Named for it's position as being roughly at the midpoint of Five Coils' height, Midway Station is a sprawling city built around the central elevator of Floor 16, as a fortress against any from below who may attempt to reach the upper levels.  As a shield for the Gatekeeper Core of the Fire District, and as the High Command of the Legions.  It is, in a very real sense, one of the greatest civil metropoli of the entire complex, and also a center of trade--as all elevators reaching down below Midway, and reaching the floors above, must pass through here and have their credentials verified to continue beyond.

Guarded by a full Legion at all times, given the best weapons available, and officered by some of the finest soldiers known to the area.  It's a daunting task to try taking a fight through here.  The Elevator is heavily defended, and a natural choke-point for anyone who tries to break through here--while approaching from the deserts outside will drive you right into the fortified walls, essence artillery, and warstrider forces available.  When coupled with the fact that reinforcements can be pulled in from anywhere else in Five Coils within thirty minutes, even the greatest uprisings in the complex are always stopped dead here.

A Juggernaut by anyone's standards, to reach for the upper districts, this beast must be slain, one way or another...
This message was last edited by the player at 03:23, Wed 29 Apr 2009.

The Amethyst Edge
Artifact 4

A weapon of unusual powers, defining the Amethyst Edge's properties is...  Tricky.  Pulled in almost entirely by accident during the First Age during an experiment in tapping odd forces from the Wyld, after being cleared as something that wasn't going to blow up and take a large hunk of Creation with it, the Amethyst Edge was taken up as an oddity by one of the Dragon Blooded of the day--who was later surprised to find it served as a fine complement to his skills, focusing his elemental energies as though through it, and gaining striking power unheard of for handheld weapons.

So, as was usually proper, it caught the attentions of one of the Solars, who requisitioned time to study it.

As far as anyone can tell, The Amethyst Edge requires no motes to use, rendering it within reach even of mortal warriors.  Aside from being a quick and deft blade (Combat Stats equivilant to a Daiklave, except for a Damage of +0L), the Amethyst Edge has an ability to devour essence provided to it, to increase it's ability to fight.  In short, for each mote committed to the blade for a scene, the damage score increases by one.  Unfortunately, the motes cannot be decommitted for one hour after being provided, and do not return afterwards, requiring the wearer to recover them through whatever methods available.

If the Amethyst Edge has greater powers beyond this, none have been able to tap them yet...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The design is from a weapon of an old RP I ran once, and was nice enough that I wanted to try reusing it.  The effect is more or less the same as well (Though altered to fit the Exalted setting in this version).  In short, by providing it with energy, you can get a weapon of tremendous fighting power--but at the cost of losing your inner powers as an Exalt for a while..

Just tossing this out in the air, seeing if anyone wants to run with it.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:21, Wed 29 Apr 2009.

Glitch

First Iteration

Creation, while incredible, has its flaws. Some were put there deliberately- The cracks in Creation that allow the Yozis to slip their servitors into Creation when fate is damaged in certain ways. Some are less deliberate, but work to the advantage of Creation's enemies- The necrotic sores in Gaia's flesh known as Shadowlands forming when many are pulled into the Underworld at once, the cancerous tumors of Wyld zones forming around areas that have been damaged. And then there are those that are strange. Shining Eye, in between the great projects that took up her life, was enamored with these. Impossible to find normally, simply because their existence would cause havoc. The only way to find them was through incredibly careful manipulation of materials, watched over in an area outside of fate, so as to avoid inducing their catastrophic effects in Creation proper. They were each different, ranging from the dangerous- One ratio of length to width created an object with a least god who possesses a uniquely psychotic bent towards Creation, searing anything in fate, sizzling the strings of their destiny in the Loom of Fate- To the useful- A certain angle of blade to hilt, and edge to edge, that would cause the object to twist in on itself, taking a strange shape, and warping Creation around it, slicing through objects with brutal fury, leaving the edges frayed, twisted, nodular, as though touched by strange forces, not of Oblivion, of Malfeas, or even of the Wyld, Shining Eye theorized privately that it may have something to do with the strange region known as Elsewhere- To the bizarre- A sigil that, when touched to anything outside of fate, would speed the accumulation of the strands of fate about it, until it was twined in the Loom of Fate, its actions as apparent as anything within Creation, until it cleansed itself by leaving Fate until the strands dissolved off of it.

This second property was the one used for the first iteration of Glitch. An Orichalcum Daiklave, it is a Reaper, possessing the proper calibration of angles, set to excruciatingly specific standards, to twist Creation around it. To keep these glitches from becoming widespread knowledge until Eye could study them more thoroughly, Eye never brought this weapon into Creation, but it had theorized about including a slight shard of moonsilver, activated at will, to change the angles, and render it a normal reaper daiklave until its special properties were needed. It was capable of rending through armor with surprising ease, separating the armor without regard for strength. When activated, light does strange things around the blade, twisting in odd formations, spraying rainbows like a prism- Though the colors are arranged in the wrong order. There's a faint hum around it, as well, air molecules agitated by their trip through the strange medium- This makes stealth relatively difficult while it's activated.

OOC: This, basically, is the first level of Glitch. Most likely, it'll function as a normal Reaper Daiklave at most times, with the addition of being able to switch into a mode where it gains the Piercing tag, and potentially an increase to its damage, and/or a crippling effect. Something to talk over with the GM, I figure.

One of the more standout cities in the Fire District, Firefly Alley is a neccessary evil in the otherwise (Relatively) smoothly running soldier's society.  Less a place for people to live and work, and more of a Red Light district oriented towards channelling any discontent of the populace into non socially damaging manners.

As such, this place is remarkably free of Peace Force attentions, and naturally, this area has one of the higher crime rates outside of the former Water Districts.  Theft, Brawling, Prostitution, Gambling, all of the unsavory pursuits suitable to the mortals who make up the brunt of the Creation Reclaimation Legions can be found here--and so long as everybody's able to get back to business later on, the Dragon Blooded in general tend to ignore any complaints coming from here.

Not a slum persay, though there is a certain aura of grunge floating around it, Firefly Alley nonetheless isn't the sort of place respectable people want to go anywhere near.

Which makes it a fertile breeding ground for sedition...

I'm going to start posting some of the story bits I've written for Xurizu's lost (and now regained) memories, as they give some insight to the character that people may never see or appreciate IC.

---

"Remember these faces," says the gorgeous woman with the red hair. A display projected on the bare wall in front of him cycles through image after image of the same seven people. An austere gentleman with short brown hair and a trimmed beard. A muscular male laborer, scarred and dusky, with penetrating dark eyes. A young woman with large brown eyes and fine black hair cascading to her ankles. A narrow-faced lady in courtier's finery with blue eyes and pale blonde hair. An elderly man with milky blue eyes, hunched and wearing a ragged grey cloak. A hardened middle-aged woman with short auburn hair and an eyepatch. A tall man with solemn green eyes and long black hair in a braid.

"Every one of them must die. You will do that for me, my fangs in the dark."

