Orkallael di'Varne
Orkallael di'Varne (a.k.a. Wolfram)
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Lithe, wiry build
Body Features
Tungsten left arm
Facial Features
Scorched right eyebrow
Soft, but pronounced, features
Identifying Characteristics
The arm
Physical quirks
The arm
Fingers constantly dusted with gunpowder
Special abilities
Drow magic (Dancing Lights) and darkvision
Apparel & Accessories
Long duster, tattered tricorn hat.
Mental characteristics
Personal history
Orkallael, a drow elf, was born to an acclaimed artisan family in Redhearth.
He scorned the archetypal “elven grief” thrown upon him by his long-lived culture and sought the joys of the world, setting out for Kingsport. His parents were saddened by his hasty decision, but wished him away with love, sending him off with a family heirloom: the original model of the di’Varne “Gryphon”-series revolvers, known for their reliability.
There, he met his lady-love, a halfling named Asana (he called her Asa) who he was set to travel the world with; he only wished to stay in Kingsport a bit longer before setting out with her, so close as he was to securing a guild license which would open doors around the world for the both of them.
That was when an extremist lit up a Selean festival with more than the accustomed faery lamps. In the horror which followed, Orkallael lost Asa in the crowd… and never saw her again. Desperate to do something, he chased one of the mages through the streets, revolver gripped in hand, tracking the man to a rundown tavern.
There, he confronted the rogue mage, piercing his heart with a bullet as the mage’s Ice Knife sank into his shoulder and exploded, tearing at his arm and launching shards of ice into his body. One of the patrons of the bar, a mysterious human, bound his mangled arm and told him to seek the Machine God of the Wastes for a way to restore his body.
Orkallael wandered the desert for seven days and seven nights, the sand blasting his face and the harsh sun bleaching his once-golden hair platinum. The cold nights ravaged his body, his destroyed arm bound limply to his side.
On the dawn of the eighth day, against the light of the blood-red sun, he saw the Machine God lumbering in the distance, a colossus of broken metal and heaving rust. Offering his arm to the titan, he was granted one of tungsten in return, harder than tempered steel.
Now, Orkallael hunts mages with his god’s arm and his father’s gun, hoping each kill brings him closer and closer to the monsters who took his Asa from him. He’s worked alongside the Oprishniki, but there is no lost love between them—he’s stole a few of their quarries from them. He became known to the world as Wolfram, for his metal arm and adamant will.
With the manapools in Tollund and the armies on the march, he's got no shortage of jobs...
Gender Identity
He/him/his
Male
Sexuality
Bisexual--has gotten involved with other people, but never to a very sexual extent. His thoughts return too often to Asa.
Education
Raised in a successful artisan family in Redhearth--he's pretty learned.
Employment
Bounty hunter and machinist.
Failures & Embarrassments
Losing Asa
When he was young, one of the first firearms he made ended up misfiring in testing and wounding his mother's finger (she forgave him easily and got a simple prosthetic). Though his parents were willing to move past it--an elf's grudge against a child is a long grudge to hold--and loved him no less for it, it still flickers through his mind on occasion.
Mental Trauma
Asa and the Selean attack.
Morality & Philosophy
Orkallael heard early on that, as an elf, his long lifespan would expose him to an unavoidable accumulation of grief over the years.
He used to scorn the thought--who's to say what experiences he'll encounter and how they will weigh on him? After he lost Asa, though, he's been struggling more and more with his ability to turn away his doubts.
He wants to believe there's an essential desire for good in people, but it's a belief which doesn't come easy after seeing the horrors committed by others over his lifetime. He holds onto it, though, out of hope that his essential good will be able to overcome the demon he accepted in himself.
If you ask him, though, he'll simply chalk it up to a canny contract, nothing more.
Personality Characteristics
Motivation
Find Asa.
If she is not to be found... find a way to fill the void. Avenge her.
Savvies & Ineptitudes
Often finds he has spent his time tinkering; he was good with technology before his pact with the machine god, and the union has only made him better.
Likes & Dislikes
Likes
-His parents. He understands more now where they were coming from, and almost envies the purpose he sees they've now upheld in their work.
-Sunset and sunrise. He loves the way colors wash from one palate to the next as his darkvision adjusts.
-Tinkering
-Dogs
-Insects--they're like miraculous organic machines. Sometimes he wonders if that's just his ancestral connection to Lolth talking, but he doesn't think so.
Dislikes
-Used to scorn the elven tradition that years would bring only grief; now, he's come to wrestle with that belief. Such a long life is bound to accumulate great tragedy.
-Mages. Very much.
Virtues & Personality perks
In spite of his vagrant lifestyle, he does his best to hold himself to his word. He struggles to see people in their best light after what happened to Asa, but remembers the strange human who helped him after his arm was destroyed--even if it was just to recruit another follower of the Machine God. He still doesn't know their motives for saving him.
Vices & Personality flaws
Slow to trust.
Can't let go of a lead.
Personality Quirks
Will often roll a bullet between his fingers when idle or lost in thought.
Social
Family Ties
Scion of the di'Varne family, a reputable artisan family in Redhearth.
Religious Views
Understands the gods are real, but has trouble investing much faith in them.
Contract with the Machine God is one of necessity; his tinkering he dedicates to it, and has been tasked to record any mechanical secrets or discoveries he uncovers. In exchange, he gets an incredibly study arm with a number of tricks up his sleeve, and an affinity for machines.
Social Aptitude
He's got a charming, assured personality, informed by the courts of Redhearth, but this doesn't blossom until he gets to know someone well. Otherwise, he's all reserve and gritty determination.
Speech
He speaks softly, like sand running across metal.
Wealth & Financial state
Was very comfortable, now more vagrant
Orkallael diVarne, son of Ryltar and Pellanistra diVarne, is an apprentice gunsmith turned metal-armed bounty hunter after his initial attempts to find love and seek a more meaningful life ended in tragedy.
View Character Profile
Alignment
Neutral
Age
351 years old
Date of Birth
853 AM
Birthplace
Redhearth
Children
Gender
Male
Eyes
Electric Blue
Hair
Platinum
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
Light for a drow, due to his days in the desert
Height
5'11"
Weight
170lbs
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Broken Bodies
Our journey has been a difficult one the past few days.
