The Vivacious Deadlock: S3G6: Round Three: The Sable Masque

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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Phere was pissed.

She and Crowe had emerged from the tent into the murky grey morning of the Thünderwölf warcamp. It had been larger than she had expected, stretching off in all directions as far as a regular eye could see. It had a look of reluctant semi-permanence about it; while most of the structures surrounding her had been heavily weathered tents constructed from thick hide, there had here and there been a building built from wood and stone; a hesitant concession to the fact that they had been here a long time and in all likelihood would remain here a long time. Phere had let her vision wander and saw that the edges of the camp were fenced in with lines of heavy wooden spikes hammered deep into the ground. Oddly these spikes had been lined with a thick black foam which didn't seem to have any visible function. The tents were arranged in a semi haphazard fashion, clusters here and there, but in some places gaps, almost like streets; wide enough for several warhorses to move in unison. The tent from which she and Crowe had emerged was perhaps a little more elaborate than most; still constructed of the same animal furs and leather that the others were, it had been inscribed with symbols which meant nothing to Phere, in the same glowing neon as the bangles that the Shamaness had worn.

The camp was busy. Burly men with absurdly long beards and thick armour bustled through the campsite with strange plastic and metal weapons strapped to their backs. It had not taken the semi-omniscience of the Hollow-eyed Empress to notice the vikings that watched her every move. There were five or six of them and they were doing their best to look inconspicuous; a tough feat for someone who looked more like a walking wall of meat than an actual human being. Alongside the unexpected prescence of these vikings there was a conspicuous absence of Vala herself. The conclusion to be drawn from this was obvious. She had really expected more sense from the Shamaness. If she could see the future as she claimed she could surely she knew that provoking the Empress would not end favourably for her.

"This is not what I expected from the mighty Empress Phere." Crowe said snidely. Phere did not dignify his comment with a response.

She had taken a moment to search for her fellow combatants and had been disappointed to find that by this point in time they were all in Santa Nada. The city stood in the distance; all spires and towers surrounded by a hardly insurpassable wall. Sure it looked like it would be a tricky place to take, but hardly the cause of such an impossible siege. And in fact as Phere had taken a closer look at the city she saw the gates were open. It seemed so long as you did not have a long braided beard and a tin helmet with horns sticking out of either side you were waved straight through. Such lax security, Phere thought, these vikings must be more incompetent than I gave them credit for.

And so, refusing to dignify Crowe's continued presence Phere had set off on the long trek towards Santa Nada, and to the combatants with whom she was determined to establish some kind of understanding. When the vikings that had been watching her had stopped her, saying that she was not allowed to leave the viking camp upon Vala's orders things had gotten rather a little heated. Phere was not the most competent of mages and she had really hoped that a show of bravado would be enough to convince the brutish viking guard to back off. It rather unfortunately had not, and that was the circumstance that had led to Phere being where she was right now; in a rather sturdily built cell, in a pair of heavy iron manacles.

"I had been given to understand that you would see yourself to being warchief of these vikings within minutes." Crowe commented. Phere glared up at the suited man. The vikings had tried to fit him with a matching pair of manacles but his slender hands had slipped right through them no matter how tight they had been.

"These vikings are irrelevant." Phere replied tersely. "I become their warchief and five minutes later one of the others will kill themselves somehow and I will be forced to start all over again in a new location." Crowe made a noncommital noise.

"Still," he said, "this situation hardly behooves you." Phere could not argue with that. The pair lapsed into silence for a while, Phere's brow furrowed. Part of her wanted to move on from this situation as quickly as possible, to get out there and make the alliances that would be necessary to ensuring long term control of this battle. Whilst on the other hand there was a not insignificant part of her that wanted to exact some petty revenge against Vala. For lying to her. For actually deceiving her. For throwing her in this dingy hole.

After a couple of minutes of intent silence she asked: "Tell me about Santa Nada."

"What exactly do you want to know about it?" Crowe asked. "I could tell you of the majestic symphony that was played during its construction, or to put it better, the majestic symphony that was its construction, or alternately I could tell you what the Maestro had for breakfast this morning. It was toast." Phere scowled.

"Tell me about the siege." she replied. "What is going on out there is not a siege."

“Ah yes, the ‘siege’.” Crowe began. “Yes there was a point when this was more of a conventional siege. There were barricades and the carcasses of animals flung over the wall of the city. It lasted less than a week. Santa Nada is far from defenceless. This attempt on the city cost the vikings some of their hardiest warriors before they opted to fall back. The simple fact is that they lack the capability to force a siege upon Santa Nada, and likewise the people of Santa Nada lack the capability to force the Clan from their shores. I don’t think either side has really tried for the last few generations. The most heated the conflict gets nowadays is when drunken jeers are bawled in the general direction of the city.” The pair lapsed into thoughtful silence again.

"But how?" she asked. "How does a city like that defend itself so effectively?"

"I’ll show you." Crowe replied promptly. Phere scoffed.

“What could you show me that I could not see myself?” she asked. In the space of a moment, less time than it would take you to blink, she was somewhere else. The wall at her back was gone and it took her a second to regain her balance on an uneven floor. As she looked up at the scene spread out in front of her, Phere found herself momentarily speechless.

She and Crowe stood on a hillside overlooking the bay. The Thünderwölf camp was missing, in its stead a flotilla of Viking longboats were clustered around the rocky coast. From this distance the vikings, in their hundreds, perhaps even their thousands looked like ants as they assaulted the city. Santa Nada looked different, but subtly so; there were a couple less spires dominating the skyline and if you really looked you could see the city in general looked less developed. The gates were barricaded; the ramparts of the wall that surrounded the city were manned. The sounds of battle rang out across the bay. Not the traditional crash of steel upon steel or the crack of cannons being fired but the refrains of music, still slightly dangerous as it echoed across the hillside.

But this was all background. Above the town there was what at first glance appeared to be a black cloud. If you watched it for more than a second though you could see it was shifting and moving, resembling more a gargantuan swarm of angry bees. This was closer to the truth, but still not right. It was a swarm of notes, of music made flesh and it was moving, swirling over Santa Nada. On those edges of the city where the Thünderwölf forces pressed in, it speared down. It tore through their defences. The screech of guitars did not seem to deter it. Such attacks were absorbed into it like pouring water into the ocean itself. Entire groups of vikings scattered and fled at its approach or else were ripped apart. It damn near drowned out everything else there was to be heard; the sound of a symphony against a blood red dusk sky. Phere found it almost impossible to tear her eyes from it. Its bloody carnage somehow made beautiful by the strains of enrapturing music that rolled across the bay.

“It’s a potent weapon, the Symphony. Unfortunately for Santa Nada, its range is extremely limited. It can only barely leave the city.” Crowe commented. “It has not been used for generations. Most everyone believes that it is nothing more than a folk story. Only a select few know that it is real, fewer still know how to control it.” Phere looked at the man standing next to her. His face was blank. He seemed to be just relaying information, but Phere for a moment wondered whether he was perhaps stifling a smirk. He knew more about her than she would like and she couldn’t help but ponder his motive for bringing her here... But regardless of what Crowe’s intent might have been the effect was the same. She wanted it, and she was pretty sure the implication was that she was not going to get it without his help. In the silence she contemplated where they were, or to be more exact when. It hadn’t escaped her attention that without Crowe’s help she would be left here, stuck generations before the battle had even began. She scrutinised Crowe for a moment, at her gaze he turned and returned it.

“We should go.” Phere said abruptly.

“Back to that dingy cell?” Crowe asked. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go somewhere else?” There was a long pause as Phere considered her response. It was just occurring to her how dangerous the unassuming man in the suit could be if he really wanted to. She knew that he was not going to be pleased when he found out that she did not know where The Spectator had gone. Her search, though comprehensive, had yielded nothing. She was having a difficult time reading Crowe’s intentions, and she had not liked the thought that had crystallised when he oh so casually mentioned the symphony could be controlled; the idea that he might be trying to point her in a certain direction. This whole thing was a show of force. Look at what I could help you achieve, or look at what I could do to you. Phere bit her lip, feeling as though circumstances had slipped beyond her control without her even noticing.

Before Phere figured out her response, everything changed again. They were back in the cell, the sweeping vista replaced with a magnificent cell of a dull grey stone wall.

“You’re not one for small talk are you?” Crowe asked. Phere barely even registered him. She was too busy trying to figure out how she could reclaim the upper hand in this situation.

Finally she said: “I’d like to go to where this thing is controlled.” She watched Crowe’s face carefully. There was no change of expression, not that she had expected him to give away his intentions that easily. Momentarily they were elsewhere; standing in the middle of a fairly busy street in what she could only presume to be Santa Nada. The building that stood in front of them seemed to be quite grand even if it was in a state of some disrepair. The windows were barred; the door was heavy and most likely very thoroughly locked. The sign upon the side of the building read ‘Santa Nada Opera House’. Phere gave the place a quick glance over and was unsurprised to find that behind the seemingly abandoned exterior there were more than a couple of guards.

The actual auditorium was disconcerting. Where in a typical auditorium you would find hundreds of seats arrayed backwards from the stage there was only one seat, and it did not look comfortable. It was bulky, made of rigid metal and bolted into the ground. Manacles were mounted onto the arms and the leg rests with rusted padlocks hanging loose. The metal was stained and rusted where blood had been spilled long ago. It looked dusty, as though it had not seen much use in a long a time. In front of the stage there was the orchestra pit and peering down into it Phere could see nothing but blackness. It was perhaps too dark. She could not see the bottom, was not sure whether there was one. Finally at the back of the stage there it was. Phere knew that it was what was used to control the symphony from the moment she saw it. It was the most eyecatching thing in the room. It was a gargantuan pipe organ that took up the entirety of the back wall. It was the focus of the room, massive gleaming pipes stretching up into the sky, and the centre a keyboard and a seat.

It was tempting. It really was. As much as Phere wanted to possess the power that lay within, as much as she would like to rule this city and to wipe the smile from Vala’s face, she stopped herself. She turned and started walking, it didn’t really matter to her the direction she was heading in so long as it was away from here. Crowe did not move to follow her immediately. She did not trust him. The whole show he put on to direct her towards this Opera House, towards the symphony. She knew going forwards would have a cost and she guessed it was one she could not pay. She needed to postpone the confrontation with him for as long as possible, and that meant not relying on his abilities, no matter how massively useful they might be.

“Apparently you aren’t keen on a night at the opera.” He commented. “Where are we headed now if I might ask?”

“I really should see someone about getting rid of these.” Phere raised her manacled hands towards him.

“I could…” He made unlocking gestures, “if you want.”

“No.” she said dismissively, desperately hoping her tone was casual. “I’ve got this. I know what I am doing.” She did not.

SpoilerShow

Word of god has it that Crowe's jaunt to the time of the first siege is more a method of showing the past that does not allow interaction than actual time travel. I figured Crowe might have figured Phere didn't need to know that exactly and explaining it didn't fit with the flow of the post, so there you go.

Originally posted on MSPA by Akumu.