His prison is a metallic room with no windows and no obvious doors. Framing the screen and on the walls themselves are Essence patterns like the ones Xurizu observed on the door panel controls -- except these ones depict a stand of trees verdant with essence-leaves, shifting shape now and then as if some supernatural breeze ripples through them.

It might have seemed artistically pleasing, if not for the fact he is strapped tightly to a chair. His head has been held in place by a clamp, so that he can only look straight forward. After a while the red haired woman walks away. He can hear her talking faintly. "...Stronger surge this time... need him to retain it longer..." A warm throb starts to form on his temples, a throb that ramps from soothing to searingly painful, and he screams and screams...

...Everything after that moment seems to fast forward at great speed. He is hunting. Moving. Waiting. Stalking. His prey never notice the silvery barbed chains spinning their way, until it's already too late. Their severed heads are plastered with expressions of surprise, of horror.

Six of them. Only six.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:52, Fri 08 May 2009.

Another bit of Xurizu's story written by me ^^

---

The King Cobra found her beautiful. That long, cascading dark hair, the lovely, smooth face and dark eyes. He hadn't been expecting that at all. She was too young, too fragile seeming to be a target, and the part of his psyche not ravaged by mind control, hypnosis and memory-stealing screamed not to hurt her.

Not the silver-barbed chains. That just wouldn't do.

He stalked her first, through the streets of Fire District. She was a beacon of purity in those soot-stained alleyways, a cool breeze in the oppressive heat of the factory furnaces. Mesmerized, Xurizu followed her, his swift and analytical mind piecing together an impression of her from what he observed, even as his struggling heart was simultaneously drawn to her and sickened at what he would do. What he must do.

Sienna, his gorgeous, captivating (demanding, cruel) keeper wished to test him, he understood that much. It was simple to kill a man who he knows has done wrong, whose weathered, hard-bitten face had the capacity for sin. It was comparatively simple to snuff the life of a woman who has never known pain or struggle, whose eyes are filled with naught but avarice and self-indulgence. But a girl such as this? He wondered if Sienna had forced him simply because he gazed at her with longing.

In the end, though, Halima was a rebel, too. She was a consummate courtesan who had the ear of some key officers in the Peace Forces and the Legions, and she was feeding that information to Celestial sympathizers and sky-chasers who yearned for the fabled 'above world'.

Now the King Cobra would deny her that sky.

He caught her gaze from across the street, his eyes flaring with power. When the spell took hold of her, he could have told her anything. He could have whispered to her to run away, to change her appearance, to hide with people she trusted and lay low. He could have told her to come away with him, to fall in love with him, to bring him to her rebel superiors. But Sienna's commands were too strong, too fresh, too overpowering in his mind, and his infatuation with Halima paled compared to his owner's scalding suggestions.

"Come to the B16 Sector 7 exhaust shaft at 23:00, and leap over the railing. I promise... you will fly."

The last he saw of Halima was the fluttering of her dark, luxurious hair, stark against her pale silk overgarment, just before she descended into the flames. Somewhere in the Fire District, he'd stashed away the bit of silk that remained of her.

I've tossed up a quasi webpage for the Blue Stripes, providing a nice, slightly doctored image to serve, as well as quick reference for their capabilities at present.

http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=df2hpts9_0wdxg3bgz

It's also been added to my character sheet, but in the interest of keeping size down to a reasonable level, most of the details are available outside of Rpol.

The Council of Five Coils--much to their own dismay, have yet to manage total, absolute control over the entire Dragon Blooded populace--The Keepers of the Crown are those who claim to carry the will of the legendary Scarlet Empress--and according to some of the most ancient myths, also possess at least one household that is directly descended from one of her children, taken into Five Coils at the onset of the disaster.

Said to be rallied by the total dominance the Immaculate Order has maintained throughout Five Coils, in spite of the balance of power that once maintained harmony. the Keepers of the Crown have disseminated their numbers across the structure of Five Coils.  Young, radical university students, noble Peace Force officers, and cunning bureaucrats.  While it's not entirely positive how they pass messages between each-other, their once ironclad resolve has, over time, faded from their memory and practices--and only the core members still recall their true purpose as more then fist-waving dissidents, tolerated only due to the purity of their blood.

Whether this purpose is sinister or benevolent, and whether they would look in favor upon the present uprising, is still up in the air...
This message was last edited by the player at 17:27, Mon 18 May 2009.

The Depository is a wonder of creation, both artifact and manse in one.  In fact it's actually multitudes of both, being a careful construct where a desmene of wood and a desmene of Luna overlap, coupled with a vast magitek construct to channel the abundance of essence in that location.

In appearance the Depository is a grove of trees, their roots exposed and forming whorls and hoops across several acres.  The leaves have the appearance of moonsilver, though they lack the substance if picked, and the bark forms ornate, decorative patterns, each unique to that tree.

The true power of The Depository becomes apparent only on it's use.  When an object is placed in one of the coils of the many tree roots, it vanishes into the Elsewhere and a fruit forms in the branches above within a few moments.  When the fruit is placed in the same coil, it is destroyed and the object returns.  In this way The Depository acts as a virtually infinite storage system, secure and discreet.  It's also extraordinarily beautiful, and whatever first-age team constructed it clearly had an eye for art.  One section is left unused simply for visitors to gawk at.

The Depository has been managed for generations by a politically neutral group of Terrestrials and Mortals, generally pulled from the ranks of those who have little hope of advancement due to birth position, but possess a sufficient amount of talent to be useful.  Thus far The Depository has remained uncontrolled from the major political groups because each faction finds it simply too useful to have a perfectly secure way to hide evidence, materials, and artifacts too dangerous to leave lying around.  The Depository asks no questions and uses no paperwork, if you have the Jade or Silver you can put your item in storage.  If you have the fruit you can draw it back out.  Criminals, Dynasts, Rebels, and even Honest Citizens all use The Depository equally.

They say that see was born knowing the pain of all living beings.  They say that even before her exaltation she had found the secrets of life and death.  They say that in the Cascading Years, she gave birth to a new Creation and disappeared into it, never to be seen again.

They say a lot of things.

The Little Mother came to the Pillar of Creation from the Far North, attended by hundreds of her "children", specimens of the various species she had created.  She saw the Pillar as a sancutary for Celestials and favored beings.  As such, she did all she could to ensure that it was the strongest fortress in Creation.  To this end she created a race whose sole purpose would be to improve the Pillar, to build it up and strengthen it in service to its rulers: the builder bugs.

In appearance, she was petite, with pale skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair which she wore in a braid wrapped around her head like a crown.

In personality, she was once described as "embodying motherhood in all things".  Most people interpreted this as referring to her kindness, and affectionate nature, forgetting that motherhood has its darker side.  She could be ferocious in the protection of her "children", driven to obession in pursuit of her craft, jealous, demanding, and proud.

The circumstances of her death are unknown, except that her exaltation was passed on at the end of the Cascading years.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:01, Fri 22 May 2009.