After defeating the shadow creature at the elf-home, we have been using the maps we obtained to travel farther through this great cosmic maze of the Shattered Realms. Each step we take brings us closer to our goal, and threatens to hurl us far astray.
Krisa’s wounds went foul following our battle. Some sickness traveled on that monster’s claws. The long, bloody gashes would not close, and leaked a murky pus. She would not last long. I was amazed she still stood in the first place, much less walked on her own two legs. On top of, or perhaps simply exacerbated by her wounds, her fading in and out had become more regular and more complete; time was slipping through our fingers.
My skill in medicine is lacking—my aptitude lies in repairing machines, not people. I have treated my own wounds before, though. In Krisa’s case, I thought that I might perhaps apply some of my usual treatment on a broader scale.
I fashioned a small device for measuring out minute portions of my medicine which allowed me to control the dosage I got in her wounds. Too little, and the infection might remain. Too much, and I risked blowing her arm apart. That being done, I cocked the hammer on my pistol, held my breath, and pulled the trigger, spending sparks flying upon the gunpowder I’d treated her wounds with. An angry lick of flame shot up her arm before burning out just as quickly, and she fell unconscious.
Krisa was alive. The infection had been burned away.
I found myself reflecting with Caesar. What I would give for myself, and all those around me, to be wrought in pneumatics and clockwork, rather than oh-so-vulnerable flesh! My medical expertise is crude at best. In the face of danger, I have always been able to rely on the resilience of my mechanical arm. I always know how to repair it afterwards, at the very least. Caesar, though… He speaks as a full automaton who perceives his metal body as naught but a curse. Every last inch a marvel of engineering, and every last inch reviled by him. He seems to miss human sensitivities he once had. If he’d lived for as long as I have, perhaps he would have grown numb to them, anyways—metal body or none.
My reveries did not last long. They hardly ever do, don’t they? We had made camp on the edge of a forest of jagged trees, right on the border of the place called Infernus. They looked less like ice-sheathed pines and more like fangs. They seemed to snarl at us through the dusk. Caesar and I kept watch. Krisa rested.
A shifting in the dark nearly took me by surprise, and I saw dark figures creeping through the teeth, flames licking through a dragon’s maw. It was the same sort of monster which nearly tore us open at the elf-home. Here, though, were many, many more of them.
No time to waste. I was up in a flash, jolting Krisa awake. They would be upon us in seconds if we attempted to flee with her together. Hungry eyes and churning jaws fell toward us in the twilight. I told Caesar to carry Krisa away while I held the beasts off. My Gryphon roared, and Caesar spirited the frail mage to safety.
If I peeled away too soon, the twisted things would have simply overran us as we fled. With every muzzle flash and crack of my pistol I saw them draw closer—closer—closer. Only when the frontrunner’s claws began to swipe past my face did I turn and run. Shadows lapped at my heels like hungry flames.
As I turned to run along the border of the jagged forest, I quickly noticed that my companions were not present ahead of me. Damn. Either they had been abruptly swallowed by the deep snow, or…
A quick glace ahead of me made the answer clear when I saw heavy footprints abruptly disappear: Caesar had fallen through a fissure again. I spared hardly a moment cursing the odds. With malignant beasts on my tail and nothing but desolation ahead of me, I decided to follow my party into the space between worlds. I leapt through the angry crack in the air, and in an instant felt an icy fist grip my chest.
Water filled my gasping lungs, and the cold seemed to crush my body. The murk pressed down upon even my shadow-piercing sight. I found myself flailing about, a primal fear keeping my head below the water. I had to regain control. I had to think.
I forced myself to still my body, ignore the chill fire in my lungs. My eyes swept the gloom, and I seized an understanding of up and down. My legs kicked off the soft, sandy bottom of a lake, and I surged to the surface.
Now that I was above the water, I had another threat to contend with: frostbite. A stiff breeze nipped at my face, and the ice water drenched my clothes and dragged at me like a mother pleading her little soldier not to go. Where were Caesar and Krisa?
The latter I heard explode to the surface, jettisoned from below. She beat the water more than she swam as she made her way towards the shore. Fortunate that it was close by—we might’ve froze to death otherwise.
Well, perhaps not all of us. Again I found myself in envy of Caesar’s metal body as he simply walked to shore from the bottom of the lake, breaching the water fully upright. I wonder if he rusts. My arm does not. But then again, I take good care of it. I wonder, had I a mechanical body, if I would simply spend all day maintaining myself. The hours disappear as-is when I have my opportunities to tinker. There is music in the gears, music it surprises me few others seem to hear. I could listen to it ceaselessly.
Krisa finally put her magic to good use, setting a fire for us as we gathered ourselves. I really don’t ask for much more than that, nor have I. From her.
On the other side of the lake there is a temple. It appears to be a forlorn thing, not unlike that which we saw in the Shifting Sands. Perhaps for that reason alone I’m not eager to approach it, despite the shelter it might offer. It would be unwise for me to separate myself from my companions in this hostile place, but I can’t say I’ll go happily…
After all, the last time I delved such a deep, those whom with I entered never left.
Broken Home
Just as the evidence had presented itself, the strange homestead was occupied. We approached to the sound of firewood being split. The sound was piercing against the arcane sky. Its source was an elf outside his home—he greeted us as we approached.
Something about him was… out of balance. But I had warned my companions as much as I could. His greeting was friendly enough. When we introduced ourselves as lost travelers, he offered guidance freely. Or, he said he would: as his thoughts went to his wife, his very form flickered, as he was restored to how we found him.
There are legends of certain creatures from the age of magic which could dart in-between the realms at will, be they hunters, pranksters, or ordinary beasts. This did not seem the same. How could it, in this cursed place? He referred to it as being “Broken,” a process which apparently affects mages the quickest. Am I counted among them? The drow possess innate magic, and I myself channel the energies of some eldritch entity. Still, I do not practice magic as a master of the arcane arts. Perhaps I will be spared of such a rapid decay. Krisa, though, will be gone quickly, if that is the case.
