies ache from night after night spent camping, never seeming to get closer or further from their goal. Finally, they have closed the distance and stand perhaps 1000 yards from what Lady and Dandy Lion, who often joined them during the long walk, have deemed “Applescab,” the purported “outer city” of Sourstrath. The city is heavily obscured by gargantuan trees of unintelligible age stretching so far above them that they cannot fully determine where the canopy ends. They can no longer see Sourstrath in the distance.

Our party comes to what may be the only possible conclusion: the only way forward is through. One-by-one the party hikes down into the city of Applescab, beasts of burden and creatures of myth in tow behind them. As they pass, they see for the first time the inhabitants of the Uncanny Valley for themselves: perhaps a thousand yards into the village beneath an unusually tall blacksmith's stall, a 7 foot woman with 4 arms tirelessly works a massive forge, the definition of many hands making light work; beyond that and kneeling in a patch of strange, prickly-looking flowers is a woman with smoke grey hair wearing what appears to be some kind of mask connected to large clear canisters filled with plants, though the mask serves its purpose and heavily obscures the matching set of gleaming silver eyes and sallow pallor beneath. The density of housing increases with every step further toward the center, revealing the Uncanny in repose. On a high porch made from dead wood in a decrepit rocking chair sits a woman wearing a beautiful gown and a veil of cobwebs that slightly obscures the truth of her face, which is as beautiful as the gown but for the black, empty sockets where her eyes should be and the clicking of bony hands as they drum along the arm of her seat. Their every step is haunted by a bald individual dressed in iridescent armor made from quills with a wide, blinking violet eye in the center of their forehead, scarring across their scalp and a long, crudely stitched scar running across their nose and cheeks - they adjust the weapons on their belt and follow at a distance, an air of suspicion about them.

In fact, the party walks for some time observing the local populace before they find their path impeded by a lone individual.

Before them patiently waits a young person equivalent to the party in maturation with cloudy white eyes, sharp bone structure, and a blinking gold parietal eye dressed in grey leather armor. Their serene expression is facial scarring too intricate to distinguish as ritual or otherwise, but not as if from a mauling - more as if it’s been partially erased. The individual introduces themself as Mandrake Malenfant - Advisor (and younger sibling) to Aylward Molthoe Malenfant and offers to escort the party to them directly, as their arrival has long been expected. The group is escorted into the base of an ancient tree, its roots gnarled and twisted and so persistent need demanded they be incorporated into the architecture itself - with a faint tinkling sound not unlike that of bells, the Protectors of the Realm find the earth beneath them shifting as the platform on which they stand rises, ascending within the trunk of the tree to its highest floor. An empty throne of Druxy wood has been carved from the enormous trunk itself, and it isn't long before a sudden gust of wind announces the arrival of the Grey Warden themselves.

The room and its inhabitants breathe, but do not yet speak.
Lady Lake is first to approach. From her trusty hip pouch she pulls her a book bound in apple green leather with glimmering metal bindings, the spine weak and creased with age and overuse. Her father's journal, every inch of every page filled with his sloping, emerald green hand. The pages are surprisingly unblemished by age except about the edges, which appear blackened. Molthoe knows this book, and asks how this Unblemished stranger came to be in possession of it. The daughters of Merlin introduce themselves properly at last, alongside their traveling companions - some of whom the party will find Molthoe possesses an..academic knowledge of if nothing else. After a brief disagreement as to who purportedly stole Merlin from whom, the Protectors of the Realm get down to business and make their case to Molthoe. At Molthoe's hesitation, Lady Lake makes an offer and poses a question: first, full citizenship in the realm of Broceliande, while the second is not really a question at all.

"Mordred has been here," Lady says. Molthoe does not disagree, going on to suggest that the Cult of the Forgotten Son has offered the Uncanny that which they desire most - a warm return to the world and status enjoyed by their humanoid, Unblemished cousins. All for the paltry trade of the full force of the Valley's power in the war against Albion.
Molthoe cares little for Albion and the realms beyond, having found contentment in their scholarly pursuits and the day-to-day business of tending their flock, but they do well recall the kindness shown to them by their former teacher. They care little for Mordred and his tactics, though they recognize they hold in their hands the weight of the hopes and dreams of an entire people. What is to be gained from aiding these strangers in the wood, and for what purpose should Molthoe risk the safety and sovereignty of their own folk in exchange for that of those who have never cared for them? In a room silent enough to hear a pin drop, each of our group in turn petitions the Aylward in their own way: brutal honesty, friendly conspiracy, abject devotion to queen and country, and in some cases...the uncomfortable familiarity of being other. They just want safe passage, they tell the Grey Warden, just a path through the Valley to their allies on the other side. After several moments of thought, Molthoe poses a challenge. They will grant passage to the Unblemished ones and allow them to walk the path, but only if these strange visitors continue to lengthen the breadth and width of the path so that perhaps the Uncanny might one day walk it too. Perhaps they might even walk it beside them as equals.

As they prepare to continue on their journey, Lady at last closes the respectful distance they have endeavored to keep as guests and asks Molthoe a single question, giving it only just enough breath to make it audible in the air betwixt them.

"Where is the sword?"

"The sword is hidden where the light shines the brightest."

The party departs, Molthoe's challenge still ringing in their ears. They walk for some time through the remainder of the Valley, passing the Slumbering Giant and providing Malcolm a chance to greet an old friend before making their way to parts unknown. Finally, on the other side of the mountain, a door awaits them: glowing, golden...ancient. As it swings on its hinges it reveals impossibly verdant pastures and brilliant sunlight, a sweet-scented breeze wafting through the open passage in welcome. Next stop: the Realm of Broceliande.

Rewards Granted

LORE KEEPER AWARDED:
Real World Experience
+2 XP to party for expanding their horizons and learning more about the realm of Anima.

Make a Path In The World
Molthoe gains +1 String on all PCs for allowing them passage through the remainder of the Uncanny Valley

Notes

CONDITIONS ACQUIRED

Absabeth (x):
Cleared by striking a deal with Dandy Lion
Adaleis (x)
Godiva (1):
Bewitched, -2 forward
Grifflynn (x):
Cleared by making a deal with Cameo Alluvium-Riviere + and Aurembiaix An Íochtair Órga to learn more about her mother Balestriere na Réaltaí-Riviere when time allows
Lady (1):
Guilty, -2 to Emotional Support
Malcolm (1):
Bewitched, -1 forward

PERSONAL TRACKERS
Grifflynn (The Trickster, Feelings Tracker): 0
Malcolm (The Beast, Feral Tracker): 1

Campaign

La Naissance D’Une Reine

Protagonists