Darkness Falling used to be the chief of security for the entirety of the Pillar.  The security forces he led were known for being well disciplined and the strike teams were highly skilled.  The Peace Force at that time was organized more like a militia than a police unit and Darkness Falling wielded it in new and inventive ways.  The majority of the Terrestrial Exalted under his command were Air Aspects.  They were capable assassins and masters of stealth.  Furthermore, Darkness ordered all his troops with the ability to learn sorcery.  To that end, the Nightbringer and his troops regularly summoned demons and elementals to aid with peace-keeping tasks.  Demons were the preferred spirit of choice.

Some people would have referred to Darkness Falling as being  a driven man.  This understatement was usually used out of fear that harsher words might get back and invoke his attention.  More accurately, he would be called obsessed with knowing everything about this facility.  He thought its security was of the utmost importance.  Accordingly, he often ordered the violation of people’s privacy.  The ends always justified the means with the Night Caste.   He could often be incredibly cruel in the course of investigation.  He often ordered a person tortured before an interrogation and sometimes afterwards as well depending on his mood.

His primary combat skill was throwing weapons (Not unlike his Air Aspect underlings).   He knew all the thrown charms available to Solars of his essence rating and had most of them worked into powerful combos.  He also had a very powerful presence and several of its charms.  In fact, the only out of caste skill he shares with Dashu is Investigation.

When confronted with this Past Life, Dashu would be horrified.  While he remains bitter at his enslavement and the cruelty of the society which enslaved him, he himself is not a cruel person.  Just a socially awkward, cold person.  When confronted with some of the atrocities committed by his past incarnation, he would likely feel guilty when seeing some of the same actions being taken by the current masters of the Pillar.

"Is this really going to work?" the miner asks nervously, peering twitchily at the shadows. "I don't mean any disrespect, but this vein has been dug out since my grandfather's time."

"And the folk I travel with are not the most reputable to boot, is what you're not saying, correct?" The speaker is a young man, features mostly concealed by a large cloak, dressed in clothing that was once finer than that of the workman beside him, but has seen a lot of rough use.

"But yes, this is going to work, as you put it. Frankly, I am impressed with how well you have done here, with mineral depletion and rising taxes. That's the greater miracle here, not what I'm going to do."

The pair comes to a stop at the intersection of multiple mineshafts, in what was once a chamber bustling with activity but is now empty and uninhabited. Following the youth's directions, the miner sets his lamp on the ground, then moves away to watch, jittery and uncomfortable even before anything happens.

"Voices of stone, walkers of ore and crystal. Will you heed my words, gather near to listen to my tales? I have come from distant parts of the Coils, to tell you stories of the far reaches, of light brighter even than the lamps in the temples. Will you heed me, and accept the gifts I bring?"

From beneath his cloak, the speaker produces a polished bowl made from precious wood and sets it on the floor, then pours stong smelling liquor within.

"Come, drink, and be merry. For a while, we shall converse. For a while, my stories and your memories will mingle. Will you not return, to feel light and life, and to grant it to these lands that cry for your touch?"

Suddenly, bright lights fill the cavern, and rapid steps echo from the surrounding corridors. The storyteller's words cease as the bowl is turned over, and he bends down to collect it, then stares at the miner, who wilts before his gaze.

"Do you know what they do to demons and those who consort with them? I have a family, responsibilities to my people."

Any reply is drowned out by the arrival of a score or more soldiers, led by an Earthblooded officer. Their foe does not hesitate, and charges directly at a pair of troopers, his momentum driving him past them, into the narrower confines of a mine shaft. Even there, he is quickly surrounded by a slowly narrowing knot of warriors.

"Surrender now, and you'll live," the Dragonblood barks, pushing past his men to face the fugitive.

"You probably even believe that. Still, I have to decline."

While he speaks, the young man is keeping the men closest to him at bay with quick feints from a somewhat makeshift club. His oddly agressive style contributes as well, as he seems willing to accept blows striking him if her can return the favor.

Still, the odds are very much in favor of the forces of authority, when their target suddenly spins about and punches a supporting beam with his empty hand, the blow smashing through the reinforced materials like so much paper. Chaos erupts when the ceiling begins to groan and shake, leaving only the officer behind, confident in his bloodline.

"So you've chosen to die here instead. I expected more from you than this," the scion of Earth swears, "bringing this place down only makes me stronger."

His foe has liberated a polearm from one of the fleeing soldiers, and wields it easily. "Not quite. I'm not the one who is causing this collapse. They are."

The hostile presence of a dozen elemental beings distracts the officer for a fatal moment, and even before he has fallen, the youth is running back into the center of the quake, ignoring the stones that crash against him. Pushing aside a boulder, he pulls the miner free and drags him away, surefooted despite the darkness.

"Why?" the miner asks, once the pair has reached stable ground.

"If you sink a shaft through this area once more, you'll find the earth has been renewed," the other does not reply, then focuses on the miner.

"You did what you felt was necessary for you and your people to survive. Why should I bear you ill will for that?"

"But... betrayed... renewed? How? Why? What price will you claim, now? My soul? My people?"

"Two week's rations, if you can spare them, was what you'd offered before. If you dare, I think that a shrine at the minehead will help preserve it longer, though I'm not sure. As to what happened, I did what was right, Deneast, nothing more. If you feel in my debt, think on that - and think of doing the same when you get the chance."

"I will."
This message was last edited by the player at 06:09, Wed 27 May 2009.

The temple was magnificient, a work of art in and of itself, as well as the fulcrum of the Circle's efforts. Within its great chambers, sanctified tools and materials waited, melding essence, divine influence, and other technologies. A quiet hum of excitment filled it, now, as the masters of Five Coils came to observe the outcome of their latest experiments.

"The force currents are properly attuned, this time," said the Twilight, aura spreading outwards to feel the forces in play with far more precision than the magitech dials would allow.

The Night spoke softly with the Eclipse, then concurred. "What demons can observe or interfere are warded from the cathedral, contained, or set to tasks that will keep them far from here until the work is complete."

"We've troops and security enough to deal with any mundane troubles as well. And the magitech installation I set up to redirect the geomantic forces is up, running, and stable." the Dawn stated, then grumbled, "I still think it would have been better to reshape the site's architecture."

The Twilight began to rise to the bait, then the Zenith stepped between the pair and diffused the long lasting dispute. Priorities for time and resources were always bickered about, for all that the Circle had nigh unlimited amounts of both. Mostly, the arguments were habit, a way to work out new ways of doing things together, when the Circle proved itself more than the sum of its parts.

Stepping to the very edge of a catwalk, beside a massive suspended cylinder radiating enough essence that even mortals could feel it, after a find glance at the others, the Zenith spoke in turn. "And the gods have promised success, if they are but pleased." There was no hint of doubt that the gods would be pleased. Or else.