Our conversations with the elf grew more and more sparing as he flickered more and more rapidly. It was a horrible thing to see him realize exactly what was happening each moment without being aware of it. When he discovered us “uninvited” within his house, his demeanor became grim as he offered any belongings to us we could take. I wondered if he felt hunger, if old wounds festered, if agonies of the mind maintained their dark hold. Looking through the gemstone, I saw he was shot through with fissures, his essence fractured by the properties of this place.
There was nothing we could do but take what he had once given us. I watched him cradle his fading wife as we began to sift through his house.
Apparently, the two were mapmakers. About the rooms were scattered half-finished maps and etchings of the Shattered Realms, writ in fine ink. One was more complete than the rest. On it was depicted an almost treelike structure; at the bottom, “The Unknown” was marked, with subsequent branches labelled “Infernus,” “The Tidelands,” and then, “The Iron City.”
If any of these places were ones my years had acquainted me with, they were lost to me now. All I could do was hope these maps would lead me out of this plane.
We made ready to leave. There were rations aplenty; Caesar had no need for them, but I took enough for at least a week. When I scanned for Krisa, eager to move on from this place, I found her huddled in front of a fire, still cold despite my coat and her elemental abilities. Did she not know we had no time to dawdle? Every moment we waste in this deadly world is a gamble we cannot afford. I tried to impart this to her. If she wields the magic of the elements, I asked, can she not warm herself on the move? Surely she, as a revolutionary, has faced worse conditions than this?
Just as our argument reached a climax, Caesar claimed our attention; the world around us had fallen dead silent. No rustling of the residents upstairs, no creak of the wind against the house, no rattling of the shutters. Complete stillness.
A shriek pierced this void—Krisa’s, having discovered the ceiling oozing a dark ichor upon her. Blood. The moan of the steps made it clear: something was coming our way.
I found cover behind the table as Caesar drew his sword. Krisa touched the foot of the stairs and a burning sigil etched itself in the wood. I trained my revolver on the staircase. And we waited.
The thing that came down the stairs appeared as a twisted facsimile of the woodcutter’s wife, wreathed in murky shadows and etched with glowing ley lines like those which permeated this world. I called for her to identify herself. She responded by clawing at us with arms grown impossibly long, shattering my cover and forcing us into action.
Caesar charged first, but he had neglected to mind the sigil Krisa had carved into the floor, and it enveloped him in a burst of flame. I wasted no time in loosing my hex-shot upon the creature as Krisa darted away. It was persistent in its attacks, a claw tearing at the mage as she staggered backwards. Another shot from my Gryphon rang out, and Caesar moved back to shoot it from a distance. The sound of splintering wood and gunfire mingled with the creature’s shrieks. As it moved to advance, a wall of flame checked it—so our spellcaster does have some tricks up her sleeve, after all. Unable to reach me or Caesar, it tore at her again. My gaze flicked to Krisa, and I caught a glimpse of her clutching her stomach, blood seeping through her fingers. Little I could do. The room filled with gunsmoke. The flames from Krisa’s spells lapped at the walls of the house, eager to tear it down. I was out in a flash, positioning myself outside behind the doorway now as I took another shot. A miss. The creature’s ire was focused fully on Krisa now as shadows stitched its form back together. Our attacks were harming it, but now we needed to finish it in one decisive blow. Retreat? The thought danced through my head. I banished it. Checked my ammo. One shot left. The shadow-thing descended on Krisa. Flick the cylinder back in. Krisa darting for the window. Cock the hammer. Caesar swatting at his flaming jacket. Hand steady, even. Shadowy head in the sights. Breathe in, release halfway and hold. Dark claw poised to strike.
Silence.
And my pistol roared as it blew the head off this demon, scattering its essence across the wall.
Swing the cylinder open and dump the brass. Spent cartridges steam in the snow. I’ll pick them up later so we aren’t tracked.
I surveyed the scene as I reloaded. With a crash, the house collapsed in on itself, consumed by the flames, as we dusted ourselves off. Krisa sorely wounded, but alive. Caesar as stoic as ever. I pulled out our new maps, consolation for the grim trial. Above us, the sky stretches forever into the fey dusk.
Wayfaring Strangers
We’ve wandered six months through these shattered realms.
The grinning creature, Zadrin, left us with three parting gifts:
The first was a scrying stone, an exquisite gem which seems to hoard light instead of reflecting it. Through it, I can see the tears in the fabric of this strange place.
The second gift was a strange totem which the mechanical being carries. It’s a bizarre thing, carved in wood with the sigil of a bleeding eye. I’ve never quite trusted wood as a building material. It’s too prone to change—leave it long enough, and it will grow, sprout leaves, or rot. I’ve learned especially to not trust anything with such strange insignias as that.
The third gift was Krisa’s life, as it restored her mind to her body with another snap of its fingers. I’ve yet to see her magical abilities in action. I hope that the mage will pull her weight, as mages are wont to not.
Each step we take here is a gamble, where stepping haphazardly into a rift will throw us many miles from where we were, into a jungle, tundra, desert, or some other inhospitable place. Our destination is a floating isle pierced by a heavenly beam of light, positioned amongst scattered rocks floating through the strange twilight sky. Darkness creeps from the corners of this light, a corona of jagged shadow about a bolt of lightning suspended in the aether.
Despite the perilous nature of our journey, we haven’t much time to choose our steps with care: about three months back, Krisa noticed the tips of her fingers flickering in and out of existence like candles in the wind. Gradually, more of her has started fading, and the automaton and I have begun to accompany her. I won’t fade to nothing in this liminal hinterland—not when I have a clear path to walk for the first time in ages. Still, I wonder what our gift-giver stands to gain from our reaching this point of convergence in the sky; he wouldn’t have offered us this opportunity if he didn’t stand to gain anything from it.
My companions… aren’t as lively as Toomi, for better and for worse.
The automaton, who I have learned calls itself Caesar, is the stoic, silent sort, the type I am accustomed to working with. It has yet to reveal the origins of its manufacture—I can’t be certain it knows itself. Its memories are sparse, practically nonexistent past that day I shot it. It will occasionally mutter to itself about the sea, though, turning the totem about in its hands. I can’t help but marvel at what a triumph of engineering it is: a fully-functioning, self-powered automaton with individual sentience and a level of intellect on par with most modern folk. We’ve managed to keep in one piece thus far, so no convenient excuse has arisen for me to examine its interior workings, but the intuition my pact affords me seems to indicate that it’s no mere man in a suit of armor. Its construction is resilient enough for it to continue functioning after suffering direct ballistic trauma to its center of mass, and it has demonstrated a tireless ability to navigate the many extreme biomes we have traversed. I’m itching for the opportunity to get a closer examination.
