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.