The Twilight incanted, the Zenith prayed, the Eclpise did whatever it is that Eclipses do, while the other members of the Circle watched. Slowly, the cylinder was lowered as the forces within gathered. A brief instruction, a switched valve, and the device grew increasingly transluscent. At first glimpse, the contents were opaque, greenish fluid infused with other colors, red and silver stains the most prevalent.

Then the inside of the cylinder began to resolve, as advanced magitech extrapolated what lay within and altered the materials that contained the lethally toxic essence brew. Small sacs pulsed in the flows of power and strange fluids, growing at a phenomenal pace. First one, then ten, then hundreds reached twice or thrice man size and began to open, revealing silvery insect-like beings. Even newborn, even blind, the sense of purpose radiated by these new lives was evident.

After such potent preparations, it should have been impossible for anything to go wrong. Perhaps, somewhere in the Wyld, a task was completed and a bargain made invalid. Perhaps a demon found that the lines binding it had a minute flaw. Perhaps the gods thought to punish hubris. Perhaps the spirit of Autochton flared in an effort to assert itself.

While the Circle watched, entranced, the accident happened. A pipe snapped under pressure, somewhere, and the containment failed. Jets of corrosive liquid, ravenous flame, and other more dangerous substances shot out of the cylinder, laying waste to the inside of the cathedral, scourging the workers within. The Circle was unaffected, the Dawn's blade diverting any threats with unconscious ease.

The chains broke, and the container fell the rest of the way to the ground, then exploded while men and women fled in terror. Even as it was dropping, the Circle followed it down as one, responding to threats before they they were realized.

"So, another failure," the Twilight spoke later on, tending to the wounds of a favored technician.

"I still think we can use the creatures offered by Arik'Sel Tas," the Eclipse argued, showing no fear at speaking the name of one of the greater Demons of the Age.

"Perhaps," the Zenith opined, organizing evacuation and rescue efforts around the pool of noxious death that filled the base of the cathedral.

"What is that?" the Night interrupted. A huge silvered claw emerged from the seething mass, followed by an equally massive limb.

"It seems we succeeded in imbuing them with animation, at least," the Dawn spoke, blade at the ready.

"Wait!" Closer to the site of the impact, the Zenith stared into the failed experiment's aftermath, listening. The Twilight, equally curious, ceased bandaging wounded men and advanced on the pool, stopping beside the Zenith.

The Circle members gathered behind the Zenith and Twilight, watching as a great, metallic insectiod creature thrashed partway out of the ooze in which it had been born. The Twilight's approach drew its attention, and it stated at the tiny, potent figure before it. The beast loomed over the fearless pentet and lowered itself towards the Twilight.

Little?... mother! it declared, limbs clacking in glee as instincts forged into the beast's essence rose to the fore.

Nonplussed, the Circle watched as their creation slipped and fell back into the acidic pool. After a moment's thought, the Zenith adressed the Twilight.

"Well, Little Mother, take care of the men - I have another flock to look after."

The Zenith dove into the acidic pool, reaching towards the slowly sinking creature, a heartbeat before the sputtering Twilight could respond. Clothing dissolved but Sun-blessed flesh unharmed, the Zenith grasped the thing's nearest limb and cradled it gently, then sank beneath into the eerie womb.

Hours later, the first builder bugs clambered out of the drying lake of toxins, utterly loyal to the Unconquered Sun and the Circle. When the last was free, and the new servants of Five Coils had begun to work, the Zenith followed.

In the times that came afterwards, the Zenith never spoke of what happened while the builder bugs were born. And the Twilight, after years of fruitless effort to convince the metallic creatures otherwise, gave in and adopted the name - then grew into it until few recalled there had ever been another.

---

Perian shifts in his sleep, his caste mark glowing for a moment. The mercury hunting insects approaching his campsite pause, then wander off. If they could dream, they would recall kindness and unconditional acceptance, and a human figure from which all such blessings come. Perhaps they will...

This was originally part of Perian's prelude, but I decided it worked better as a creativity post than an intro. So here we have some more background on Free, the Freerunners and Kares Perian by me! :)

---

Two floors above where the free Celestials began their actions against the Dragon-blooded of Earth District, another long-enduring group of rebels lies in wait for their next move. They are the Freerunners -- the self-named followers of a legend, the henchmen of an insane, improbable giant of a man known as Free.

Truth be told, Free himself has never directly hired them, or even made any claims of leadership. But the man himself does not seem to resent their presence, either, and when he does give directions, he does so assuming that someone among the pack will respond to it, and act in his name and word.

They are, after all, his children. Or at least, it started that way.

In the first years of Free's daring self-imprisonment, it is said he sought out suitable mates to birth his progeny. Thus he spawned the wolfmen, who would spread his words and perpetuate his deeds. Or perhaps they spawned him -- no one can say for sure. No one, except perhaps the Council, has lived as long as he has. Free has existed in the hearts of those who yearn for freedom for as long as Five Coils has been closed to the outside world.

Over decades of working for the underdog and rebelling against the Dragon-blooded establishment, the original Freerunners -- the wolf-children of Free -- have made a name for themselves as well. Their allies, their eyes and ears, are everywhere that citizens toil for their Terrestrial masters. They propagate the Free 'meme' through well-placed rumors; they provide what help they can, whether it be information, food, supplies or sabotage. But only a select few have had the courage and the mettle to break away from society and join the Freerunners for life.

Not everyone made this decision by choice. Some, having no where else to run, were simply taken in, and placed where their skills would serve their cause best. Kares Perian was one of them, and a rare advantage at that: one of the Freerunners' only successful attempts at freeing a Celestial Exalt from Immaculate clutches. Since then Perian has been key to the Freerunners' survival, giving proper homage to the small gods and elementals of Coils in return for sustenance and resources. Such beings could not otherwise hope to compete with the worship of the Elemental Dragons, so chose to favor him almost on principle.

One year ago, the Old Grinning Wolf sought Perian out. Since then, tentatively and often indirectly, the two have collaborated to keep the rebel movement alive. One as part of a Legend, the other as a budding overseer of Practical Matters, the accessible Face as foil to the untouchable Myth.