As for Krisa… well, my enthusiasm to see her conscious again was somewhat stifled when I remembered she is a mage. One would assume this would make her privy to a host of useful tricks, but so far, they have not manifested in any way which has tipped the odds in our favor. Her analysis of our surroundings has been informative in an academic sense, but not in any way which has elucidated our circumstances. She was apparently part of whatever guerilla force Toomi associated with, but she lacks the endurance for long-distance travel in these myriad hostile environments. She proved herself trustworthy in the Shifting Sands, and her friendship with Toomi speaks well for her character, but I’ve little inclination to rely on a mage’s help, nor do I feel any keen affection for her. Perhaps time will change that, but I won’t count on it—especially if we don’t get out of here soon.
Our past few weeks have seen us trekking through a dense jungle. The air here is thick and humid, and I get the sensation of being watched by many eyes. Still, we had seen nothing of other living creatures—until today. Above us, a gargantuan serpentine thing soared, a thick, grey belly with four fins tapering to a wrinkled neck. From its body, long probing arms scoured the ground below. It was a monstrosity the likes of which I have never encountered in my life, and I have seen many grim sights. Krisa and I bolted for cover, but Caesar was caught in the open. When the thing fixed its deathly gaze on the automaton, it took a breath which seemed to swallow the very essence of the world around it. Caesar had no choice but to run, and when it did, without the guidance of the scrying stone I carry it ran right into a rift and was whisked away.
One of the many reasons I prefer to work alone. Not wanting to lose our most hardy fighter, I dove after him, with Krisa close behind. My dancing lights again proved a valuable diversion, and when the beast’s attention was captured, we fled after Caesar.
Falling through a rift may dump one onto coarse sand, rigid branches, churning water, even sharp volcanic rocks, but this time, we fell into drifts of snow—I was relived for the soft landing, but admittedly less so seeing we had fallen off-course due to a blunder and would now have to contend with the cold.
Krisa, in spite of her understanding of elemental wizardry, was of course shivering. I offered her my coat and hoped for a quick way out of this mess. My wishes may have been answered; in the distance, a small village pokes its roofs through the snow, a lonely light glowing in a single window.
If I’ve learned anything in my three-hundred-odd years, it’s to not trust such signs. But my companions insist on examining this place, seemingly assured that if there’s trouble, we will emerge on top of it. It could be worth it for the supplies, but any delay, any risk to life and limb, brings us closer still to the point of no return. If this is some trap… we may not live to regret it.
We’ll see how handy my traveling companions are in a fight.
Found and Lost
Whatever horrid monster pursued me, it could not fit through the narrow doorframe which guarded my exit. I dragged the cocoon behind me, thudding up the stairs. For some reason, I knew it was Toomi, hoped it was Toomi; I’m not sure why. Her abrasive personality is comforting, a step outside the ordinary. Not to mention, her prowess would give us the best chance of leaving this crypt alive.
When I pried open the webbing, however, I was not met with the face of Toomi, but the delicate features of Krisa. Whose presence, as a mage, would have been a great boon had she been conscious, or even close to it. But she was trapped deep within a coma beyond what I could treat, and I was not ready to spend my Nilwort on an uncertain outcome.
Nowhere to go but up. I tread carefully. Most of my dealings have been with the sentient variety of creatures—I talk my way close to people much sooner than creep about. My footsteps seemed to echo in the forlorn temple. With them, though, came another sound, the sound of combat ahead of me. I rushed forward; it would not do to lose another ally.
In a room adjoining a great mosaiced hall, Toomi confronted two spiders. She was weary, bloodied, but a fire burned in her eyes. Seeing this, I did something I seldom do; I made a point of announcing my presence. My shout alarmed the demons, and Toomi seized the opportunity, burying her dagger in one. My first shot went wide in the clamor, but we eviscerated them in short order.
As I tended our wounds, I told Toomi of Oswald’s fate. She… was not pleased. Her primal display gave breath to much of what I felt in the loss of Asa, but had never spoken. I suppose I’ve never seen much point of shouting into the void—ringing against the vastness of time, they only serve to demonstrate how insignificant the outbursts are. When I first saw her, heard her, I thought… well, she’ll learn. Her heart will make room in time. Such is the risk of attachment. As I’ve learned.
We took a moment to examine the intricate patterns upon the wall. The art depicted some vast conflict between a figure in blue and a figure in red, the man in blue saving his people with a legion of spiders and turning his new tribe against the woman in red. They are both worshipped as gods, incite new mutual violence, slaughter each other in droves, and so on and so on. The path of the wheel of time is a muddy one. There were some new elements to this mythos I had not seen before, though, as well as one detail which felt particularly pertinent: the demons the blue figure had initially saved his people from were apparently the same ones whose skulls lined the wall. Were we in a temple to these primordial devils? Or a monument to their destruction?
I don’t often occupy myself with the history of the elves. I prefer to let my own experiences shape my understanding of my world. Still, it was a strange sight, to see the vast mythos, the seeds for present discontent, reduced to a mural, however grandiose. The world is a world of people, not paintings, and when they come into conflict it is blood which is spilled, not ink.
We continued up. As we went, I learned how I’d ended up in the coffin in the first place: Toomi had left me there to keep me safe when I was incapacitated by my visions. I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful she’d thought to keep me safe in such a way, or aghast I’d been left alone in such a place; then again, it was certainly better than ending up in a cocoon. Or dead.
We reached a sort of crossroads, a room with four crumbling pillars and a parched fountain. The bones of this grotto. It felt we were close to escaping, had it not been for one thing—the sounds of battle above us. The very walls themselves shuddered as some dire horde fell upon the upper levels. A shout from above told me everything I needed to know.
The Imperium had returned.