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Bartholomew Biggs stared agape at the ruined remains of his fellow watchman. They had been sitting at a rough-hewn wooden table atop the battlements of Santa Nada, enjoying a spirited game of bones, when a stream of hot lixx had literally melted the poor bastard's face off. So long had the uneasy peace with the Thünderwölf Clan been maintained, that Biggs' first thought was to look inwards at the busy streets of Santa Nada for the perpetrator. He was getting to his feet and reaching for the alarum when a drumroll peppered his back. He staggered forward, his fingers brushing past the rope that would have rung the alert, and it was only just beginning to dawn on him that this was a viking assault when the bass kick slammed into him and flung his broken body off the wall and down into the marketplace below.

- - -

Klendel glanced back wistfully at the path the soldiers had taken. A group of men fearing their own deaths were always juicy fodder, but Harmon had quite decisively headed in the opposite direction as soon as he had identified them. As interesting as the potential mayhem of battle was, this woman had it trumped. Cascala was still following dreamily behind them, and the skittish throng of pedestrians parted around the trio like a stream around a rock.

Harmon had homed in on a commercial district and was peeking into this store and that, never seeming to find what she was looking for. Klendel kept a keen eye on her reactions, trying to piece together what she might be seeking. He could always ask her, still having his question, but he knew well enough that it was best not to ask questions unless you had a good idea what the answer was going to be. More than a means of gaining information, they were just one more lever with which to shift a mind. Still, after the fourth apothecary that she withdrew from empty-handed, he was becoming impatient.

“Doctor Harmon,” he started in, waiting for her to come out of her thoughts and focus on him before continuing, “the street layout here has intriguing implications.”

“What do you mean?”

“The road we've been on as we have been visiting all of these charming shops has been curving quite steadily to the left, but all of the cross streets have been meeting it at right angles. Not your standard grid layout, more like-”

“A polar plot, yes, I see what you mean. So you're saying it has a center. It's probably just the seat of government, a piddling castle to go along with all this medievalness.” Harmon flopped her hand dismissively at the surroundings. She was in mid-eye-roll when a hand clamped down tightly on her wrist. She gave a small yelp and turned to find Cascala standing uncomfortably close and staring up at her with an unhinged intensity.

“The song! Can't you feel it? It connects everything and all connections lead back to it! It is building to a crescendo, and we must add our voices. Come!”

The mage turned crisply away and started striding down a side street towards the interior of the city, dragging Harmon along behind. The physicist shook herself free, crying “Fine! Fine!” and continuing to follow behind, with Klendel bringing up the rear. Harmon thought that perhaps she was truly picking up on something, some power underlying this world, and if it had a locus that she might be able to harness it. Klendel, for his part, was just glad that something interesting was finally happening.

Several minutes of walking through the catacombs and, subsequently, significantly-less-tomblike hallways of the temple passed uneventfully, the priestess staying mostly silent and the other clergy of the temple doing little more than gazing in awe. The paths, heavily decorated in musical notation utterly foreign to the Kryesan (if they'd been told what it was, they might've passed it off as inefficient), eventually led to a plain wooden door, nowhere near as impressive as the one leading to the sacrificial altar/rave hall. Shira knocked at the door, which opened a few minutes later to reveal a man dressed not in the robes of the other priests, but in an odd black coat with a bright red ascot, the collar of his white undershirt resting atop. A wild mess of curly gray hair complemented the man's stern features, those this attribute of his face did not last long at the sight of Nalzaki.

"Great Sf'rzando, is that really you?" the man questioned, astonished.

"Yes, my loyal subject," Nalyg replied. "You are the high priest, are you not?"

"You do not know, mighty Sf'rzando? Has something happened?"

"The God of Music has lost their memories of us, it would seem," Shira gravely replied. "I do not know how, but it does not bode well for us."

The high priest remained silent for a few moments. "There is no need worry, sister. Do not forget what is written in the Score. When Sf'rzando first appeared a thousand years ago, they were not aware of their identity at first. They slowly came to realize who they really were, and thus did they teach the unenlightened masses the ways of Sf'rzando. This was before the days of the clan Thünderwölf, you must keep in mind. The city of Santa Nada stood instead against the fearsome forces led by a group calling themselves 'The Phantoms'. Do you remember none of this, enlightened one?"

Nalyg shook his head, followed shortly after by Razaran and Kanpeki. "It... has been a long time, my subject," Razaran replied.

"We are, however, aware of the current situation," Kanpeki continued. "The clan Thünderwölf threatens to destroy the city, do they not?"

"For hundreds of years we have thought that, but the raids have all but ceased over such a long time. Have they begun gathering forces for another attack?"

"They have, my subject," Nalyg responded. "But unlike previous attacks, things may be tipped in their balance by circumstances not of this world. Is the city able to defend itself?"

"If what you say is true, and I do not, of course, doubt your judgement even in your current state, I fear they may not be able to. The Symphony is more then enough to keep them at bay under normal circumstances, but the balance, as you say, may have been tipped. It is a shame that in a thousand years, so many have forgotten your ways, great and powerful Sf'rzando."

"Sorry, back up. The Symphony?" Razaran questioned.

"A powerful weapon that has many times been able to keep the raiders at bay. I only fear that in these hundreds of years, they have finally devised a method of overcoming its terrible power. We need you, great and powerful Sf'rzando. I pray that you will protect our city!"

"It shall be done as is within our power, my subject," Kanpeki replied. "Is there anything more we should know about?"

"Yes... Yes, there is something more. Please, follow me." The gray-haired man turned and walked back into his unusually spatious office, past the shelves lined with various odd trinkets and the occasional holy script. Nalzaki managed to push through the distinctly human-sized door, though not without knocking over a potted tree which they quickly righted.

"I am sure you do not remember these things, but perhaps your memory will return." The high priest played a brief, but complex piece on the grand piano at the head of the room, causing three large panels behind him to slide open simultaneously. Both panels on the sides held an identical item, an odd sort of pole topped with a duo of discs, a couple of wires running from each. In the center, full-body armor the shape of the Kryesan, though bearing sleeves for four arms rather than the two the Kryesan currently possessed. Beneath the armor lay what any familiar with such things would refer to as an unusually-complex midnight-black keytar, arranged more like a small organ than a normal keyboard, complete with two separate rows of keys.

"What is this?" Nalyg asked the high priest.

"This is the armor you used long ago, in the war against the Phantoms. That war was in the days before the Symphony, and you were at the head of the battle. Without you we might have fallen, but with the aid of you and these weapons of legend, Santa Nada survived. Please, great Sf'rzando, take them up again. Lead the people of Santa Nada to victory against the clan Thünderwölf, for all of our sakes."

"Thank you, my subject. I do not believe we have been told your name," Kanpeki replied.

"My apologies, great Sf'rzando. I am High Priest Thovebeen of the Temple of the Score."

"Your aid will be remembered, Thovebeen, priest of Sf'rzando."

With those words, Nalzaki stepped toward the items on the wall. The armor did not entirely conform to their body shape, but was close enough to be easily worn. Their faces were entirely obscured while wearing the armor, but quite naturally it did not obscure their vision from within. The two "weapons of legend" mounted to the back, crossed in an X shape, and the plugs fed both into the keytar and into the armor itself. Razaran and Kanpeki each developed a second arm to suit the armor, as well as to properly play the complicated instrument. As a test, Kanpeki played a few notes at random. As she did so, the dormant Tesla coils on their back sprang to life, emitting a musical buzzing as bolts of electricity arced across their body, absorbed into the mesh of the armor.

This should be good, Razaran thought to the others.

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

For all the drive and ferocity with which Cascala was moving foward, she really didn't seem to be moving toward anything in particular, Dr. Harmon noted. The trio moved through alley after alley, passing countless streets in a direction that could only have been described as "vaguely toward the center of the city". Maybe it was that she really was following some invisible force that drove this world as it snaked throughout the city, calling out to her, but then again, she could have just been completely crazy. Klendel seemed very interested in the mage's progress for some reason the physicist could only vaguely fathom. A part of her wanted to ditch the two of them, but the other, perhaps more powerful part was intrigued with the vague feeling of this "song", and wanted nothing more than to find its source and utilize it. Dr. Harmon just hoped she wouldn't be driven to whatever madness possessed Cascala.

Meanwhile, Klendel, less in tune with whatever vague force may have existed, was mostly intrigued with what new opportunities Cascala could be leading him to. If there was some sort of mysterious force that drove the lives of everyone in this world, Klendel wanted nothing more than to cease this power for himself. For now, of course, it was best to simply keep to himself, let the meatbags lead him right to whatever it was Cascala was seeking. She paused occasionally to blather something about "the song" or some kind of weird music-based metaphor, but he was scarcely paying attention.

What he was forced to pay more attention to, however, was the three-headed, armored figure approaching the trio, some kind of highly unusual machines strapped to its back.

"Hey, Doctor. Isn't that Nalzaki coming toward us?"

"What," she started, her head whipping around to face the approaching form of the Kryesan. "Oh god no. Not this again."

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

It appeared as though Dr. Harmon was hurrying the other two along, trying to avoid contact with Nalzaki. It would apparently be hard to reconcile for their actions in the other city, in spite of their lack of memory of the events of said actions. Nonetheless, they had to at least try. Thus far they had made very few alliances and very many enemies, and they would very much have preferred to not have the odds stacked against them later on.

Nalzaki ran toward the trio, Nalyg attempting to announce an intention of peace which more likely than not did nothing to help. It was worth a shot, he guessed. Maybe they'd get through after all?

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

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Reserve.

Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.

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SpoilerShow

We would like to remind you at this point that the deadline for this round is something around April 1, as was agreed earlier. Please keep this in mind.

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

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… OR MAYBE NOT???

Just as Nalyg opened his mouth to greet the small party of contestants, Sir Cedric came plowing through the crowd like a meteor out of Space Hell.

“PUNCH,” he bellowed, tapping into the reserves of sound-based magic that surrounded the city of Santa Nada as he leaped into the air and decked Razaran in the face so hard that Nalyg and Kanpeki were both struck by the same blow. They stumbled sideways, managed to get their legs tangled up, and collapsed in a dazed heap, cracking cobblestones under their weight. Cedric roared, hauled all nine feet of Nalzaki off of the ground, and hurled him/him/her, smashing the entire clanking, unwieldy mass of limbs, metal plates and legendary musical instruments into the nearest building.

Cascala, Dr. Harmon and some sort of awful little shadow thing drew back into their latest alley and watched in shocked horror as Cedric somehow managed to get Kanpeki in a headlock and punched her in the face while she wailed about how oh god, why was it always her. This made Razaran absolutely furious, but there were several feet of stunned Nalyg between him and Cedric and several inches of plated steel in the way of his shapeshifting, so he settled for stiffly flailing the armored limbs on his side in Cedric’s general direction and shouting dragony swears at him while trying to blindly kick him in the shins.

Somewhere down the street, a marching band started playing a warbly siren-like tune, and Cedric turned and fled, pulling Nalzaki along with him so he could keep fighting them while he ran away. Somehow, it actually seemed to be working. Razaran thrashed about and dug his clawed feet into the ground, pulling up cobblestones and knocking townspeople flat with his tail until he managed to get some decent footholds in the street. Just seconds later, Horsegark came barreling out of the crowd with Ivan clinging to his back and charged headfirst into Nalzaki, knocking them clear off the ground in a feat of raw horsepower.

Original Synth was knocked free of Nalzaki’s back, and Ivan bent over backwards and scrambled to catch it while clinging to Horsegark with an arm and both legs. As he managed to get ahold of a fistful of cables, his other hand brushed one of its keys, and everything slowed to a crawl as a single clear, perfect note resonated in the air.