   Into every life, a little rain must fall, or so the saying goes. I have never known it not to be storming. I remember things from my early life, small flashes of terror, tears, and great sadness. At least I think so, these could be false memories created by the monsters and they never happened. However, reality or illusion, they are my memories now, ones I must sleep with every night.
   Most of my family was forcibly removed from my life. First, my mother, a sister or two, a brother, and then finally, I was taken. My tears could not save me, the cries of my eldest sister could not prevent it, and as they clubbed my father to death I was taken to a dark place. A place, I still visit in my dreams, albeit without the tears. After all, the ability to cry is one of the first things they take from you as you are subjected to a growing number of horrors. You are given a knife and forced to learn to kill. The lessons are harsh and you either learn them or die. There are no easy lessons and they all must be learned. It could explain why I possess a wide variety of skills. You learn to be slavishly loyal to the Immaculate Philosophy. This indoctrination is meant to break your will and mind. And for most of us, it works exceedingly well. Along with a set of specialized skills and slavish devotion to gods that don’t give a shit about you, they also give you scars: mental and physical. Ones you should bear with pride. After all, you are robbed of feeling any pain regarding them.
   Their idea was to turn me into one of their pet assassins; the ones you whisper to your children in fear at night and hope they never come for you, but it seems there were other plans for me. I exalted despite evidence that I would not and turned into a monster, but not of their choosing. Instead, I became an Ashen Bow, a child of Sextes Jylis, but what is a glorious transformation for so many did not free me. I was unclean after all, trained to be an abomination, and what was all that training for if not to be utilized to its full, if diminished, potential. I was given a new name; one unattached to the family I was formerly born. I became a slayer and hunter, a “sweeper” of those who opposed the dictates of the Council and attached to the Peacecorps. After all, dissention is death and who better to bring it to those who rebel than a failed experiment. Lesser crimes called for extraction and removal to one of the lower levels – after all death was a permanent solution to what could be a temporary problem. Imprisoning a rebel or a spy or a troublemaker can do as much as leaving their horribly mutilated body where the right people can find it.
   I wasn’t the only sweeper; we were a specialized force used for tough jobs that didn’t quite call for what I should have become. Never call in your A-team when the B-team is more expendable and can do the job. I killed those who needed to die, I captured those who needed arrest and I made sure I came back alive and only slightly more broken than I already was. After all, the “others” were called to kill those who succeeded in eliminating other Terrestrial Exalts. Of course, other Terrestrial Exalts did not have the benefit of my training and therefore the chances of death were much greater than mine.
    It was through this work that I finally had a complete understanding of what happened to my family. I didn’t bother looking for them; it would have been a futile use of precious energy. Besides, my observation of others is my living family would have expected me to feel an emotion I am incapable: love.
   At first, I didn’t ask questions. I took orders and followed them to the letter. The problem with a failure though is you do not keep up the same amount of care and consideration as you did before. The religious brainwashing ended; I was cast out of the cult, you see. And I began to doubt my mission. Sure, I still heard the rhetoric, but it wasn’t beaten into me. Fear of not towing the line lessened. With my previous training, I needed that. The seventeenth time, I killed a child I wondered what she could have done that was so bad that it deserved death. And more I began to question. It didn’t help that my new comrades referred to me as “broken,” “unclean,” and “abomination” since they lived normal lives prior to attaining their position of sweeper. It was a choice for them; it was necessary for me.  I began to view my actions as despicable; I began to listen to the views of my victims before killing them anyway. Eventually, I just went through the motions and plotted my escape. My way out of my lifestyle and a way out of the prison we are all born into. I would take my destiny into my hands and follow the fate determined by me. I would escape this hell and I would create a way for as many as I could as I did so.
   Now I hunt those who would order innocents deaths. I come upon them in the streets, when they sleep, where they work, and I enjoy slaughtering them like the food they should be. I assist those who would free this place and I work to get ever closer to ripping the soul of this hell out. The council will have to wait, as they are well protected, and probably stronger than I, but their day is coming. Soon, it will be time for me to kill them or them to kill me. Either way I will leave this place with a smile on my lips and free.
   I do not encourage friends; I have allies who sometimes I will create just the right death to allow their sparks of revolution to burn brighter. In the chaos, I revel. In the destruction, I laugh.
   I do not ask you to pity me. I do not tell you my story for redemption or forgiveness.
   Forgiveness is for those with religion. Redemption is for those with a soul. I need neither.

Harue's calling card, so to speak, left with the bodies of her victims.

    An open letter to the Council,

I understand and accept that most people who chose to oppose you do so because of some great and tragic evil that befell them while impressionable. I do not claim such admirable motivations. No, I oppose you because the council makes a mockery of justice. It makes villains out of victims and victims out of the villains. The system chooses to enslave its population and bend those of intelligence to its will. It has created an elaborate prison that swallows the hearts, minds, and souls of the citizens it should be protecting. The council is diabolically evil and supports a system that cannot sustain itself. When this occurs it is the duty of its citizens to rise up and bring down the system – replacing it with something more in tune with the values and morality of its citizenry. If this challenge must be met by a small minority of its personages or by one covered by a mask, so be it. I as a citizen of this prison must obey what my conscience tells me is the correct thing to do. To all who oppose me and stand in my way, I promise your retribution is coming and it will be swift, severe, and complete.

Signed,
The Veridian Judge

Because the ST is a lovely person, and I'm an utter reviewhore.

“Wake up, child.”

Mama smells of apples and roses; she is also scrubbing my face with a wet towel. I sputter; she laughs, and easily slips off my sleeping-clothes, wrapping a silk bodice around my flat chest. “You are performing today,” she whispers; and I smile at her, half in longing, and half in fear.

Grandma is praying at the altar; she whispers murmured silences to the Dragons, to the gods, and to Grandpa above. Mama clasps my hands before me, and I join them in the words. I don't really remember Grandpa; he died when I was very young, and now I wonder if my prayers would reach him, guided only by the scent of sandalwood and soap. He had kind hands; I remember that. Callused and warm.

Grandma seems to be praying more, nowadays; she says that, at this time, it was better to stack up a little currency with the gods. Mama says it'll bring us good luck, and so I pray too, whispering words or praise to the drifting incense. I hope it works.

Papa is already outside, shouting at Jewel and Whisper to hurry out. I give him a hug; he bends over and kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck, little one,” he smiles; and I smile back. I am not afraid.

When I climb the ladder, the applause begins; higher, and higher, with every step I take. It is dizzying up here, but Papa winks at me, and I am alright. Downstairs, Xiri is making the crowd cheer for me; he winks as well, and my heart leaps in my chest. I think I may be in love with him. Jewel says I'm much too young right now, but she says in a few years, I'll be prettier than anyone else in the troupe. I hope it's true.

The knives are cold in my hand, but I steel myself, and hook my legs around the trapeze. One more breath, and I will fly.


**

Papa smells of charcoal and leather; his is the forge, and I sit beside him, watching the fires flame and flicker as the bellows go. “See here? The blade must be worked until its white hot—not red, mind, but white—and then we can start to fold it, metal against metal, like paper against itself.” He smiles. “You wouldn’t be able to do this at most forges; this one is a gift from Boss Heron herself. There’s red jade in there to keep the fires hot.”

Obediently, I bend in closer, and he wards my head off with a laugh. “The fire’s still on! Ye won’t be able to spot any darn thing in the flames now, would you?” He smoothes my hair back, and kisses my brow. “First thing to learn; you might be able to work with fire, but she’s always her own girl. Looks cheery, warms you, heats the steel, but take yer eyes off and she’ll burn your house down.”

He swings me up, and I giggle. “Papa!”

“I know, I know. Yer’re thirteen, and too good fer me now.” But he doesn’t put me down. “Soon enough, ye’ll learn to be old and cranky at yer old papa, and be too heavy for me to carry besides.”

“I won’t!”

“Grow too heavy? Well, ah think it’s a tad eahly to start worrying ‘bout your figure…” He runs his fingers down my side, and I shriek.