Had we ventured upstairs, Toomi and I would have been torn apart by drake riders and their ravenous mounts. It seemed the logical and safe option, then, that we hole up below and wait for the storm to pass. Logic, it would seem, was not to be the guiding force of the day, as the monster from earlier skittered out from between a crack in the wall. Before we could respond, a spattering of its thick webs had sealed our way out.
There wasn’t much to do but to fight. As Toomi threw herself at the door to remove the webbing, I stood my ground and confronted the demon.
Drow folklore—what portions I am familiar with—speaks of acolytes of the Spider Queen who failed in their initiation rites and were cursed to wander the depths as twisted hybrids. The horrid form of this creature seemed to mirror such a monstrosity, chattering mandibles rending both its arachnid body and its humanoid features open as it hissed at us.
I felt a fury in me that was not entirely mine, looking at this profane creature. It is a sensation which has… kept me company in moments where I felt my fragile body pushed beyond its boundaries. When the memories of my lost love were not fuel enough for my furnace. The faintest whisper at the back of my head, a tiny voice above even the loudest din. It may be how I have survived my many years alone after losing Asa; even on my most desolate journeys into the farthest reaches of the world, I have never truly been alone.
I have my monster, too.
My shot found its mark—the fight I begin is the fight I am most liable to end, and I had the Machine God guiding my lead. There was no quick resolution to be found, though; its witch-marked thorax mangled, it made directly for me.
I gave ground quickly. There was little hope for me to survive a melee with such a creature. It’s an uphill battle, that which I don’t fight on my own terms. Its mandibles tore into me and I found my head spinning, poison creeping through my veins.
Every moment that passed, I found my fascination with spiders dwindling.
Toomi’s progress on the door was agonizingly slow, to the point where eventually she abandoned it and joined the fray; she couldn’t have joined soon enough, as I was pinned by webs and woozy with poison.
She was an inspiring figure, diving into combat against this monster; she hardly even hesitated before she was clambering up its back, tearing deep wounds in it with her knives as she went. I dazzled it with the magic of my heritage before redoubling my assault. My arm barreled towards it on its own accord, missing the beast and smiting a pillar instead—I felt the ceiling begin to shake even more, trapped in the throes of a battle beneath and a battle above.
As the spider-thing charged me again, I darted beneath it and managed to find myself out of easy reach of its thrashing legs and mandibles. When that freak let loose its earsplitting screech again, that which had previously driven me mad, I rammed my arm in its maw and answered its shriek with my family pistol’s roar.
The battle went on as rocks began to fall. I considered aiming for the pillars to trap the beast, but we ran just as much risk if the ceiling were to collapse on ourselves and the helpless Krisa. The mage’s aid certainly would have been handy. For most of the fight, I managed to barely keep out of the way of the hybrid’s attacks, but eventually found myself webbed to the very door we intended to escape through. My centuries have held their share of ironies.
Toomi waited for this moment to pull a magnificent artifact from her belt, a dagger which crackled with flame as she hurled it—at me. I was relieved when it burnt away the webs binding me instead of splitting my skull open. She meant to free me, and she did so at the expense of pressing her own attack.
I could not waste such an opportunity. The creature was pocketed with weeping bullet wounds, blood seeping from brutal lacerations dealt by Toomi and the impact of fallen rocks. Toomi’s dazzling attacks with her knife had opened a golden opportunity. And I was barely hanging on. There was but a short window to finish the fight.
Perhaps I should have attempted to keep my distance and aim for the head. Perhaps I should have waited for a falling rock to crush the thing while I hunkered down in safety. Perhaps I should have wheeled about and destroyed the door which barred our path. But my arm burned, from within and without. Whatever force I harness to compel the thing to my desires was bursting within me now. Moving faster than the rest of my body could reckon, my mechanical arm crashed into the demon with the force of a steam engine and broke its body beneath my fist. Screeching, in its death throes, the beast careened into the last support pillar, and the darkness above came crashing down upon us.
And everything went black.
When I came to, I found myself staring into the face of the stranger who had blocked my path just days before. He was… a machine, I saw now. I had no time to ponder this development. There Toomi was, trapped beneath the rubble. My arm would have made short work of such a situation, had it not been so precarious. But… fate had other plans for us. As I reached for her, she halted me—any more movement and the chamber would collapse, perhaps the whole temple. Not a situation she could resolve. Even if she were to toss her dagger and blink to it, as I had seen her do earlier, where would that leave her? Still inside a collapsing temple.
Days ago, Toomi had mocked the pride of two humorless guards and gave them a thrashing when they attempted to retaliate. Hours ago, she had fought off a wave of Imperium wyverns and plunged into a temple for a cause she thought was noble enough to give everything to. Moments ago, she had leapt, knives flashing, on the back of a monstrous witch-spider to save my life and that of her companion.
Now, she lay underneath a pile of rubble, and there was nothing I could do.
The wheel of history, clattering its way through the mud. Every spoke which rises will find its way again to the bottom.
She spoke softly to me for the first time, then. No longer was I sugra, coward, but now tursk, warrior, and goro—friend. And never before had I felt less worthy of the title. Toomi left me with her fiery dagger, and instructions to find her people,and tell them… they would know, she said. They’ll know. She called me something else, too, which I never learned the meaning of—achim.
I have lost pets before, an inevitability. I have seen people fade, killed a score myself. I have destroyed defective projects, I’ve made mistakes so pathetic they’ve cost my mother her fingers.
The loss of Asa was the only time I’ve felt as miserable as I did when I pulled the trigger on Toomi. Another grief I can only dream I will forget. It came unexpected. I had almost remembered what it was like to have a friend.
No time to mourn. No time to question the appearance of this mechanical stranger. We hoisted Krisa and set out in the only direction we could: the cavern the witch-spider had first appeared from. At its terminus was a reflecting pool as clear as glass. A brilliant mirror lay at its bottom. And an ominous dragging emerged from behind us.
The damned thing was still crawling. The next few seconds were a fuge I hardly remember—I only have eight missing rounds to show for it. The thing had no intentions toward us anymore. It only made its way with single-minded purpose towards the waters as we blew it apart with our guns. When it reached the bottom… it disappeared.
It turned out to be our guide. The entire cavern was collapsing, and there was nowhere to go but to follow the witch-spider. And so we plunged in after it.