Besides the one note, everything was silent and just a shade faster than completely still, Ivan included. He was unable to blink, breathe or turn his head away from the keytar hanging in space above him, but in the time between seconds, he didn’t seem to need to. His eyes wandered past the legendary instrument to the upper stories of the building they were allegedly racing past, and time caught up to him as a bolt of lightning lanced from the Tesla coils that were still falling on him, smashing a hole in the building he had focused on.

The magnetic field of the lightning wreaked havoc on his extra senses, but those extra few moments had given him good enough of a look at Original Synth that he was able to catch it after only a little panicked fumbling. A focus-based weapon would probably be more helpful in the hands of a creature with three minds than in the hands of someone whose senses were thrown off every time it was used, but this was probably worth hanging onto, decided Ivan as the train-wreck-in-progress of mythical creatures, magical knights and mathematical aliens thundered off down the street.

A chunk of the building they had passed fell to the street and smashed into rubble.

“Wait,” a customer asked a street vendor as the brass hurried past, “was that our god?”

---

Outside the city, basslines hummed across the waters of the bay and continuously crashed into the foundations of Santa Nada’s outer walls. Though the Iron Maiden held back, several of the Thünderwölf Clan’s more agile crafts advanced towards the coast as their oarmen powered ahead, rowing to the rhythm of kickass drum solos that boosted their strength and stamina.

With drum beats and bass at the ready, the vikings’ most skilled guitarists stepped up to the helms of their crafts, plugged in their amps, and started playing as one, searing the walls of Santa Nada with a half-dozen different melodies.

Up on the battlements, Santa Nada’s guards rolled out cannons and aimed them at the viking ships. As the fuses were lit, soldiers lining the wall took up trumpets, violins and drums, and they began to belt out a well-rehearsed rendition of the 1812 Overture that swirled around them and lashed out at the viking fleet.

The cannons just fired blanks.

Santa Nada didn’t have weapons, after all.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

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The vicious skirmish, for no one yet had wanted to label it a battle and admit that it could be the start of a new campaign, continued on relentlessly at the gates of Santa Nada. The strict military discipline of the defenders kept any signs of panic hidden, while the natural bloodthirstiness of the attackers made it clear they didn't plan on stopping the assault any time soon. For a short time, neither side had any casualties; then, one by one, warriors on both sides began to fall to the crashing waves of noise. More stepped up to take their places, and no longer could anyone deny that it was a battle.

Meanwhile, on an entirely different stretch of wall far away from the fighting, three grappling hooks sailed over the heads of a pair of dead guards, clinking quietly against the stone as they nestled themselves securely against it. Three viking commandos pulled themselves up by the ropes, then reeled them in and threw them over the side of the wall, outside of the city. The bodies of the dead guards soon followed. The commandos then snuck down the stairs of the watchtower. In two other places along the wall, similar commando squads made their entrances. Each had the same goal - enter the city undetected and activate the Symphony, using it to kill the seven of the prophecy who were not on their side.

The viking commandos were a secret weapon of sorts, generally kept in reserve unless absolutely required. Part of their deadliness lay in the fact that no one expected a viking to be capable of even speaking softly, much less of being stealthy. Unlike most vikings, who generally chose nice, loud instruments to fight with, the commandos were each armed with a pair of tuning forks and a dog whistle, allowing them to kill quickly and quietly while staying light on their feet.

The commandos made use of their skills to slip through the town, approaching the Symphony while avoiding detection by sticking to the shadows. As they passed a street where a small crowd was gathering, however, they spied something that made them take pause. At first they noticed only the figure cloaked in shadow, who was unlike anything they'd seen before, but a quick examination of the two women beside him showed that they stood out from the townsfolk as well, albeit to a lesser extent. Theremins were unheard of for viking and villagers alike, and the device on the back of the other one was more than a little out of place. After some communication with hand gestures, the vikings raised their tuning forks and snuck up towards the unprotected backs of the contestants.

But not everyone missed things in the shadows so easily.

Klendel had had the three commandos pegged as unusual the moment he'd detected them sneaking past in the shadows nearby, but until he felt them raise their tuning forks he had thought they were simply very good thieves trying to avoid a crowd. He casually placed his arms on Cascala and Harmon's shoulders; in any other circumstance, it might've looked friendly or even flirtatious. The unexpected touch barely seemed to register with Cascala, lost as she was in her own little world, but Harmon tensed slightly at the unexpected touch of cool, smooth shadow.

But Klendel had other things on his mind than picking up chicks. Just as the commandos, in perfect unison, raised their tuning forks to strike, Klendel pushed Cascala and Harmon forward. A tuning fork hit his back, vibrating quietly, and he crumpled to the floor in an unmoving pile. Harmon and Cascala turned around in time to see the other two forks stabbing at the air where they'd been standing just moments before. The vikings stepped over Klendel's inert form, and before she even knew what she was doing, Harmon had already opened her mouth.

"You've got your whip and your mule stick, think you can string me right along," she sang, starting out clumsily but quickly forming a rhythm, which Cascala dreamily joined into with her theremin. "Well I've got some news here for you buddy, I'm gonna let you know you're wrong!"

The vikings found themselves pushed back by the unexpected musical front, but instead of stumbling back onto the floor, collided with a cold, shadowy rope that bounced them forward again, as if the alleyway were suddenly a wrestling ring and they'd been pushed into the side.

"Because I'm LOUD!" The vikings were shoved back again before hitting the ground, and again bounced forward off the black rope. "And I'm PROUD!" Again they were pushed back and forth, looking increasingly dazed as each musical blow struck them. "And I'm THROUGH!" The gathered crowd wasn't sure whether to watch the woman beating up the three men or the man beating up the hydra. "With YOU!" Harmon paused for breath, and the vikings crashed forward onto the ground, unconscious. She peered at them curiously.

Klendel's voice came from the side of the alley. "Interesting. It seems someone has decided to send assassins after us."

Harmon looked up to see him leaning against the wall of one of the buildings. Preoccupied as she had been, she was certain that he had been lying dead on the ground. But no, she realized, he couldn't have been. Then the round would have ended, and they were still here. And he was still there, of course. "How did you survive getting stabbed in the back?" she asked, squinting at him. "That's usually pretty lethal."

Klendel waggled a shadowy finger at her. Harmon couldn't tell which one; it could have been a trick of the light, but it seemed less that he had raised a finger, and more that the others had receded into his hand. "You're out of questions, Harmon, and I don't think want you to start piling up a debt of owed answers to me." He gestured towards the three unconscious men on the floor; Harmon noted that his hand again had five fingers. "Besides, I think figuring out who's trying to kill us should be a bit higher on your list of priorities."

Harmon blinked. "Who? Not..." She cut herself off, realizing that she already knew the most likely reason why. "Let me guess. You think it was one of the other contestants."

Klendel nodded. "Yes, very good. I've ruled out both you and myself - we've been together since the start of the round, after all - as well as Cascala, as she doesn't seem in the right mind to hire an assassin, and likely didn't hire any to stab her." Hearing her name mentioned, Cascala looked up from tending to her theremin, but quickly lost interest in the conversation and continued trying to find some sign of wear and tear on her instrument.

Harmon put her hand to her chin pensively. "Cedric is too stupidly proud to get someone else to do the killing for him. I've got no reading on Nalzaki. Ivan...maybe? He attacked me last round, but we were both after the same thing, so I don't think it was anything personal." She shrugged irritably. "You wouldn't be offering these opinions unless you already knew the answer, so why don't you go ahead and tell me?"

Klendel sighed. "A pity, it's fun to watch you work. As for who I think it is, I'd have to go with Phere. Last round, by the time I found her, she'd already gotten an entire gang under her control; sending minions to kill people definitely seems to be her style." He shrugged. "Then again, maybe it was the horse. One never can tell."

He knelt down and started sifting through the unconscious form of one of the commandos, searching for both weapons and any form of identification. He quickly found both the dog whistle and the tuning forks. He held the dog whistle up, aiming at a wall next to him, and gave an experimental blow. Although no noise seemed to come out, a neat crack appeared in the siding. "Strange that they didn't just use these to pick us off from a distance. I'd have done that."

Harmon looked around cautiously, eyeing the shadowy alleyways. "Not to interrupt your little CSI: Santa Nada moment, but shouldn't we get moving before more of these guys get here?"

The pop culture reference was completely lost on Klendel, whose world had only recently developed steam power. He looked up at her questioningly, then laughed. "Ah! I'd forgotten, you've probably never dealt with an assassination attempt before. Don't know how that slipped my mind." I must have had you confused with someone else. "Assassins generally work alone, and if they fail, there'll be at least a couple of days of lag time for whoever hired them to find out they failed and then hire someone else." He stood up from the commandos. "In fact, I'm starting to doubt these even were assassins. They were too inefficient to have planned this in advance - they could've taken us out from a distance with these weapons, with no risk to themselves. Add to that the size of the group and the military efficiency - highly unusual for freelance hitmen, to say the least. I don't think these were assassins. They were en route to something else, saw us, and tried to take us out."

Harmon completed his train of thought. "...which means that whatever they were after must only be a means to an end, and the end is killing us. Because unless it was a shortcut to completing their mission, they wouldn't have risked exposing themselves by trying to take us out."

Klendel nodded. "Precisely." He looked closely at Harmon, something she found slightly unsettling for reasons she couldn't quite put her finger on. "I like you. You're smart. You remind me of someone I knew once." The grin which Harmon was beginning to associate with him showed up yet again. "Not that that really makes you any more trustworthy, of course." He glanced towards Cascala, who had apparently decided her theremin hadn't suffered any damage from being played and was looking around at the rooftops with a frown on her face. "I wonder...could they have been searching for what Cascala was leading us towards?" A shot in the dark, perhaps, but it was better than nothing. And he'd never been unduly bothered by the dark.

Cascala cast her gaze towards Klendel, then Harmon, then back again, flicking between the two at arbitrary intervals. "They were looking for the source of the song. It is getting louder, and more are hearing its call. Come! We must add our voices before it reaches the final verse!" Abruptly, she began to half-walk, half-stumble down another alley; Klendel noted with satisfaction that it was the same general direction the three men had been sneaking in. Both he and Harmon followed the mage.

Originally posted on MSPA by Anomaly.

---

Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have been all that difficult for the Kryesan to break away from a possibly-deranged knight with severe self-control issues. There was a plethora of methods that normally could be and would be used without second notice. They could have strangulated him with a number of tentacle-esque appendages, or, if the opportunity presented itself, another set of hands. Razaran could have bashed his skull in with a hammer, or at least knocked his brains around a little. Kanpeki could have simply produced an organic grappling hook in order to pull the wailed-upon Kryesan far away from the fight. Razaran could even have simply stabbed right through that armor of his, provided it wasn't stronger than it appeared to be, though, given what he had apparently survived in the other city, it probably was. Nonetheless, his head wasn't even protected, and he wasn't even using his own weapon.

It was at this point that Nalzaki realized the folly of placing a shapeshifter in a suit of armor.

Nalyg, we have to get this armor off! Razaran mentally shouted as Cedric's fist once more impacted his head.

I've told you, it's not possible! Look ou- Horsegark flung the hydra into yet another lamppost. We can't fight him! He's using the... sound... energy... who cares what it is?