“No! I won’t grow old and cranky!”

“Mmmm. Well, this old man surely hopes so. He’s running out of little daughters like you.”

I punch him, but gently. “You only have one daughter.”

“And that’s why ah think ahm runnin’ out.” He winks. “It’s onhly logical, no?”

**

“Looks like you didn’t get to turn old and cranky, after all.”

Papa has four voices; the posh, the commanding, the working, and the family’s. He’s using the posh voice now; there are Dragons around, and he doesn’t want to lose face for the family.

Mama’s somewhere, talking and laughing; I hear her saying what a beautiful little girl I was, how obedient I am, and for a moment I hate her. Don’t sell me. Don’t give me away. But everyone is watching now, and I can’t say that in front of them; not here.

He is… a very handsome man. Jewel’s envious of me; she says I’ll have my own bathroom, and gardens, and servants to help wear my clothes and shod my feet. It’s… a nice dream, I guess. A beautiful dream, and maybe I’m being very silly to hate it, but.

I don’t want to go away.

Papa told me I was being silly. All little girls have to go away some time—it’s called growing up. But I didn’t want to be this grown up, this fast. I don’t want to leave.

His hands are kind, and caring, and he smells of heady incense and steel. He smiles when he sees me, smiles when he takes my hand, and smiles when I look away. Perhaps he thinks I’m shy.

Boss Heron nudges me, and I curtsey before the m—my husband. My husband. “Pleased to meet you,” I say, and it is barely a lie.

**

Mama was right. He is a good husband. They told me he was a warrior, of sorts, and I have seen the evidence in his flesh; but I have never evidenced any hardness in his eyes. Perhaps he is like Papa; one man at home, and another outside. Mama said many men are like that; and sometimes, it was best never to see the other at all.

Life is sweet, for a time. I do indeed have my own bathroom; my own garden; but I drew the line at dressing and shodding my own feet. I… I wasn’t a highborn lady, and it felt wrong to be otherwise; and it reminded me, a little, of life back before I wore perfumes. I wasn’t… unhappy.

In time, I even got bored.

He laughed at me; told me how utterly adorable I was; and then acquiesced, sending for a tutor and a gymnast, and, in time, even a smith. I think he was amused, a little, to see his little wife play at fire and steel; and, well, why not? It didn’t keep me from his bed, and it kept me busy when he was away. I think I was vaguely expected to fritter my time with embroidery and music; but no. It wasn’t who I grew up to be.

**

In time, he got married, too.

She? She was… strong, and beautiful. One of Danaa'd’s children; touched by the grace of water, and carrying with her the salt-spray scent of the lakes. There was a time when I dreamed I could be friends with her; when she smiled at me, or spoke, or sometimes winked in teasing jest against the man that she loved. But perhaps that wasn’t to be.

She was the one that taught me the dance of the sword and blade; for her, every woman should know how to fight, and my interest in the forge and in steel suggested a certain strength in her eyes. She complained incessantly of the weedy flesh cows and breeding tits of other manors, suggesting that our husband at least had the decent sense to choose an actual woman for his concubine, and I think I would’ve been flattered but for her constant, aggravating pity for one of my station. Perhaps that was entirely my fault—my pettiness, my jealousy—but I never had any pretensions to perfection.

No, that was reserved for the Dragonblooded. Of that, she could not but remind me, day after day.

**

It happened in the training pen; where else could it be? She was… fighting, blades flashing, eyes grinning, and I was trying (as hard as I could) to match her impossible grace. Last week, I had defeated her once; then again; and thereafter, I could do so no longer. We would fight, and we would fight, until the air begin to sparkle with essence; and once I tasted the sea-spray, I knew full well I was lost.

I had complained once, sulkily; she had laughed, and told me to be honoured. “It’s not often that a mortal can so threaten a Princess of the Blood. He had been watching then, and he had laughed, too; and that had hurt.

(He apologized later, in the deep night; and it was only when he left that I wondered; why does he come to my bed less often?)

(I can hear them in the night; laughing, joking. Sometimes they talk about me.)

Our blades sing in the dawn, one two three four, and I am pressing her back; she smiles, a hard-pressed warrior’s smile, and…?

(There are some things a mortal can’t do; and that is, to compete with the Dragons in any endeavour.)

The taste of salt and water is bitter on my tongue, and suddenly she is fast, so much faster; I parry a hit, and the blade almost falls from my hand. But he is watching, isn’t he? and I refused to back down. Let her beat me. Let her cheat and beat me. Again.

(I wasn’t unhappy.)

The storm and surf are roaring now; it’s like looking into the great rain-machines, staring into the hose as pure Essence streamed forth to bathe the elephants and the tents. Salt stings my eyes, my ears, my mouth; the hilt of the blade shifted;

(Why did I have to leave, anyway)

(All little girls have to go away some time)

I’ve been waiting for you to come home.

**

I killed her. At least, I think I killed her. The blade was suddenly… golden in my hand, and the strike tore through the leather like a gutting blade. The spray suddenly turned red; and then there was an immense fire at my back, shearing down through bone, cloth, flesh.

It hurt.

It hurt.

They told me they had killed my parents. They weren’t really meant to—not really their fault, scum, for their daughter to be a demon—but he had hunted them down, after my… change, and slain them in a fit of righteous anger. It was his right, because the Dragons laid claim to my life.

My lucky lucky life.

They said he was acquitted of any wrongdoing. Because it was his right, see? He had a right to take his vengeance—and underneath, I knew full well why he had the right. Because he was a Dragon, and nobody else did.

Sometimes I dreamed maybe he didn’t kill them that maybe they told me this just to break my heart but then I woke up and well what difference did it make

So they set me to work. They didn’t want me near the blades—I think they felt… naked, after a death of their own… so they gave me all the worthless jobs, all the difficult but menial tasks, and made sure I was never so allowed to touch anything with an edge. So I smiled at them, of course. I smiled, and told them I was sorry.

“First thing to learn; you might be able to work with fire, but she’s always her own girl. Looks cheery, warms you, heats the steel, but take yer eyes off and she’ll burn your house down.”

I didn’t give them any trouble. No, no. I learnt that fast. Any trouble meant a beating. Any trouble meant a dark room and a hungry night and, more often than not, some low voice grunting in my ear. If I smiled, it’s be in a soft bed, with warm lights. I liked soft beds. They weren’t all hard and stuff.

Sometimes I dream of a sunrise, a bright red warm light coming out of the top of the world. it tells me it loves me. it’s waiting for me to come home.

And so I smile. In time, they let me dance for them; and I do. I dance as they love me to dance; and let them watch me, and imagine me, as I imagine dancing with them.  I smile and I dance and they will smile back, laughing and hooting, and perhaps they will forget the circle in my head; and I will smile and I will dance and maybe someday I’ll come home and I’ll bring a little present, won’t I, Papa, Mama, I’ll bring a present for you too. I’ll bring a present up to where the sun will rise, and Grandpa’s watching me (did I mention that) Grandpa’s watching from above.
</quote>

Been playing with a skin for Dena's 3D model, in preparation to try for a larger-scale image than I've done so far.  Also trying to get the "Evil Grin" facial expression I keep referencing in posts.