The water rippled about me like air. As we sank, my vision was filled with incandescent motes of light. And then, we were somewhere else entirely.
We found ourselves in a grey world like an echo of the past. The laughter of children, fey and bright, faded into the mist. It was an old elven town.
At its center was a strange, grotesque figure, features pried wide by cruel hooks. It grinned a wild grin at us because it could do nothing else. It told us in a haunting voice that it had been expecting us. Its name is Zadrin, “the wanderer,” and it, like us, has been trapped here, despite its apparent control over the place’s inhabitants—it restored Krisa to consciousness with a thought and stole back her waking just as quickly. Now, to escape, we are to help it… or suffer whatever consequences we may if we do not. I’m hardly in any position to refuse. My body is frail, and I still shake the effects of the poison from my mind. It’s time to see what my new companion of circumstance is capable of—time for me to unearth the truth at the center of the mysteries which swirl around me. And time for me to see if I can continue to drag myself along, my burdens always behind me.
One way to find out.
A Deadly Web
I awoke amongst the dead.
The nightmares which had visited me echoed still as I came to. I was in a dark room, like a crypt, flanked by stone caskets. There seemed nothing to be done except to continue on. I wasn't seeing clearly--it was as if I was trapped in my head. Even my keen eyes could not pierce the fog over my mind.
I proceeded carefully. How I got down there, I cannot guess. After all, I saw no one about to carry me.
It probably bodes even less well if such a thing was of my own doing. There were two room about similar to the one I arose from. One was empty, save for a shattered sarcophagus. I suppose empty isn't quite right--the walls were adorned with strange skulls, the likes of which I have not encountered before. Each had three eyes and a set of horns. Not those of a tiefling--something monstrous.
Stepping into the other of these chambers, I was greeted by a crescent moon spider. Nasty thing the size of a dog. I might've known--the room was veiled by webbing. One blast from my shotgun smeared it upon the wall. An excellent investment, indeed, if a little inelegant. And loud, in the small stone chamber, the shot rang something dreadful in my ears.
At risk of sounding predictable--though you never ought to assume--I do find spiders fascinating. And insects. Arachnids and insects. They're like marvelous little machines, somehow rendered in ichor and chitin instead of clockwork and metal. Each with a fantastic little mechanism which renders it wholly unique: stingers, wings, silk, poison, compound eyes. Some even detect their prey through minute vibrations felt in the ground and in the air. They're truly remarkable; it's a shame I have no desire to be bitten by one as tall as my knee.
The hallway ended in a spiral staircase. One path up, and one path down. All my good judgement was screaming for me to make my way to the surface, but... something stopped me. Some passing idiocy. My horse missing, stranded as I was in the desert, I weighed my options and determined that it would behoove me to locate my traveling companions. That, and I was still impossibly drawn to the mystery of this place. Was it some thread woven into the tapestry of the prophecy I had received?
So began my descent. A shriek rang through my mind again, the face of Morden, the fires of Kingsport, the smell of death--and just like that, it was gone again. I continued down.
At the base of the stairs, the passage opened into a large room crawling with spiders. It was perhaps the first moment I've felt a sense of distaste for them. At the far end of the room, a gaping cavern supported by crumbling pillars, there stood a dais above which two cocoons were suspended. Beyond that, a cavern the darkness of which my burnt-out darkvision could not pierce. Easy enough to guess what they might hold; I shot one down and, carefully, using my grapple, dragged it back to me.
Spider silk gave way to my metal hand. Inside was the pale form of Oswald. I slapped him awake--I was struck in that moment by an odd sense of the risk of failure, but, sure enough, he came to. He seemed just as confused as I was, but there was no time to dally. I gave him my shotgun, where he was unarmed, and he went about covering me as I retrieved the other cocoon.
Would that I had moved more quickly. Like a hunter shrugging off their cloak, a beast emerged, leg by leg, from the shadows of the cavern in the far back. A massive, sagittarian form, but with the hindquarters of a spider instead of a horse. A hideous face was emblazoned on her--her?--thorax. It was a creature reminiscent of those of stories drowfolk tell their children to frighten them into behaving, the stories of a culture still haunted by the echoes of a malignant legacy.
Its screech was a thousand needles in my head, a voice which returned me again to Kingsport. I moved to run.
It surged forward before I could act, webbing flying from its thorax and ensnaring Oswald and I. Its spiny legs skittered across the stone floor. I tore the webbing from myself, my arm moving practically before I willed it to. I hardly thought. I just grabbed the other cocoon and ran.
Oswald gave me the courtesy of pretending I wasn't shaken by fear, yelling at me to flee after my legs were already moving. I made the mistake of looking back at him as the drider loomed over him. His writhing body could not tear itself free, but he still had one arm. He leveled the shotgun at the thing, and for a moment, I thought its viscera might yet paint the walls as the other spider so easily had.
It was not to be. That horrible screech echoed again, its thorax reared back, the face upon it squirmed and gaped, and before Oswald could pull the trigger on it, his limbs moved as if possessed. I saw him fight it fight this body of his he could no longer control. Slowly, slowly the rebel arm turned the sawed-off shotgun on its own head.
The screams, gunshot rang in my ears, and I fled.
From the Dust
Much to account for in the stretch of so little time.
We continued on from the fort where we stayed the night, out into the Shifting Sands. Toomi initiated what turned out to be fruitful discussion in the beginning of our journey; she told me what her Orcish means, as well as her purpose her, and I told her of mine. Apparently, she fancies me a coward and a cur, and herself a grim reaper. About what I anticipated. It was entertaining humoring her a bit--no sense in making a long ride longer in antagonism. Recognition seemed to flash in her eyes when I mentioned I'd had my fortune read; apparently she knows Old Man Atuum. A web of secrets worthy of Llolth from the old stories. And I didn't even see it until I became trapped at its center.
The rearmost cart breaking down was a chore, but it was an opportunity to pull my tools out again where I hadn't for awhile. Fetching the materials from the wagon, I was tempted to see just what cargo lay inside the boxes, but it wasn't the right time. No sense in prying their shipments open when they're expecting me. Besides, it looked to be no more than a rack of rifles, anyhow. I fixed the cart in minutes. I almost demanded they pay me--I restored that wheel and axle better than they had been.
