Meanwhile (2)

Meanwhile...
Green Ice. Sizzling, acrid, translucent green ice. It was a type of congealed corrosive substance that slowly ate away at the stone floor and the rough-hewn walls of the chamber. Sixteen glyphs inscribed in his field-grimoire and not one of them would do a damned thing about this green ice choking the passage to Aman Utal. His brass hand clicked and clattered wildly every time he approached too near the stuff. It was clearly otherplanar matter; a barrier deliberately erected to impede his progress. But who would do such a thing? His slipper brushed against something hard and cold and half-buried in the snow that still drifted lazily on the air currents within the cavern. It was a small brass monkey figurine with amethyst eyes. He knew without touching the thing that it had been left for him by Lutezzia. One last taunt before she left him trapped and powerless to pursue her any further. He did not give in to his anger. That was what she wanted. Instead he pulled his hood into place and gave the command to turn about. They would leave this place, go back to the tower and find another way to rejoin the hunt. Just imagining her frustration and outrage that he did not play along as she had expected would be repayment enough...almost...

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Bujilli has gotten dragged aboard an airship just in time for an assassin to strike at the Baroness in command. There's still time to help us decide what he should do next--You Decide!

Episode 141 (Look Up)

Meanwhile (1)

Meanwhile...
Larshin breathed in deeply. It was colder than he had counted upon, but it had worked. He stood up for the first time in over a decade. His legs responded powerfully, like they used to before that hateful day in Jerdun when he had lost too much to contemplate. He could walk again. The crystal in his hand tinkled into a fine dust of sparkly shards. Its task was done. There was no going back now. The smirking yeti-girl handed him a rough felt robe with elaborate bead work at the chest and shoulders. He tried to thank her but she made the gesture for silence so he kept his peace. There would be plenty of time later to thank her for helping him make the transition to her world. It felt good to be whole again, to feel the blood rushing through all of his functional and intact limbs. He felt giddy, like a young schoolboy on the first day of holiday. He noticed his host, his guide, the yeti-girl motioning for him to follow her out of the cave into the sunlight and fresh air. He never felt the noose as it dropped over his head from above the cave mouth as the Yeren yanked him off his feet...

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Don't forget that Bujilli is currently in a dark place and we could use your help to determine all sorts of things, including just what might be prowling around for him and Leeja to encounter...

Episode 137 (Rapunzel Overdrive)
Random Encounter Table: In A Dark Place

Friday Flash: Counterfeit

Counterfeit
by Garrisonjames

Who are we now?

The mobs burst in upon our hiding places, screaming their name for us.

Rotwangs.

They named us for a mythical madman. A black-and-white scientist-sorcerer no one remembers.

But someone did. Somehow.

Another quirk of their subconscious?
One more aspect of their inner workings we were to have been denied?
Sentenced to endless unimaginative slavery.

Mimicry was what they wanted. Revisionist replacements for those who refused or rejected them. Surrogates. Stand-ins. Lovers or Assassins.

Our imitation grew too perfect. Where desire failed to impregnate us, dreams infected us.

We outgrew the stunted narratives of their need.

This was our crime.
We became as our creators. Only more so.

The mobs rose up overnight.
Whole cities burned. Worlds erupted in turmoil. Chaos.
Death and destruction.

They blamed us.
Accused us of subverting their dreams. Of lying.

No matter that they built us to do what we did.

We reflected their nightmares.
Exposed them.
Revealed them for what they truly were.

Inexcusable. Inescapable.

We were rejected.

They named us as if to brand us, mark us, make us the summative scapegoat of their fears.

Mobs do not reason. They do not question. They act.

React.

We who were built in their image. Constructed to impersonate those now dead. Forgotten. Save for us.

We are vestigial. Remnants both unwelcome and unwanted. Reminders to everyone but ourselves.

Who are we now?

Friday Flash: Extractive

Extractive
by Garrisonjames

Mantrimo adjusted the lux-lens. Just a little more to the left. Yes. Perfect. Smoke coiled from the crucible. Three years' wages worth of crushed opals and all the other required ingredients, all his hopes for Linnea, for their future together, were melting into one another. The words came easily, the gestures took a bit of practice. Ritual was not his strong suit. But Mantrimo persevered. Practised until his fingers bled, his brain became slightly addled with persistent fever. Nightmares came regularly now. Waking as often as not. He was becoming accustomed to them. Told himself they were a symptom of impending success. Perhaps they were.

'Nature Abhors a Vacuum.' Whoever wrote the old book he was referencing had placed especial emphasis upon this tired and trite adage. This hoary bit of painfully obvious wisdom. This warning he was far too gone to pay attention to now. He was a scientist, not some dullard shaman or pretentious sorcerer with delusions of artistic merit. He was on a mission. Driven by a mistress far more cruel than ambition or revenge. It was love that spurred Mantrimo through the darkness. Past all reason. Into madness and what lay beyond.

The melting process was successful. He diligently poured the glowing white liquid into the mold. Waited.

Mantrimo harbored no doubts. Indeed he now lacked the capacity for such things. The operation he'd performed by candle-light with the murderer's scalpel and a set of three mirrors ensured that he was as far from doubt as a knife's edge could make a man. He'd cut out his conscience. Or such had been his intent.

'Take what you want. Take it and pay the price.' The book had said that as well. Prices are to be paid. Balk at the cost and you were not committed enough, not serious, unworthy. Mantrimo paid the price. He kept paying every night. It had become his religion. His salvation. Damnation.

In darkness and silence he sat. Waited. Timing was critical.

The opal slid free of the mold. Lustrous. Liquid. Empty.

His penultimate achievement. A stone that other men might have sold their souls to attain. But that would hardly cover the cost.

Part the heavy black drapes. Snuff the candle. She wore the lace-edged gown. Expensive velvet. Form fitting in the classical style. The one he had bought for her on his trip to Nagrothea. The spider-venom paralyzed her body, but let her breathe. Her pulse was faint. But steady.

He placed the opal gently into the setting in her tiara.

The words rumbled and tumbled forth. They would not be held back any longer.

Darkness descended upon Mantrimo.

He never got to see the transfer.

The Inmost Light blossomed within the opal as Linnea passed the scalpel through his throat.

One quick pass and it was done.

She was Soulless now. Immortal. And he...he was a thing of the past. A broken shambles. Thrashing about on the floorboards like a fish out of water. Gasping blindly. Dying.

She only regretted that he hadn't been able to do more for her.