I'm not sure about the head.  On the one hand the second head seems too plain and I feel like it needs stripes somewhere.  On the other hand all the stripe patterns I've managed to produce tend to look like Spawn and I don't like them.  Any ideas?

Hmm, I've had a few days to work and put together the current battle in the Inner Temple, Danae vs. ludicrously tough rock warrior!  Bonus: Bugs vs. Students!

This is basically a refinement of the style I used to draw Eternal, I've just taken up the black a bit and added color.  I think I might have simplified the color too much though.

Dena is creepy and awesome.

Also, because there needs to be Wyld zones somewhere:

There is a place here, in the heart of stagnation, where a little bit of beauty still rules; where a flower may hold hearts as well as still water, and where poetry weaves clouds as it wills. There is a place, born of joy and sweet water, where the birds sing too sweet for our ears; and the grasses here all taste of autumn, of leaves and the passion of years.

There step the songs of the devilboys and the angelgirls, and their passion is red, dark, and aching; theirs is the dream of summer, and the neverborn spring. It is in the heart of our city that they sing their love, of lust and moon-madness, splaying across our thighs; and they leave, weary, with hair matted and bloody upon whip-scratches and chains.  They have a hole in their eyes, where the pupil should be; some say they stared too long at the sun.

(Others say: this is where the mad-maw is, that they eat your lust, that they eat your sight. Look upon them and fall into their deep deep eyes; stay with us, and be the whim of the wind. I have looked, and I have listened; but I can ken no teeth.)

The trees of stern autumn do oft come and go; theirs is the spirit of the troubled king, of the judge’s wait upon logic and fact. They but sit, and say: I am, and the Oracles of Aven to sit at their roots, cowled and meditating, speaking of dreams. They speak wisdom to blind the ears; their words are a harsh whisper, molten gold, choking iron.

(And they say: do not speak of iron, for they hate chill iron, and rust eats them from within. To sit too long is to don the robes; to sit and speak the will of thee trees. And yet I, too, have worn the robes, and tasted the quiet serenity of heaven; all I may say is that Nirvana is peaceful, and in the end, ‘tis not for me.)

And to the north and the east lies the ravenous fields; and in the light of day, they lie quiet and easy, only opening their minds to the travelers therein. It is said you may pass them with a sacrifice of meat; of a child, bound in wire, touched by bone, and his sister’s blood on his eyes. He must wear shoes of bronze, and gloves of brass; his loins girded with honey and sweet, and his eyes plucked to dangle upon his chest; so it is, or you will be visited by crows and ravens, who will shower waste upon your caravan.

(Most gentry pay the price of a commoner child; the commoners pay the price of a gentry’s child; and the children pay each other. No, that is not the worry; the worry is for honey, and wire, and bronze, for who has the cash to pay for such things?)

But perhaps you think that all this is madness; and you may be right, and you may be wrong. It is my opinion, of course, that we may be both; that the world is cruel and illogical, and follows not its rules. But there is a place at the heart of creation, and its manners and methods are thoroughly wild.

(down the rabbit hole)

(whisper of tea)

And there is a warehouse in the Five Coils; but we will speak of that a different day.

Shining Eye’s Madness
Shining Eye, publically, was a fairly moderate Solar, in many ways. Deliberative influence was steadfastly moderate, and there may even have been some among the Sidereals who were sad to see her pass from life.

This is because she was very, very careful about her private prejudices.

Shining Eye experienced something during a fight against Ebon Dragon, a moment of singular epiphany. It never shared this experience, but ever since, there was a subtle change in the mind of the Solar, towards Fate, towards the Sidereal. Some think that the Ebon Dragon made the Solar into a double agent, but in Eye’s mind, it caught a single, unguarded glimpse of the Ebon Dragon’s plans… Including for the Loom of Fate.

The Loom of Fate is the invention of the Primordials. It was their tool. And perhaps the greatest power that the Exalted were given was the control of Essence, to let them defy Fate, something that mortals were bound by. Shining Eye believed strongly that this was, intrinsically, wrong. The mortals around them, still bound by fate, were forced to live according to the whims of fate, or risk incursions of Demons, other forces. Third believed that it was not the consequence of fate being damaged, but an intentional purpose of the loom, to leave a doorway for demons, left by the Primordials as a backdoor into Creation.

In 2325, Creation shattered like an infinitely complex mirror. It is not certain what happened, but after this, Shining Eye stopped its experiments into destroying the Loom of Fate. Whether she was responsible or not, she was convinced that it had showed the Loom had automatic defenses, potent enough to cause a great deal of damage to Creation. It did not want to risk another event like the Loom of Fate- Even in her madness, Shining Eye did not wish to destroy those that the destruction of the Loom was meant to save. She began her investigation into how to separate mortals from fate.

Shining Eye, as a result of these certain beliefs, had certain prejudices that she hid. These include a rather strong disdain for those who tried to preserve Fate as it was- Particularly the Sidereals. She remembers little of the Usurpation, but from the state of the world, she knows that someone betrayed her, and does not believe that the Terrestrials alone would have been able to mastermind the Usurpation, hubristic God-King that she is.- She suspects the Sidereals, but has little evidence besides her own prejudices. Whether Third will follow Shining Eye’s prejudices is entirely up to those around it- As it stands, there’s not much to preserve its personality as Shining Eye asserts herself more.

This is what happens when I get bored at work.

Insane DB scientists, whee.



Fold iron and copper; twist it, bind it; place it in the fire; and burn. Thus we make brass; thus we make strength out of two of the lesser; and that is the lesson we learn. Two are stronger than one, and three than two, and five are better than three, than four; so it is with mortals, and so it is with the Dragons, so why is this not in the elements they birth?

(Look! Look and see!)

(Fire and Air, Air and Water; East and West and North and Center. Why? Why not?)

We need every strength we have to reclaim the surface, my lord, and surely, it cannot be mad to wed mere self to self? The Ten Thousand Dragons fight as one, and their elements will fight beside them! Marry Daana'd to Pasiap, Mela to Jylis; a blessed spark from two Dragon's minds, twice as powerful, twice as strong in their godly might!

...no, no, of course not, say. I was, ah, speaking figuratively. No, no, of course not.  I'm certain the Dragons do not, ah, fornicate.

(Look! Look and see!)

(The screams? Oh, no, certainly not; they are but the screams of birth. Growing pains, my lord--mere growing pains!)

Indeed, my lord. Don't you see? Imagine--a talon, no, a Dragon of these, bursting from the ground to shower fire upon your foes! Yes, yes... well, no... no, my lord, fire purifies the soil. No, my lord. Yes. Trails of fertility in their wake! Grasses will bloom--yes, certainly--why not? Why not? You have a brilliant mind, lord! Allow this lesser one to salute you!