It wasn't long before a sandstorm swept over us. I had attuned my senses to the first cart earlier so as to not lose it, and it was good I had; the winds cast a raging darkness upon us, a darkness which begat misfortune. Something fell upon us, blowing the first cart away and scattering our convoy. Toomi rode beside me, her face more shocking than the assault--a look of pure dread had come over it. Wyverns dropped from the sky and seemed to burst from the ground, nasty little assault creatures. I might've taken that moment to flee, but I easily could've been consumed by the storm and the conflict--and the half-orc and her companions had almost endeared themselves to me. At least, the sense of momentum I felt from being in their company had. Credit to this crude mercenary--she insisted we rescue her friends instead of fleeing ourselves. I cannot help but find myself intrigued by these folk. Selflessness was the last thing I anticipated.
The sensation is not entirely lost on me. We went to find Oswald and the other one, and I put my new firearm to the use as a wyvern dove towards me. Buckshot really does work wonders against flying targets.
By the time Toomi and I had found Oswald and company and dug them from the wreckage, the battle had subsided--and our caravan was gone, along with our assailants. Disappeared into the sands.
I have lived many decades in a world of magic. I understand wonders as inevitabilities, as opposed to impossibilities. Still... there was something uncanny about this disappearance. Something about its abruptness, its subtlety. Credit to Oswald, though--he still insisted on taking everything we could still find and hauling it with us. An old temple lies abandoned before us, some unearthly presence within. He want us to stay there for the night, of all places. I will be sleeping outside. I don't know what would be worse--that he feels the presence as I do and wishes to delve in anyway... or that it is a voice which speaks only to me.
As if I need another.
And we're at war. Inevitabilities, not impossibilities. Still... what Oswald said was right. If the Imperium is attacking now, continuing to Port Nigh could be jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. Time will tell. I've no desire to stick around--once I reach our destination, I'm collecting my gold and continuing on to this "carcass of titans." Whether that will take me closer to Asa, or ensnare me in yet another web... there's no way to know.
The Road North
The day has been uneventful. If I've learned anything in my years, that ought to be a concerning sign.
I purchased munitions and a new weapon on my way from town, a sawed-off shotgun from a furtive dwarven shopkeep. I hadn't known people were so squeamish around firearms in the better parts of Zadia--they're only tools, after all.
I'm honestly not certain why I bought a shotgun--where my primary weapon is a pistol, I really ought to go about getting a rifle, something with more range to it. Although... I can think of some improvements I might make to my Griffon which might eke out extra distance from it. I'll have to get to work on that. Still. I need to remind myself not to indulge in vanities like this. It was a hasty decision. If I'm worried about over-encumbering myself with a longarm, I can just keep some things in my saddlebags.
It was odd meeting an elf at the Crimson Market. Not that it ought to have been--the Diaspora is plentiful--but living around so many folk with lives like the blink of an eye, I forget sometimes when someone sees as I do. Then again, this elf was an ass. It was refreshing speaking Low Elven again, but even that was met with scorn. Some folk cannot be pleased. Perhaps if he knew the esteem my family is held to, and the riches our lifetimes-old armory produces, he'd look upon me with greater deference. I care not for that sort of thing, though. He can keep peddling his useful weeds.
Those I travel with now are the standard tough company. A Zack, an Oswald, a Toomi--she will be handy to have around, at the very least. She's the sort of person with a marked disdain for dying before her time, although it would seem she certainly enjoys picking fights. It will be interesting to see how she responds if this trip becomes dicey. I almost feel pity for the soldiers she wiped the floor with at the outpost we are spending the night at.
I met a soldier there as well--Bill, I think--who remarked how strange it was to think his shining city of Zadia was about to be plunged into war. It's funny--such a thing only seems natural, in the span of a civilization's years. I remember hearing distant news of the Tosic War, internal strife in the Imperium... but I suppose even I have never seen conflict on this scale before. I'm certain my family will be making quite the sum in wartime supply commissions.
Not that I intend to see this crusade up close. No, I'll be keeping my head down, my eyes up... and Toomi just close enough where she'll shoot back at anyone shooting at us.
Fire and Prophecy
Horace is letting me recuperate in his home for a moment before we head out. I should consider buying extra munitions soon, maybe a rifle if it's within my means.
Threads of the past grew taut again today just as I was expecting them to slip away. This string I've followed through the dark maze has begun to tug on me in a way I don't yet understand.
I was standing in Kingsport again. Kingsport, and people were screaming and the sky was choked with smoke.
Except it wasn't. It was a disease-ridden desert warren and a single shack burning like a furnace, like it was meant to be ablaze. No one... would've really cared. It would pass. Another would be rebuilt. But I heard a mother crying out, and...
I hope this bodes well for me. That I chose to go in, chose to tear her sons out of the closet they'd been barred in. I hope I can bear the burn I received from the falling timbers as a mark of pride instead of one of stupidity. The two boys won't live much longer, anyway. Their mother even less. Decades, at the most. But something in their soot-stained faces spoke for an eternity of thanks. It did end up being fortuitous--but I'm getting ahead of myself.
I found my way to Old Man Atuum. The district reeked of death, the guards looked at me like I was sun-mad. I couldn't blame them. He didn't answer the door, didn't answer my initial call. I found him, sickly and weak, in his bed. His age already put him on the razor's edge between life and death. He would've been gone in a blink without the black pox. But when he spoke to me, his words seemed unburdened by time:
"You scion of Metal and Bone, you will never rest, but walk this earth in a sleepless nightmare. Your goal lies in front of you in Leobrough but should you seize it, it will as quickly slip through your fingers like water through a sieve. Look north, take your first step--you will find what you need in the carcass of the titans."
Metal and bone... he knew before he saw me. I've been witness to plenty of strange things, but that? Perhaps he scried me--but I don't believe I've seen him before. A changeling? Not impossible--but the sickness would limit his ability to maintain another form.