Cedric had at this point started an impromptu game of catch with Horsegark, using the Kryesan as a ball. While Nalyg and Razaran continued to mentally bicker while the latter also physically shouted obscenities, a quiet song began to rise from the hydra's least argumentative head.

"Esa vrgrye reğabaĥwan," Kanpeki slowly, melodiously intoned. "Nki ĉgrairê reğabemir vuln..."

Very subtly, the town seemed to grow quieter. Cedric didn't seem to notice, as he continued to smash Razaran's and Nalyg's heads together.

"Ĉeravin ginek," Kanpeki continued, growing slightly louder.

"Ĉeravin ginek reaukă..." Nalyg and Kanpeki sang in unison.

The hell are you doing? Razaran shouted, narrowly dodging a faceful of hoofgark.

It's worth a try. Join in, Nalyg responded during a brief pause in the music.

"Kryesan, kryesa Jdeha, kry Typhra gaĥin!" Nalyg and Kanpeki intoned, very suddenly increasing in intensity. A stiff wind blew down the street, and Cedric frowned as he found that his blows had less effect on the hydra.

"Nrahus romu, tegae, mirgine mirfusa Typhra," the two continued, discovering themselves once more able to dig into the cobblestones rather than being tossed around like a very heavy ragdoll. Cedric by this point was finding the assault just slightly less enjoyable, though certainly not enough to stop. The Kryesan's armor was getting quite battered - it probably wouldn't be long before he broke through entirely.

"Mirsine breniăă," rang out the duo of voices, holding the last word for a while.

I told you to join in, Razaran!

This is stupid! What are you trying to accomplish? Razaran jerked his head to the side, Cedric's fist grazing his neck.

It's working, that's what!

Though the helmet obscured his face, Razaran rolled his eyes.

"Nrafaruv krybemir," bellowed Nalyg.

"Nravermid kryvraragne," responded Kanpeki.

"Xbrazn Kryesan!" the two sang in unison. Cedric felt himself being pushed away from the hydra, if only slightly. He realized that the hydra had figured out how to actually fight back, and decided that he had a much better way of fighting them. As a melodious shout of "femni xnaru ĉhiran ğenaă" reached his ears, he quickly reached for the electric guitar on his back. A further cry of "femni jvraserne bliaminau ernamṅ" was all the time he needed to draw out the dragon's scale and ready himself.

"Xbrazn Kryesan!" all three of the Kryesan's heads sand out in unison, accompanied by an extremely loud guitar chord which was more akin to a blow to the stomach.

A vicious musical duel began between the four - Cedric belting out a solo on a flaming electric guitar, and the hydras singing triumphantly in an alien tongue. Razaran reluctantly took the lead with a roar of "gania, franai ĉofiva breniăă grarum" as the other two harmonized, the force of sound deflected by a complex guitar riff the hydra hadn't expected the knight to even have the dexterity to play. A yell of "gamai, mirsine gine Typhrenṅ" met with a violent series of chord progressions. The wind rushed past, blowing abandoned carts and trash all over the street, as any pedestrians who may have been on the street decided to watch from indoors.

Waves of pure, unfettered musicality battered each of the combatants. Windows of nearby buildings began to rattle, prompting those nearby to take several steps back.

"Kryhinaumginek, kry sarunṅ romu vinan, Kryesan, ĉranuamir, breniăă..." Nalyg belted out in solo. The power contained within a single voice was certainly not enough to overtake Cedric. Not even the power in the trio was enough to counteract the sheer power of Sigrär. In spite of everything, Cedric still had the clear advantage - Nalzaki was fighting a losing battle.

A losing battle, that is, until a marching batallion unexpectedly began to accompany the hydra's song, directing their full force at the shredding knight. Cedric redoubled his efforts as the hydra continued their assault, but the combination of the band and the hydra was becoming too much for Sigrär to deflect.

"Xbrazn Kryesan nra ENTUUUAAAAAN!" the Kryesan finally screamed as loudly as they could manage. Cedric was blown across the street, his grip still firmly on his guitar, and landed in a rather foul-smelling wagon labeled "fertilizer".

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

Ivan had been hanging on for dear life during the whole spectable, somewhat afraid that he would have to again make use of Original Synth if the fighting continued. Not that it would probably have done any good, since Horsegark's frenzied gallop had pulled out the cables which attached the instrument to the coils that gave it its devastating power. As Cedric was flung into the cart of what was almost certainly animal waste, Horsegark immediately rushed toward him and immediately proceeded to fend off the approaching marching cops. It dawned on Ivan that if he didn't attempt escape, he would almost certainly be caught in the middle of the ensuing conflict, which could quite easily turn lethal.

"Ivan! Jump!" a familiar voice shouted from behind. Ivan tightened his deathgrip both on Original Synth and on Horsegark's back, craning his neck to find the source of the shout. Horsegark swiftly whipped to the side, leaving Ivan staring Nalzaki in the eye. The hydra was struggling to avoid the Horse With No Name's hooves, and continued to shout to Ivan. Ivan hesitated to jump, considering the fury with which Horsegark was stamping the ground. Razaran quickly shouted something to the band, and Horsegark was quickly met with a muted trumpet blast. It suffered no real damage, but the blow was enough to briefly stun the warhorse.

"Now, Ivan!" Ivan leaped from the horse, landing on the hydra's back. Nalzaki immediately took off down the street, speed marred somewhat by the lack of ability to drop to a hexapedal form. They managed to disappear into the alleyways of Santa Nada just in time to faintly head a guitar strumming in the distance. The Kryesan kept up their pace until they reached the doors of some sort of temple, met by a man who looked very out of place in Santa Nada but who was apparently a high priest.

Ivan watched, intrigued, as the hydra conversed with the priest. Apparently "Thovebeen" was under the impression that Nalzaki was a god of music, and had sent several priests to retrieve the so-called weapons of legend. Ivan looked at the organesque keytar in his hands. It did seem a weapon not entirely suited to be played by a human, but nonetheless he was still uncertain he wanted to return it. It was much more powerful than the small keyboard strapped to his back, that was certain.

"...now, then, who's your friend? And why is he carrying Original Synth with him?"

"This, my subject, is Ivan. He's a friend.

Ivan jumped from the hydra's back, keytar held tightly. "Hello," he addressed the priest. "What is this, exactly?" he immediately questioned, holding up the instrument in his hands.

"That... That instrument is integral to the functioning of the weapons of legend. You retrieved it during the scuffle?"

"I guess so. I suppose you want me to give it to you?"

"Original Synth is useless on its own, as are the weapons. Please, return it to S'frzando."

"I believe, my subject, that Ivan doesn't want to simply give it up. Perhaps you could retrieve for him a weapon more powerful than the one on his back?"

"Certainly, great and powerful Sf'rzando." The high priest immediately ran into the temple, leaving the Kryesan alone with Ivan.

"Sf'rzando?" Ivan asked.

"We haven't been able to figure it out, exactly," Nalyg replied.

"The temple and its priests bear images of what seems to be us on them, and apparently have for a thousand years. Why this is, we can't be sure," Kanpeki added.

"So you're keeping up this facade to get favors from the priests?"

"More or less. It's the better option." Nalyg paused. "Besides, there is something going on in here. We have to figure out what that something is."

Far more quickly than expected, Thovebeen rushed back out of the temple, carrying with him a small box, bearing a leather strap on the sides and a number of lenses on its top. He dropped it to the ground in front of Ivan, and pressed a button on its side. Silently, a beam of green light - no, a green laser - shot out of the box and disappeared into the sky. Ivan quizzically ran his hand through the beam, causing it to fan out into a series of ten, diverging from a single point in the center of the box. Ivan blocked another beam with his hand. The box emitted a deep electronic note, faintly shaking the ground nearby. He pressed the button a second time, causing the lasers to converge once more and ultimately dissipate. Ivan smiled, handing Original Synth back to Nalzaki, who were at the same time receiving their lost Tesla coils from the priests. He took up his new laser harp and placed it on his back.

Originally posted on MSPA by Akumu.

---

Phere and Crowe did not make it far beyond the front plaza of the opera house before they crossed paths with a group of men marching in ordered ranks, uniformed in bright colors and bristling with weaponry, at least, what passed for weaponry in Santa Nada. Judging by the size of their tasselled epaulets and of the feathers rising from their cylindrical hats, they must have been of quite impressive rank.

Crowe clasped two of his four hands behind his back, there scribbling a simple pattern into a scrap of paper cupped in one hand. He stepped back away from Phere, who found her eyes, both the natural and the technomagical, sliding off of him like water from a greased skillet. When she turned her attention to the approaching platoon, even the thought that she had been trying to see something slipped away. The man with the largest epaulets and feather of all took in her dazed expression and manacles, exclaiming “Thank Sf’rzando, the prisoner has been delivered on time!” He jerked his head towards her, and two subordinates marched double time out ahead of the group and took her by either arm, frog-marching her back into the interior of their ranks. There, in a sea of eye-searing reds and yellows, she was deposited alongside a man in a black coat, its tails flapping behind him. Though he was not an old man, his wild hair was the same white as his primly-knotted bowtie. He walked briskly to keep up with the marching soldiers surrounding them, and Phere had to fall in beside or risk being trampled. The sober-colored man turned to her with a manic grin.

“Maestro,” he said by way of introduction, “It’s going to be a pleasure working with you today!”

- - -

Some time later, after the winding route that Cascala had led them on through the streets of Santa Nada, Dr. Harmon and Klendel arrived at that same plaza. Things had clearly not gone according to plan for the Santa Nadans. The squad that had been left outside to guard the entrance to the opera house had been wiped out, their corpses missing chunks or with tuning forks jutting out of their necks. Most of them did not even have their instruments in hand, having been caught completely unawares.

Cascala strode forward through the carnage, her sandals splashing in the rivulets of blood running between the cobblestones. Klendel followed behind but stopped when he realized Harmon was not doing the same. He turned back and saw that she had drawn up short, staring wide-eyed at the bloody scene. The Cog looked with confusion for what was so troubling and had to suppress a laugh when he realized it was nothing more than a couple of dead bodies.

“For a hard-nosed professional, you certainly do lose your composure easily. Don’t tell me this is more than you can handle!”

Harmon glared at him and shook her head angrily, following him towards the looming opera house doors that Cascala had already slipped through.

“And don’t worry, I’ve seen what that mage can do. As long as we stay on her good side, we’re in safe hands.”

- - -

In the main auditorium, the Thunderwolf commandos that had infiltrated to the heart of the city was engaged in a heated battle with the Santa Nadan forces. Despite their stealth, fighting through an entire platoon without being noticed had proved to be impossible. Unfortunately for them, tuning forks and dog whistles, while deadly in their precision, were not in the strictest sense musical. When they clashed, the colorless, perfectly round strikes of the vikings’ weapons were blown away, shattered by the rainbow-colored, undulating rhythms of the marching band. The commandos were the best of the best, but so were the Symphony Guard, and things were looking desperate.