(How about.. Ahhh. Yes. Yes. Why limit the dragon-in-flesh to merely one expression?)

(This takes the Immaculates but years upon years, my lord. Now, we can do it in days!)

What? Yes, my lord. <i>Yes, my lord. Why keep ourselves to the Terrestrial elements? There are... the stranger ones, and we can mine them, my lord. We can turn them and remake them in the light of the Dragons!

Yes. Yes.</i>
This message was last edited by the player at 08:29, Thu 06 Aug 2009.

...yes, well.

Think about it, Sanae. There are a thousand thousand people living in the Coils; breathing, speaking, drinking, eating, and everything they do they drain a bit of our world into themselves, and there is only so much of this world for so very much of us. Perhaps, up there, in the... ah... what is it? Yes, the daylight, there is enough of the world for every one of us; but here? In here?

Our world is small, Sanae. It is a column, a tube, a mere toothpick sheltered under rock and earth, and within, raw humanity swarms. The are the chaff, and we are the wheat; no. Hmmmm. Dust and gold? Diamonds? Help me a moment, Sanae; I need... something organic. Something rare. Something that grows.

...no, not that, that's an act of cultivation. Of, of artificial care and---hmmm. But that is true, isn't it? Blood begets blood. They'll never tell anyone, indeed, but we know, don't we, Sanae? We know how.

So, so, so, so, ah. Yes. You understand my metaphor? Well, yes, I do suppose it is, after all, in part your metaphor, but then I asked you to think, didn't I? Without that blessed seed of input, even your fertile mind couldn't possibly have thought what you did. So I lay claim to it, and that's all there is. Yes. Ah... you interrupt me excessive, Sanae, for now I've lost my thoughts.

Mmm. Mmm. Oh, that, yes. So. Every time every single one of these... antlings, yes, ants-things do anything, the rest of us perish, just a little more. Each one of them requires food, requires water-- but we can put limits on those We can always ensure that we have enough.

But air, Sanae? Air goes everywhere. And there isn't enough of that at all. Yet we cannot kill them; to kill them would mean less material, less stock, from which can come the rest of us. Or so they say, so they say. That experiment... was cancelled. Perhaps, in time.

Hmmmm?

Oh, yes. Well. We can't feed them all, Sanae. Well, not feed, perhaps; how would you say, to give air? Respire, breathe, inhale.... hmmmm. No matter. You understand, and I understand. We can't feed them all, and the population is... growing. So we'll change them. To breathe stale air, and to release freshness back out. Get half the population into it, and the system'll maintain itself.

And why stop there, hmmm? We have fused the elements themselves to make better servitors; why not temper the bodies of men? Surely, it'd be easier to work on this... dust. Gills for the water, dark-piercing eyes... yes.

What? Yes. Yes. It is... difficult, at best. But the Anathemea did it, once, and we have Anathemea now, don't we? It is a strange thing, this warping, but I trust that the Dragons will see us through; that, or we will all die by the sweet lack of Mela. Heh. Life is hard.

...well, no, of course not. Don't be a fool. In the meantime, we'll kill all the useless ones, of course.

Not that they tend to survive, anyway. Heh.

Hey!  Been a while, but I thought I'd post a little something here while we wait on our ever-awesome ST.  This isn't an exact portrait, of course--not even close, as a matter of fact, but I just really enjoy this picture, and thought it conveyed a good bit of the atmosphere that Broken Eternal can invoke...that feeling of 'Oh shit, this guy is so good I DONT STAND A CHANCE' kind of vibe.  Enjoy!

http://i37.tinypic.com/2mxpfzk.jpg

Omnipotent Sky was not a nice man.  This was in itself a mystery, given how blessed by the Dragons he was.  He was born to a wealthy family and interitor of one of the most successful businesses on his floor.  He was gifted with a darling family--a beautiful and kind wife, who bore him three children--two of which hatched at an early age!  And yet despite all of this, he was not a kind man.  He was a hard man, cruel and dismissive to those whom he had nothing to gain from.  He was lord of his home and master of his business...and his rule was that of iron.
One night, Omnipotent Sky was working late at his factory, putting the finishing touches on his records.  His factory churned eternally with multiple shifts of several men and women, and occasionally children, to keep the gears turning.  It was a comfort to him, the constant noise.  But he was so obsorbed into his work, there is no telling how long it was before he finally noticed the silence.  Sky put down his feathered quill as he strained his ears, something he had never had to do in the confines of his factory.  He checked his watch and frowned--it wasn't break time, and even if it were, they had split times in order to keep the machines running.  Something was wrong, and he wouldn't stand for it.
The floor was completely devoid of life, he thought.  There wasn't a worker to be seen.  He walked in a hurried huff, his rail-thin body carrying him quickly to the small break room his workers used.  There was no one to be seen.  His frown deepened.  He would fire them all, of course, and replace them in the morning.  There was no shortage of bodies to fill the metal halls, after all, and the turnover rate was high, after all--he generally lost a few workers a week thanks to the stress and duress of the job.  He went back to his office and tried to finish his work, but found the silence to unnerving.  Sighing angrily, he slammed his book shut, put on his expensive coat, and stormed home.
By the time he reached his front door, Omnipotent Sky had lost much of his anger, though not his general foul mood.  This was only compounded by the fact that his door key was simply refusing to work, causing him to curse loudly into the darkness of the street.  At night, the Coil's artificial light was shutdown in order to preserve the natural orders of the body...though the essence fueled lamps bade small havens of light along the streets.  On instinct Sky turned sharply, looking over his left shoulder.  He didn't know what he expected to see--a begger, perhaps, or some other riff-raff.  There was nothing though...just the fleeting feeling that he was being watched...possibly followed.  His nose twitched, and he chided himself for being so scared of the dark.
The key turned, and Sky let himself in.
The house was quiet...almost as silent as the factory.  Lights automatically turned on as he passed them.  He was unsettled by all this silence, and found himself quickly searching the rooms for his wife or his children.  He found no sign of them, thought the signs of their living were evident enough.  Scattered toys from the youngest, dishes on the counter, rebelliously ignored by the two oldest who constantly bickered over the chore.  They were probably away, he decided...possibly to his Mother In-Law's.  Omnipotent Sky had an important and stressful job, and that stress made his hand heavy when he came home.  Their fights were usually very brief, though extraordinarily violent, and the previous night had been especially so.  The authorities had never been involved, but short holidays usually followed suit...though it was unusual for her to take the twins.  The youngest, yes, but...bah, he wasn't going to give it any thought.  All the better, he decided--having the house to himself was nice, every once in a while.
 He feasted that night, as he did every night, and thought little else of his missing workers or family.  He would sort out the former in the morning, he thought with a smug little grin, and the latter would sort itself out.  After all, HE was the one with the wealth and the power, despite his being a mere mortal, instead of an Exalt.  Oh, he wasn't properly welcomed in the high society of the Dragon Born...but his money was.  And that was all that mattered.