And what am I the scion of? Metal and bone, certainly, but a scion? Of what lineage? Of what inheritance? I've heard nothing of my patron in a little while, beyond the rumbling of my hex-shot as I invoked it this morning. I have no desire to be scion for my own tool's designs. That wasn't part of the bargain. I've many days left I must yet wander. And north... what is north? Miscop? Trojinheim? Oxford? Those places hold no wonders for me beyond the outlaws I've hunted down for their guard. "The carcass of the titans"... Meaning eludes me. I'm almost left wondering if I ought to drop the whole affair and just pull the next bounty off the board.
I didn't get much of a chance to consider my prospects after I left Atuum's ("old man," my damned ears. Old Man, maybe). Apparently the McCallum gang was incensed by my rescuing the children they attempted to murder, because four of their thugs cornered me in an alley as I was on my way to healthier streets. Well, they thought they cornered me.
Hours before, I might've tried to simply shoot as many as I could before they slew me. What a worthless last stand that would've been. But... for whatever reason, I could feel my heart race. My blood throbbed in my chest against the cold metal of my arm. And I felt a tug on the string...
The boys I'd saved earlier were watching me from a sewer. There was a way. And to not take it would, now, be a waste. Asa's still alive somewhere. It can't be anyone other than Asa pulling me like this from the other end of that thread.
The magic of my ancestors is only capable of producing dim light, to my understanding, but it was enough on that dark night to surprise those thugs and send their shots wide. I escaped into the sewers. And when they followed me, I killed them. Autumn leaves. Even bright cinders which fly on a breeze will fall and fade to ashes.
He didn't know he was playing with fire.
I thanked the boys and shook myself off. I realized I'd never gotten their names. Or their mother's, I don't think. Nothing to anchor them to time. But I hope... I hope they have more left. Time. I don't have the means to combat a gang, especially not with the useless Zadian guard. But it would be...
Hm. It would be nice to see them grow old. And fade. Peaceful.
I stayed in a nice inn that night, walked in smelling like shit. Hardly matters. In a few decades, someone else will own the place. Maybe those boys. Atuum had asked me to deliver a parcel to his friend, along with the message "the post is yours now." The next day, I bought a new horse and went to find him.
It feels perverse of me to set another creature beneath me like that and burden it with my own weight. To make it reliant on me even as it carries me. Organic creatures--animals, people--they're so vulnerable, roiling messes of flesh and bone and some fragile spark of life. That I must be responsible for my own delicate balance is concerning enough. I felt almost guilty purchasing this poor, warm-eyed creature from the stablehand, as I had poor Ajax.
I named him--her?--Mercury. May they speed our endeavors so that I might leave them soon with some fellow warm-hearted creature who doesn't live in the desert.
Horace was quick to trust me, when I said Atuum sent me. I didn't quite catch what was in the parcel, but he offered me a a job as I went north, help defend a convoy headed that direction. Said he was moving weapons and supplies to "friends" of his and Atuum's. Coin is coin. He said nothing of their organization or their business, only that they're "the good guys." As if.
If he saw in the darkness as I do, he'd realize it's only so many shades of grey.
The Brian Bjornsten Affair
Made contact at first dark. Quarry was in camp with two companions. A simple approach and brandished weapon sufficed to draw him out of camp while his companions were away. Perhaps I should spend more time practicing subtle movement? I haven't much needed it with my gun and my arm.
This bastard... just wouldn't stop whistling. When I asked him how he kept whistling with all the atrocities he committed, he just chuckled and said he'd "made his peace".
He'd made his peace.
Perhaps I should take a page from his book. Goddamn Brief Ones look at their short lifetimes and think it makes them natural-born philosophers; I suppose they only have so long to come to terms with their demise.
Riding into town I saw some urchin child slip away and figured it could only mean trouble--I was right. Despite my best intentions, I was ambushed by a sniper, who died quickly as I returned fire with my cursed-shot, and barred access to the inner gates by a strange man who didn't bleed when I put a hole through his chest.
I found myself trapped between the Bjornsten Gang and this uncanny gatekeeper, SO GODDAMN CLOSE and yet so far.
FUCK!!
This criminal, this murderer, who I'd caught fair and square, brought in discreetly and efficiently, was being freed from my hands because the BRAINLESS FUCKING CITY GUARD couldn't hear GUNSHOTS outside their door. This man, who I was ready to claim the reward for and interrogate. This BASTARD.
My only option was to negotiate. They shot Ajax, poor creature, and I had no way out. This is why the only solace I find in company is that of machines. I need some manner of synthetic transport which doesn't require train tracks.
Standing there, cornered by between armed thugs and an undying freak, so close to my goal yet so far, I just felt so... lonely. More so than I have in a long time.
Bjornsten senior (?), funny enough, seemed to be motivated by the bonds of brotherhood, and he was willing to pay his brother's way out, along with some information: their short span of years crippled their understanding of the Kingsport Explosions, but they told me to contact the Oprishniki--the one faction I was hoping I needn't involve in my affairs. I feel... a sort of clarity in it now after this close call, though. I got my bounty money, my life, and directions: find Old Man Atum. He'll get me in contact with the Oprishniki.
Now there's just the matter of this strange, bloodless man left standing before me...
What the hell am I getting myself into?
I've narrowed down the search for my latest quarry. All the fingers are pointing to Zadia.
It's funny to think that after all the years I've lived, all the years I will live, the measure of the fewest has been spent in obsession with one halfling girl. Mm, I suppose "obsession" sounds too harsh, doesn't describe it. It is a strangely persistent feeling which I suppose would be described by shorter-lived folk as love.
Ahh, the great Elven rule, the singular dogma which haunts us forever and ever in our interactions with the Brief Ones: "It will pass." The panacea to our grief as we watch everything we've ever known slowly melt away into time: "It will pass." It will pass. It will pass.
Maybe it will.
That's why I find myself in Zadia, the metal husk which used to be my arm thrumming as I inch closer to the kill. This mark is the closest I've ever been to finding answers for what happened to Asa. A zealot who saps the mana pools for their own acts of terror--it reminds me why I hate mages. These two persistent thorns, love and hate. It's what I wanted, isn't it? To feel something beyond the grey trance of eternity? I just didn't expect them to rule me as they do.
So now... now I plan to liberate myself from these masters of the mind. Avenge Asa. Find peace.
And maybe--just maybe--do as my people are wont to do--
And fade into the grey.
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