In the center of the auditorium, Phere sat shackled to the iron chair facing the orchestra pit and the great pipe organ. Neither side seemed interested in harming her and a cursory attempt showed that struggling with her bonds would get her nothing more than chafed wrists. She sat stock still, waves of terror and fury crashing against her, but pushed them down. Neither anger nor fear were of much use to her at the moment. She fought to keep calm, to remain composed and in control; ultimately to keep a clear head to think her way out of this situation. The gaze of her hollow drifted outwards, three of her competition were already within the building. The only problem with counting on them was it was a battle to the death after all and she doubted she held enough potential value to them to have them risk life and limb to keep her alive, especially when they could not all survive till the end. What she really needed at the moment was someone who had a vested interest in her survival – the thought was interrupted by a tickling sensation on her forehead, and suddenly Crowe was standing before her, lifting a pen away from her face.

“And not before time.” Phere hissed, “Get me out of here immediately.”

“Tell me where she is.”

“Get me out of here first and then we’ll talk.”

The Spectator’s servant dropped his lower pair of hands to lean on the iron bands constraining Phere’s wrists, and with his upper pair grasped her head tightly and pulled her forward until her face was inches from his own. His eyes were flat and dead, his pupils obscured by a milky film, but still Phere could feel his piercing stare. No words needed to be exchanged; the sounds of battle and the weight of her restraints impressed upon her the seriousness of the situation she was in.

But even so he spelt it out anyway. “You will tell me where she is or I will let you die here.” He snapped, his anger at Phere’s impudence getting the best of him.

“You know how vast the multiverse is.” Phere said. “You know that without me you don’t have a hope in hell of finding her.”

“You are nothing but a foolish child, trying to play with forces that you cannot even begin to comprehend.” Crowe snapped back. “You are so insignificant to me; I have murdered entire worlds to suit my ends. Do not think to test me.”

She did not break Crowe’s stare, and feverishly hoped that the panic, the uncertainty did not show in her eyes. This ruse only worked if she was able to project an air of absolute certainty, to completely dispel the notion that she might not know where the Spectator was. This was too far, he had to be thinking that anyone willing to go this far could not have been bluffing, at least that was what she hoped he was thinking. His eyes, like her own, gave nothing away. Of course the only problem with this strategy was that she could not hope to keep it up forever. Once Crowe had extracted her from this situation, as she knew desperately hoped he would, she would be in real trouble, but that was then and this was now and she could only handle one life or death situation at a time.

After a long beat, Crowe opened his mouth to deliver another ineffectual threat. Whatever it was to be, it was swept away as deep bass tone, rich and full, reverberated through the auditorium, and he spun about with a sharp oath.

The Maestro had been dragged out of his hiding place beneath the pipe organ’s keyboard, and was now sitting at the bench in front of it with a tuning fork pressed into his back. The last remaining viking commando had managed to reach him and was daring any of the Symphony Guard to come closer, lest they lose their only means of summoning their final line of defense.

“The Symphony is ours now! Run and tell your masters, Santa Nadan whoresons. Tell all of them that their chance to flee is now and now alone. Maestro, if you would?” he put some pressure on the tuning fork, in case his point was not clear.

“Is... is the corpus secure?”

As soon as the first note had played, Crowe had dropped to his knees and began scratching a looping design into the floor around Phere’s chair, half calligraphy and half geometric construction. When Phere had demanded to know what he was doing, he pointed at the similar etchings on the bands around her wrists, saying only “Counter sigils,” before throwing himself completely into his work. Now, only partway through the inscription, the commando turned and looked directly at the chair, piercing through the veil of inattention Crowe had been maintaining. The viking raised his dog whistle to his lips, sending its silent death racing towards Phere’s salvation. Crowe simply raised an unoccupied pair of hands and clapped out a syncopated beat; even this meager musicality was enough to disperse the ultrasonic blast.

The commando grimaced and hesitated for a moment, before roaring “PLAY, DAMN YOUR EYES” at the trembling virtuoso. And so he played.

The great wall of pipes above the keyboard came alive with the rolling and layered sounds of a toccata. Crowe slashed and scrawled at the ground, working his way around the iron chair as the organ music grew in intensity and complexity. Rising up under it, as if in answer, was a counterpoint many octaves lower, heard faintly as if from a great distance. In the orchestra pit, the blackness which had confounded Phere’s vision began to roil, revealing itself to be not just an absence of light but a substance of its own. Small sloshes began to pour out of its bounds, thinning as it left the pit to roll like a black mist across the stage. The Maestro was consumed in his craft now, throwing his head into each extended chord, his unruly mop of hair flopping with a mind of its own. The viking commando, no longer needing to keep him at fork-point, began to advance on Crowe, but glancing into the orchestra pit between them decided that it was more prudent to stay put.

The deep counterpoint was rising in volume, growing ever closer, and the blackness in the pit tossed like an angry sea. Even from feet away Crowe could not make out Phere's screamed exhortations for speed beneath the thickness of sound that filled the auditorium. By now, even the most stalwart of the Symphony Guard were fleeing. The Maestro’s fingers danced across the upper tiers of the keyboard, laying out a delicate melody that evoked windchimes in the spring. This ended, and for a beat, all was silent. In that last moment, Crowe said calmly and evenly, “Find her,” and closed the circle, popping the entire chair and Phere with it out of the auditorium. Then the beat was over, and the pit responded. The blackness exploded up out of it with a gut-punch wall of sound, pouring into the air to strike the curved, gold-leaf ceiling above it and reflect back down, focused to a single point. And at that point, where a heavy iron chair once stood, was Crowe.

- - -

The interior of the opera house was a maze of twisty little passages, and while the trio led by Cascala had come across plenty more carnage, they were not having luck penetrating to the heart of the building. That was, at least, until a stream of still living soldiers began flowing out through the passageways, so panicked that they barely spared a second glance at the new interlopers. Fighting against the stream, the three found themselves at the doorway to the auditorium just in time to see Phere vanish. If Klendel and Harmon had been looking for power, they had certainly found it, though neither seemed to have an idea of what the next step to harnessing that power might be. They watched dumbstruck as the black essence of music poured into Crowe, suffusing him and dismantling him, making him into its earthly avatar. As they stared, Cascala stepped into the room and calmly began to set up her theremin.

Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.

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SpoilerShow

w-well

that uh that about brings us pretty close to the end. Please send me your thoughts on elimination candidates, be you reader or contestant, and a decision will be made in a few days' time. Feel free to continue posting up until the loser is announced, if that is your desire.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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SpoilerShow

I've been trying to get a post in here for about two weeks, but given that I literally have no time to write on any day that I work – my commute and workday eating up just over 13 hours, and closer to 15 if you include my morning routine and the things I have to do before I go to bed – I have to do it on my weekends. And every time it's been the weekend, someone's been reserved or working on a post.

I want to be able to post, so this isn't a reserve but a request that anyone who does post between now and Wednesday doesn't do much with Cascala or her situation. I'd like to at least be able to plan a post out in my spare moments or my more monotonous tasks. This is also a request to Engie that the round not end before the week does, so I can get some wordmake in.

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

---

The empty silence of the Spectator’s Tower was disturbed by a loud CRACK as something heavy and metal was dumped onto the hard stone floor. It took Phere a minute to compose herself; it had not been the smoothest journey, and being locked into a rigid metal chair had not made it any better. Thanks to the irritatingly undamaged restraints she was unable to press her hand to her throbbing head, instead she just groaned and muttered a half-hearted curse at Crowe.

As her head cleared she turned her attention from herself to the Tower she found herself in. It was easily recognisable, even without the circle of rather extravagant seats that had been here when she and the others had been abducted here. The hundreds of eyes that lined the walls of the tower were closed, or at least they seemed that way from a cursory glance. This place felt different and for a moment Phere didn’t know how to express that which had changed. When she looked across the multitude of eyes she knew the word she was looking for; asleep. That the tower was empty was palpable. After a long minute in which Phere fretted about how she was going to get out of here before Crowe showed up, the eye in front of her opened; sparkling green and primal.

“YOU AREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE IN HERE.” A voice filled the tower.

Phere looked around the tower, searching for the source of the booming voice. The eye in front of her narrowed and the voice cleared its throat and Phere was rather forced to concede that the tower itself was talking to her. It took her a moment to reshape her thoughts, the tower was a surprise, something neither Crowe nor the Spectator had opted to mention. “Yes.” was her eventual response. “I don’t believe we’ve met?”

“I USED TO HAVE A NAME ONCE.” The voice replied, almost wistfully. There was a pause and the tower continued. “HOW DID YOU EVEN GET HERE?”

Phere had mainly asked just to confirm that she was indeed addressing the tower itself. Her mind raced, attempting to find the leverage on this situation, the way to turn it to her advantage. “Crowe sent me.” She replied. “I was in danger; he got me out of the way. A little turbulent for my taste but he did the job all the same.” There was a moment of silence.

”HE DIED YOU KNOW.” The tower informed her. “YOU REALLY MUST BE THE SPECTATOR’S FAVOURITE.” It concluded sarcastically.

For just a moment she continued to think of how to get the information she wanted from the tower, then what it had said hit her. On the one hand she was obviously relieved that Crowe would not be back to demand the Spectator’s location. Though it was a shame to lose a powerful ally, she didn’t think he would be strung along much longer if at all. On the other, she was trapped. Stuck in this tower, stuck in this chair. For a moment she panicked, as she envisioned herself helplessly wasting away with just the tower for company. The only thing that stopped her going into far into that panic was that the tower did not seem all that concerned. It took her a moment but she remembered what she’d seen through her Hollow; other battles. Presumably someone would notice, or something would happen to set the battle back on course.

With that in mind she opted to focus on what she could get from the tower. She didn’t know how long she had or when if she’d ever get this opportunity again. There was no time for subtlety, for learning what the tower wanted and working out how best to control it. She knew what she wanted and she would just have to hope that the tower would have some reason to clue her in on how to get it. “I want to know more about her.” Phere said. “Most specifically I want to know how she got the power that she wields today.”

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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Forgetting or ignoring or perhaps no longer capable of being aware that every note he played brought the city he'd spent his life training to protect closer to utter annihilation, the Maestro launched from the last fading notes of the Overture into the frantic Fugue that would shape the formless musical mass that was Crowe into the unholy terror that is the Symphony. The last remaining viking commando was still hovering nervously by the wailing pipe organ, tuning fork held limply in his hand as it became clear he no longer needed to threaten or cajole the Maestro into cooperation; it took him several seconds to notice the arrival of the three contestants, as the all-consuming music certainly overpowered the quiet sounds of their footsteps or Cascala's assembly of her instrument. When he did, his eyes scrabbled around the room for support; finding none, he adopted an aggressive posture by the Maestro, assuming their aim was to kill the Symphony's handler, and raised his dog whistle.

As the near-invisible streak of silence shot from his lips towards the group, Cascala raised her hands and sensuously sculpted a mournful melody in the air around her theremin. A multitude of evanescent blue lights rose from the floor and spiralled upwards, acting as baffles to the whistle's assault; no more able to handle Cascala's music than it had been to overpower the Symphony Guard's, the assassin's note faltered and disappeared. Pulling her left hand back, the magus gradually increased her volume, causing her instrument to warble like a computer attempting opera and the coruscating glimmers around her to swell and lap at the walls and ceiling.

"Go, my little monsters!" Cascala crooned, only barely audible over the wall of oppressive, complex organ music. "I'll see to the Song and the Symphony."

Not entirely sure what she meant, but pretty certain they could handle the commando and his subtle weapons, Klendel and Harmon stepped forward, resolving to be annoyed at taking orders from an apparently-unbalanced wizard when whatever was happening on the stage was over. Klendel brought the whistle he'd salvaged from the earlier assassination attempt to what could probably be called his lips and blew, forcing the commando to duck and dodge while trying to maintain his position near the Maestro. The doctor, meanwhile, was struggling to think of any kind of song that could be sung with either the organic, undulating melody Cascala was producing or the musical manifestation of insanity that was falling from the Maestro's fingers. She settled for just loping into a run, reasoning that if all else failed, she could just hold the commando's hands behind his back and let Klendel finish him off from a distance.

As Harmon sped across the distance of the great Concert Hall, Cascala's wandering tune seemed to be reaching some kind of conclusion. It climbed an atonal peak and seemed poised to resolve into a dark, minor end, but at the last second it faltered, changing modalities and leaving a sense of unfulfillment in the listeners. After a beat of what would have been silence if not for the omnipresent Fugue, she kicked a pedal on her equipment and quickly ducked down to wind her amp's volume as high as it could go. When she raised her hands again, her theremin no longer sounded like a robotic singer, but like an alien organ, and her melody was no longer lost and distressed but fast-paced and angry.

Harmon ducked behind a pillar to avoid a strike from the commando just as Cascala launched into her next movement. It seemed... Frankly, it seemed really stupid, and Harmon felt really stupid herself for having any kind of trust in the plans or leadership of someone so obviously insane. There was no way anyone could overpower the pipe organ with a tiny little portable amplifier. What did she expect to do? Break through the shell of arpeggios that had surrounded the Maestro? It was ludicrous. The doctor risked a peek around the pillar only to find that not only had Klendel gotten the better of the commando without her help – likely because he had no real way to keep avoiding peppergun blasts of weaponized whistle-blowing while chained to the Maestro's side – but that the black shape that was becoming the Symphony was writhing... oddly. She turned her head to look at the serene thereminist and back again to what was certainly no longer Crowe. Cascala wasn't trying to overpower it; she was harmonizing with it.

Several bars of frantic neo-pop later, Cascala's voice raised in what was hard to call any one of chanting, speaking, or singing.

Born in the dark
And made in the light
Your mind hasn't found you
Your whole body's not right

And the man in the lab coat and the man in fatigues
And the man who dances both of them like puppets on strings
They watch you and pull you
They tug you and use you
They'll never let you think or be a thing that you'd choose to

Without her consciously bidding it to, Harmon's voice called out in a clear, perfect soprano, and Cascala allowed herself to provide backup song.

But I'm a womaaan
A woman of darkness and a woman of light
And I'm prouuud
A woman of magic and a woman of might
And I'm strooong
A woman of science and a woman of sight
And I'm here

The watery light show that had filled the hall since Cascala's performance began had been steadily weaving itself with the dark, geometric manifestations of the Maestro's playing; with that one staccato here, the entire building shook as the blues flashed. The hands at the keyboard faltered and the eyes above them finally tore themselves from their work; the Maestro saw he was no longer being menaced, but it was too late to stop playing: the Symphony had begun, and there was no taking it back. Without knowing why, he felt compelled to match the theremin rhythms he could only barely hear, allowing the enormous pipe organ to become simple harmony and countermelody to the tiny instrument.

Every man I've ever met
Every face I've ever loved
They saw me and they thought I was a tool to be won
So they took what they could get
From a girl they could shove
But let me tell you now that little girl is done!

With every syllable she belted out, the Symphony resonated, shaping itself to her will and her design. With every word, she poured into it her frustration with this battle, with the Spectator, with Cedric and every other Cedric there had ever been. The Symphony, forged of baroque sensibilities and cast in iron, thrummed with a ballad of empowerment and the strange, fluid notes that flowed from Cascala; it grew, and it changed, and with every chorus and refrain the women returned to it became a different beast. Finally, it burst through the roof, a maelstrom of modern musicality, as Harmon's last line rose and became a scream.

Yes I'm a womaaaaaaaaan!

A stiff wind blew through the streets of Santa Nada. The Kryesan stood poised atop the small hill near the edge of the town, the one on which a small temple to some nondescript force of nature stood. They'd tear it down, the high priest had said. They would rebuild it bigger, better, to honor their new god. It would last through the ages. Even in a thousand years, the people would praise the great and mighty Sf'rzando, the God of Music.

Adesa almost felt sorry for the priest for spinning such a lie. Nonetheless, it was her duty as the Second Kryesan's central head to ensure their survival by any means necessary. She feared - they all feared - that whatever Kryesan might succeed them would destroy everything they had built up over a hundred years. They had a duty to their people, and that was all that truly mattered.

And yet, she could not ignore Dokona, the triarch's left-hand head, as she voiced her recommendations. Now that they had secured themselves as the "God of Music", they would have little choice but to fight the Phantoms, who were virtually upon the city as they spoke. A weapon, Akraman had conceded. A weapon was what they truly needed, one that could strike down their masked enemies with more power than anything the town had before seen. Santa Nada was sadly lacking in any sort of true defense system - nothing that could possibly destroy the invaders en masse - but such a weapon would take many years to develop, an amount of time the Kryesan certainly did not have.

And so it was, in those waning hours, that Original Synth was forged by Santa Nada's greatest weaponsmiths and artisans alike. A design fit for a god - two rows of keys befitting the multitude of arms "Sf'rzando" could produce at will, attached to two great towers to focus and deliver the full power of the weapon. Perhaps only with such a weapon would the town survive the onslaught, and even more importantly, would the Kryesan survive this infernal battle for the amusement of some higher being. Only four others remained now - with any luck, one of them would die in the battle and they'd be one step closer to returning to Typhra.

The distant sound of organs interspersed with drums heralded the approach of the Phantoms. The time had come.

Santa Nada's fate would be decided on this night.

Nalyg gazed down the streets of the town, hearing the dark tones of the Symphony growing up from Santa Nada's core. Odd, he thought. Why would the Symphony be playing now? The city wasn't being invaded. Not yet, anyway. Something was definitely wrong about the whole situation.

"Is this supposed to be happening?" Kanpeki asked Thovebeen, although the priest's grim expression immediately gave them an answer. He appeared to be detached, contemplative, and paused for a great while before responding.

"The Symphony... it isn't normal. This is not the Symphony that has protected Santa Nada for hundreds of years. This... This cannot be allowed to continue. I don't know what will happen if it does, but I fear that we have worse things to worry about than Thünderwölf. Please, I implore you. Stop the Symphony before it is too late."

"It will be done, my priest," Nalyg responded.

"I'm going as well," Ivan added. He wasn't sure what, exactly, had compelled him to act as such. He wasn't one for fighting so much as staying out of a fight whenever possible. But, nonetheless, something about the Symphony intrigued him. It was the same sort of underlying rhythm that he had earlier felt throughout Santa Nada, but on a much grander scale. The Symphony was the crux of this rhythm, its signature more profound than anything else for many miles around. It was as if the subtle tune of this universe was being routed in full force, channeled into something both great and terrifying.

And for some deep, primal reason, Ivan wanted to go closer. He'd have to play a part in destroying it, almost assuredly endangering his own life, but he felt a sort of pulling sensation. He would go because, on some level, he had to. He was almost afraid not to.

"Very well," Nalyg replied. "Just be careful out there. I fear this may be beyond all of us."

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

Cedric slowly rose from the cart full of excrement, angrily spitting out whatever had managed to find its way into his mouth. He fished Sigrär from the depths of the muck, unnoticed by the guard as they continued to struggle with Horsegark. His bearings regained, he immediately burst from the shitwagon, spraying the guards with manure as he mounted Horsegark and rode away, not even attempting to take down the guards. Ordinarily he would have enjoyed taking them all on at once (for the minute or two the fight would actually last), but he had a hydra to kill and wasn't going to let them get too far away.

The problem, naturally, was that he didn't actually have any idea where they might have gone. He wandered around the town for a while (wandering, in this case, meaning furiously racing on the back of an extremely large and dangerous horse), but ultimately had little success in locating his target. Some sort of unusual music had begun wafting from the center of town, but Cedric didn't really care enough to investigate. He had more important things to eviscerate than some organ player or whatever.

It was about at the time that Cedric noticed his target hurrying toward the middle of the town that a horde of vikings smashed through the city's gate and began marauding through the streets. Unfortunately, Cedric happened to be directly in the path down which the vikings were charging.

Unfortunately for the vikings, that is.

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

Isn't that Cedric over there? Razaran questioned. Kanpeki glanced off into the distance, noticing the knight, mounted on his horse, standing around in the street before a nearby gate was smashed in and a bunch of invaders poured in. Assuredly not the full force of Thünderwölf, but a decently-sized detachment nonetheless. The knight had at this point began, as it might be described, rocking out, taking on the full force of the invaders with relative ease.

Strange that they would be invading now, Kanpeki thought to herself. Wasn't the Symphony designed specifically to kill anyone who attacked the city? And yet, with the Symphony plainly audible even from the edge of town, this horde was perfectly willing to charge in and make a general mess of things.

Moreover, a barely-audible second voice slowly came to light, intermixed with the omnipresent fugue which now covered the town. It wasn't exactly clear how long it had been playing as such, as it had remained masked until the hydra had practically run into the building housing the Symphony. Either way, Thovebeen was right - something was definitely wrong if a weapon of mass destruction was suddenly accompanied by a strangely electronic-sounding but inidentifiable instrument.

The opera house now loomed before the Kryesan, very ornate and very, very old. The sounds of the Symphony poured out, the elaborate melodies that had protected the town of Santa Nada for ages now being used for some unknown, possibly-asinine-but-probably-extremely-dangerous purpose. It was apparently up to the Kryesan to stop it, possibly destroy it, and also not die or destroy Santa Nada in the process.

It was these last couple of conditions that worried Kanpeki the most. She watched as Razaran drew Original Synth from the back of the unfortunately-restrictive armor and placed her hands upon the keys.

Someone almost certainly was going to come out of this significantly less alive.

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

Meanwhile (not that time is extremely relevant in this case), in a dementedly twisted tower only halfway existing within the multiverse as a whole, a dark, ill-defined figure stood over an enormous red worm, its figure almost as indistinct. The Tormentor's multitude of red eyes were fixated mostly on the worm, and his grin was significantly less insane than was the norm.

"...You did what."

"I did what they thought I couldn't, Tormy," the worm began. "I created life. Not even alive, and yet I still did it! Do you know how that feels, Tormy? Do you?"

The Tormentor sighed. "Look, you and I both know what you did. You tore yourself apart, and for what? This? You were so despondent over one little reverse-gendered you! You were planning on doing what, making babies with a reality-bending manwhore? But of course that wouldn't have worked. You just tore yourself into several pieces and called them life! And that's great. Really pretty respectable!"

The Spectator made little in the way of movement, still sprawled across a floor which existed in a different number of dimensions each time anyone looked at it. "Why did you kill him, though, Tormy? Do you know what that was like? It was no different from killing me! I had to do this, Tormy. I had to."

The Tormentor gave an entirely inappropriate laugh, as if the Spectator had done nothing more than tell a vaguely-amusing joke. "That wasn't even slightly you, Speccy! That idiot should never have existed in the first place! You didn't see me having a psychotic fit when I ripped the Tormentress to shreds, did you? You're different, Speccy. You're better than he was. I mean, other than the whole going-insane-and-tearing-yourself-apart thing, but even that seemed to work out.

"You see," the Tormentor started, "the difference is that you are supposed to exist. He only existed like that because of the Tormentress, and she was placed there by me in the first place. She wasn't actually like me, you're right. Just an inferior copy. But things still played out the same way there, so there you have a false Spectator. It was all good fun, but you know I had to destroy them and repair things before both realities collapsed on each other. So I did! The point I'm making here is seriously stop going crazy and fragmenting yourself into pieces. I'm not even talking to all of you right now!"

The Tormentor stared directly at the Spectator's face-analogue, projecting to it a simultaneous view of all events of the Vivacious Deadlock up to the present point. "You do remember this, don't you? You know, the battle you're supposed to be running? Looks like something moderately entertaining is about to happen. Another of your sacrifices is about to meet their end you're not even paying attention are you."

The Tormentor sighed as the worm failed to give a response.

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

Utter chaos. A madhouse. An unimaginable degree of lunacy.

These things are exactly what Razaran saw as the hydra, followed by Ivan, entered the opera house and found their way to the main auditorium, the site of the single most bizarre battle he had ever seen. Even counting the recent duel with the knight when he had been forced to sing just to survive. He desperately hoped this wouldn't be the case again.

Either way, the auditorium was very much unlike any performance hall he had ever seen (not that he had ever been that much into performing arts) - where there should have been seats and carpet there appeared instead to be restraints (probably for torture) and blood-stained metal. In front of the stage lay a swirling black mass, pulsating and spasming violently, but not yet an immediate threat. Nalyg attempted to and failed to identify what it might have been. Even Kanpeki had no idea beyond it being connected to the Symphony in some way, as if it weren't already obvious.

On the stage stood Cascala and Harmon, the former playing the previously-heard electronic instrument and Harmon singing above it. The organ had somehow simply become accompaniment, background to the mage's playing and the scientist's crescendoing vocals. The black mass seemed to be reacting violently to this singing, which was apparently almost at its climax as soon as they had entered.

And then the mass that was the Symphony exploded. Figuratively.

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

Cedric laughed as he shredded on his guitar, sending another wave of vikings flying into several different buildings simultaneously. Poor bastards. Probably misinformed or something. Expected there to be a full-on invasion going on by now, but nope. Just a knight. Of rock. Not that Cedric really even knew what rock was as far as music was concerned. What he did know was the doling out of pain.

It was a bit depressing to watch, actually. What could have, with backup, been a truly devastating invasion force was being beaten back by one man. The vikings carried on with their various horns and synthesizers, but wave after wave of destructive sound was countered by furious guitaring. From the start it was a hopeless situation for the forces of Thünderwölf, and it went downhill from there. Pretty soon the attack broke off. Cedric heard one of them shouting something about the Symphony being abnormal and the commandos actually succeeding for once before the whole mass sprinted back out through the gate.

Deprived once again of any semblance of challenge (not that any of the vikings would likely have provided any), Cedric remembered that he really did have a hydra to kill, and brought Horsegark to a swift gallop toward the center of Santa Nada. Above him soon stood the source of the Symphony, the opera house that his target (and maybe some others?) had fled into. Cedric dismounted Horsegark and began walking toward the entrance, Sigrär at the ready.

And then the roof of the opera house exploded. Literally.

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

Ivan watched, perplexed, as the fluid form of the Symphony expanded, pouring out through the ceiling but continually flowing from the unseen depths of the orchestra pit. Given the fact that it had just smashed the opera house's ceiling to bits, he wasn't really sure that it was even under the Maestro's control anymore. What sense would it make for a defense system to destroy what it was supposed to be defending? Maybe Cascala and Harmon had done something with their song, though why the Symphony could be overcome so apparently-simply was another item on the growing list of unknowns.

Easily felt and heard by everyone in the building were the tremors and crashes as the Symphony began tearing buildings apart, piece by piece. Unnoticed, however, by anyone besides Ivan was the fact that a large mass of people appeared to be storming into the city. Whether this was simply due to panic amongst the destruction or further members of Thünderwölf was uncertain, although the fact that they were running toward the opera house gave credence to the latter. Strange that they would decide to invade in full force considering the state of the city, but perhaps they assumed they were in control of it somehow. Maybe they were in control of it somehow.

For now, at least, the black liquid mass wasn't focused on killing anyone inside of the opera house. However, the red-armor-clad, guitar-wielding knight who had just charged through the door seemed much more ready to do so. Nalzaki instinctively played a note on Original Synth, sending a burst of lightning to the ground at Cedric's feet.

And now Cedric looked ready to retaliate. Nalyg, however, was shouting over the still-overbearing (and apparently endless) organ fugue, something about "mutual destruction" and "everyone dying". Cedric unflinchingly refused and started playing his guitar. Razaran interjected with something about Harmon and the Symphony, causing Cedric's guitar riff to suddenly fall flat.

Ivan, however, was more concerned with the unpredictable actions of the Symphony, attempting to come up with a method of stopping it. He couldn't tell what it was even made of, let alone how to kill it. As far as he could tell it was an imbiguous sort of liquid, or a shadow given form.

A shadow given form. Sounded familiar. Ivan took a glance at Klendel, who was apparently engaging in a rather one-sided conversation with the scientist. Maybe it would work after all. But they'd need to distract the mass, or the Cog would probably be able to to little against the destructive force of the Symphony. As such he rushed to Nalzaki's side, frantically eloquating his possibly-crazy idea to the hydra (and, consequently, Cedric as well). Feeling especially industrious, he swiped the microphone Cedric was keeping at his side and ran to the stage. He first handed the microphone to Harmon, and then began to tell Klendel his theory as well.

Before Klendel could respond, though, Cedric charged onto the stage, grabbed the Cog by the gear, and tossed him headfirst into the Symphony. Ivan stared, dumbfounded, as the knight immediately began flirting with Harmon or something. Apparently now was the best time for that.

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

The Symphony was not pleased with the fact that it now had a being inside of it intent on its death. With only a moment's delay, its mass began pouring back in through the ceiling, now focused more on killing these (dangerous) pests rather than destroying the city that had imprisoned it for hundreds of years, used it for their own purposes. It thrashed around as Klendel tried to take control, giving Harmon enough time to make sense of what the hell was even happening and make an attempt at counteracting it.

[color="SeaGreen"]Accompanied yet by no instruments (even the organ had slow dropped down to nothing), she began to sing slowly, voice growing up from silence.

Oh mama, I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law
Lawman has put an end to my running and I'm so far from my home

The Symphony smashed itself against the walls in its struggle, accentuating a heartbeat-esque "THUMP-thump" in the background.

Oh mama, I can hear your crying you're so scared and all alone
Hangman is coming down from the gallows and I don't have very long[/color]

"YEEEEAAAAHH!" Cedric was inexplicably compelled to shout, before he began accompanying Harmon's lyrics with his own guitar. Cascala seamlessly joined in, harmonizing with the chords the knight belted out. As the increased level of instrumentation came in, parts of the Symphony's formless mass began smashing into the nearly-indestructable metal floors and chairs at a much more rapid, but still consistently rhythmic, pace.

[color="SeaGreen"]The jig is up the news is out they've finally found me
The renegade who had it made retrieved for a bounty
Never more to go astray
This will be the end today of the wanted man[/color]

Nalyg listened to the very sudden, apparently improvised spectacle onstage, which was having a notable effect on the mutual now-enemy of everyone in the room. Even Cascala, who had caused it to go free in the first place, was now assisting in subduing it. But even the increased level of music wasn't enough to stop such a formidable weapon as the Symphony. Tendrils of unidentifiable black matter began to extend from its mass, smashing chairs off the ground they were bolted to, attempting to reach and destroy the combatants onstage. It would take much more to stop such an enemy.

And much more is exactly what Razaran and Kanpeki, working in union, delivered. Three of their four hands flew across the keys of Original Synth, powering the two heavy Tesla coils strapped to their armor. Focused bolts of electricity shot into the dark mass, accompanied by a sound that could perhaps only be described as "tuned lightning". The Symphony convulsed at the sudden use of the legendary weapons, yet did not yield.

[color="SeaGreen"]Oh mama, I've been years on the lam and had a high price on my head
Lawman said get him dead or alive now it's for sure he'll see me dead
Dear mama, I can hear you crying you're so scared and all alone
Hangman is coming down from the gallows and I don't have very long[/color]

Ivan, too, prepared to join in as soon as he could. Not long after Harmon had begun her song, he had unstrapped his newly-acquired laser harp, set it in place, and activated it. A beam of green light shot up from the box, stopping at the ceiling and fanning outward to form the familiar harp-esque shape. As Harmon segued back into the chorus, he layered in as well.

[color="SeaGreen"]The jig is up, the news is out they finally found me
The renegade who had it made retrieved for a bounty
Never more to go astray
The judge'll have revenge today on the wanted man[/color]

The hall grew quiet for a moment as Cedric rapidly strummed Sigrär, not simply overpowering the other players but, for a moment, quite literally forcing all sound away. This effect could not be held for long, but Cedric at this point had begun, and he was not easy to stop. Harmon took a break as Cedric continued his solo, now completely absorbed in his extremely violent craft.

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

Unlike Cedric, Klendel was not having nearly as good of a time with himself. He was only vaguely aware of the impromptu concert that had broken out below, focused much more on the fact that he was lodged inside of an enormous, destructive, music-powered force that was intent on destroying everything around him. This was one of the worst possible situations the Cog could have found himself in, all because he had failed to pay attention to the lumbering idiot in red. Everything was completely out of hand. Klendel loathed to be out of control for even a moment, and here he was, inside of a shadowy musical deathblob and expected to keep it under control.

Sure, he was having some success due to its nature, but it was resisting, and strongly. Trying as he might, Klendel could not keep the Symphony under control past preventing it from destroying everything entirely.

A thought crossed his mind. Perhaps he should simply have stopped fighting it and instead just let it kill someone. Just like that, all of his problems would be solved, and he'd be back in full control in a less cacophonous, chaotic locale. This thought immediately dissolved when he remembered that the Symphony was also making an active effort to kill him, and any lapse in concentration would probably lead to a rather messy death. Though disgusted with the whole affair, he continued to play his part.

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

It wasn't working.

Cedric was easily playing with enough force to knock a man unconscious (and flying across the room), perhaps even to wound a run-of-the-mill Typhren, but the Symphony was neither of those things.

Even the Maestro had joined back in by this point, accompanying Cedric with his extremely out-of-place, deep, and loud organ tones. Somehow, though, he managed to make a Bachesque fugue fit with the musical stylings of more than two centuries later. But the instrument could no longer control the Symphony as it once had - the chains had been broken, the amorphous creature unbound.

It was then that the Symphony convulsed violently and smashed the front end of the stage into the now-empty orchestra pit, sending a rain of splinters and scrap metal at anyone unfortunate to be nearby. In spite of everything, they were still fighting a losing battle. Razaran eyed one of several dials and switches on the front of the keytar he grasped, noting that Original Synth was not yet turned up all the way, but merely to the highest apparent "safe" settings.

We're not at full power, Razaran hurriedly thought at Nalyg, allowing Kanpeki to take full control for the time being.

Then turn it up! This whole place is going to come down!

We should just aim at Cedric, instead. It'd get it out of here and we'd have nothing to worry about! At this point, Razaran was mentally shouting at Nalyg.

You know we can't do that, Razaran! We kill him, and then what? Everyone in Santa Nada dies! We release this thing on the world!

It's not our world, Nalyg! What's the sense in dying for this? Typhra needs us!

Who said anything about dying? What kind of leader would I be- would we be, if we let everyone here die after all of this? Turn it up!

Razaran begrudgingly did so, bringing the bursts of electricity to near-deafening levels, increasing also the magnitude of each bolt the coils emitted. In spite of everything, Razaran could see Nalyg's point. Why lead an entire city, or perhaps an entire culture, to believe that their god was defeated, or abandoned them? Besides, they were practically indestructable. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Razaran joined in on the keytar again, coordinating with Kanpeki a solo line to match Cedric's own. Almost immediately, they had engaged in a sort of musical duel, except for the fact that the destructive waves of sound were focused on the Symphony rather than each other. Each of the hydra's heads could feel the increased power of the coils, almost beyond the ability of the armor to absorb. They weren't exactly sure what would happen if the armor were to fail, but it probably wouldn't be good.

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

The Symphony was weakening. For the first time in its existence, it was being fully counteracted, perhaps even overcome. Perhaps it was that its host was insufficient for it to attain full power, but this was very obviously not the case. What had once been Crowe had only added to the power of the Symphony. It should have been invincible. Fury welled up within the mass. It stopped massacring vikings and destroying buildings as it came to the realization that the townsfolks' so-called "God of Music" was, in fact, the reason for this change.

The Symphony's full mass entered the opera house, and immediately flew toward the hydra. The amalgam of music and hate crashed against the Kryesan, attempting to destroy its weapons but only succeeding in cracking its armor before being forced to pull back.

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

This wasn't good at all. The already-barely-sufficient armor was now physically damaged as well. Nalzaki felt the sheer destructive force of Original Synth seeping in, slowly ripping at their beings. Even Kanpeki momentarily considered killing Cedric or maybe Cascala in order to save themselves. Nevertheless, they kept up their playing. Surely the Symphony would fall before the Kryesan did. Cedric and Nalzaki finished their dueling solos in unison, dropping away to nothing as Harmon and Cascala began singing.

Oh mama, I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law
Hangman is coming down from the gallows and I don't have very long

As Cascala began to segue back into a final restatement of the chorus, the Symphony put forth all of its rage, flinging its entire mass at the Kryesan, fighting back the extreme musical assault coming from every direction simultaneously. Nalyg, Razaran, and Kanpeki each found their protective helmets ripped off and smashed to pieces, their armor broken apart. Even Original Synth, for a moment, faltered. Its full force now course through the hydra, and each began to feel themselves weakening.

But they refused to give in. Now only barely aware of Harmon's yells of "no, no, no, no," Kanpeki and Razaran desperately poured everything into their music, completely absorbed by it. It was all they could do to stay conscious, but, eventually, the massive amounts of musical lightning blasting through the Symphony took their toll. Blobs of black liquid Symphony tore from the main mass, splattering across the battered auditorium.

With his last ounce of strength, Razaran turned every dial on Original Synth up to the maximum. Kanpeki played a final chord, and the keytar, the tesla coils, and the Symphony all exploded violently, spraying black liquid, electronics, and a very pissed-off Cog across the hall. Nalzaki, meanwhile, collapsed to the ground.

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

Vala stared at the half-destroyed city of Santa Nada, unable to pull her eyes away. The plans had failed. Everything had failed. Thünderwölf's greatest victory had, in less than half an hour, turned into their greatest failure. The advance guard had fallen before the Symphony had even attained full force, and when it did, it was not even under Thünderwölf's control as had been planned. The raid turned into a massacre, but not just on the people of Santa Nada.

The prophecy had been broken when Phere disappeared, of course. But it might as well not have been. At least the prophecy foretold victory along with the great loss. Not this. Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of members of Thünderwölf, dead at the hands of an unbound Symphony. There weren't even enough left to take on the city after the Symphony was apparently destroyed. After all, whatever had stopped the Symphony from destroying the city was probably not on the side of Thünderwölf.

Vala walked, dejected, toward the longboats that the remnants of the clan had started boarding. Santa Nada had, perhaps unintentionally, won the ages-long struggle. Peace was at hand for them, at least for the time. For the clan, of course, there would be no peace. Only shame.

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

Akraman slowly lowered Original Synth, gazing out at the wreckage of Santa Nada. The bodies of both the citizens of the town and the invading Phantoms lay strewn across the rubble. At Adramna's feet, their leader, torn to pieces by the power of the keytar. The Second Kryesan had led Santa Nada to victory, Pyrrhic as it may have been.

Dokona pointed out to Adesa, however, that one of their opponents in this interdimensional battle had also fallen. Though not yet dead, the human lay in a pool of his own blood. He didn't have long, and none of the constituents of Adramna saw any reason to be there as he died. After all, he had decided to side with the Phantoms. He deserved what was coming.

The Second Kryesan instead met up with Amadeus, the first citizen of Santa Nada they had seen and the one who was to become High Priest of the newly-founded Temple of the Score, a temple devoted to "Sf'rzando". Adesa spoke one final time with the man, informing him that soon, Sf'rzando would move on, returning to a higher plane of existence to watch over Santa Nada. The first part, at least, was very technically true. He made a vague promise to return, though he sincerely hoped that no future Kryesans would be subject to this same sort of ordeal. As a final act, Adramna removed the armor and the coils, placing them along with Original Synth at Amadeus's feet. The new High Priest gazed down at the items for a moment, nearly brought to tears as he asked for Sf'rzando's blessing in his pursuit.

When he looked up, Sf'rzando was gone.

"Sf'rzando" wasn't quite gone, yet. Nalzaki gained consciousness, finding themselves still in the wrecked auditorium, the other contestants being held back by the city guardsmen. Thovebeen, of course, was at their side.

"Sf'rzando, you're awake! I must thank you for saving our city, among your companions here. Please, accompany me back to the Temple of the Score. We wish to honor you, great and powerful God of Music."

"We... We won't be going," Nalyg told the priest. "We can't go any further."

"What do you mean?"

You should have... listened to me, Nalyg... Razaran mentally gasped. Now we're... dying, leaving Typhra without... a leader.

It isn't as bad as you think, Razaran, Kanpeki replied. We pass on, now. Onward to a better plane of existence.

I guess... I guess being dead... won't be that bad. Got some questions... for the Second Kryesan, anyway...

Shouldn't we tell Thovebeen the truth, though, Nalyg? Kanpeki's thoughts were unusually clear even as the Kryesan's blood leaked out, their trio of hearts growing erratic.

No, Nalyg finally replied. After all of this, we can't just tell them that their god isn't real... The truth would do... more harm than good.

After a long pause, Nalyg spoke. "We must once more move on, my priest. Your time of need has finally passed. Go forth, and lead Santa Nada to better times. Never allow your society... to stagnate. You have my blessing, subject..." Nalyg slumped over.

Thovebeen could do nothing but stare. "Sf'rzando... I thank you. ...But why are you bleeding?"

Nalyg and Razaran had already lost consciousness. Kanpeki, barely able to lift her head, took the time to interject. "Thovebeen. We are... We are..."

"You are what?"

Kanpeki smiled weakly. "Nothing... Have a good life, Thovebeen."

Kanpeki fell to the ground. The world grew dark.

The Ninth Kryesan was dead.

SpoilerShow

Lyrics to "Renegade" owned by Styx, all rights reserved, etc.

Originally posted on MSPA by engineclock.

---

She held the pistol like someone who’d never seen a gun before, pointed straight at Alexis’ heart.

The cramped apartment was in shambles. Pieces of torn fabric were scattered across the floor amidst wrinkled scraps of paper bearing images of animal-headed figures and receipts for metal and paint; chairs and cheap pine desks were upended and shoved roughly into corners and closets. Half of the room’s tattered carpet was soaked, foul-smelling water leaking sluggishly from a badly cracked aquarium upended on the floor. The pistol flashed in the glow of a desk lamp obscured by the rags of a badly outdated poster, shaking almost imperceptibly.

“Jennie,” Alexis said slowly, keeping her hands up, “You’re sick. Something’s wrong, okay? Something’s really wrong. It’s not your fault. Just calm down, alright? Put it down. Put it down, Jennie. You’re not like this.”

Her roommate gestured clumsily at the walls with the barrel of the gun. Her dark eyes darted sightlessly from surface to surface. She frowned, staring at a particularly frayed section of the carpet. “They’re… gonna make me pay room damages again, Lexy.”

Alexis shook her head, cautiously feeling behind her for the drawer of her desk, now leaning against the room’s single door. The handle had been knocked off at some point in the chaos. “No they aren’t,” she lied, trying to wedge the drawer open with her fingers. She yelped as a splinter stabbed into her skin and froze at Jennie’s sudden frown.

“What are you doing?” Jennie demanded. She stepped back a pace and stumbled over a broken jewelry box, waving the pistol wildly. She scrabbled at the edge of a dresser for balance and swung the gun back to Alexis’ chest, closing one eye and playfully miming taking a shot. She giggled. “Don’t get bitchy. It’s not your turn anyway. Not yet.”

“Jennie? Jennie, please, I know you’re upset,” Alexis said gently. She felt the drawer give and carefully reached inside, relieved to feel the plastic handle of a boxcutter press itself into her palm. Nervously she shot a glance at her roommate, now frowning at the remains of the fishtank. “We took a long time, but people are busy this time of year. School and… things like that. Before you… left, we were busy. Remember?”

Jennie rolled her eyes. “You’re like, way too nice. Seriously.” She lifted her bare foot and stamped it down onto the body of a small betta splendens, grinding the mess into the carpet. “You’re starting to rub off on me.”

Alexis paled, watching the other girl trying to scrape fish remains off onto the edge of her bed. A sleek-looking laptop peeked out from under the edge, impaled with a brightly polished hammer. “Who was it?” She heard herself ask.

“Norm,” Jennie said. With her free hand she yanked down her scarf, revealing several deep scratches running down her neck and onto her chest, glistening in the dim light. She rubbed at them idly. “Had to make a big goddamn deal about it.”

“You liked him,” Alexis said dully.

“I like a lot of people. I like you too,” Jennie said. She turned away, tripping through the rubble towards a screened window. She fumbled at the catch for a moment before giving up and kicking it, sending the screen clattering to the street below. Almost as an afterthought, she turned back towards Alexis, raising her eyebrows in surprise at the knife now clutched in her roommate’s hand.

“If you wanted to host you could have just asked,” Jennie said, and fired the pistol in Alexis’ direction. It missed by several feet, punching through the thin walls like paper as Alexis screamed and ducked to the floor, dropping the blade. For the briefest instant something like confusion passed over Jennie’s face and she took a half-step towards her roommate; then it was gone and she smiled and turned to climb out the window.

“You have a few more hours,” she called to Alexis, now frantically trying to clear the door. She raised her voice over the concerned yells now coming from outside the hall, asking if the two of them were alright. “It’s… you should really apply one day. It’s fun. A lot of responsibility. A lot of power.” Slowly Jennie started to laugh, holding the pistol like a dead thing. She kicked open the grate to the fire escape, then paused. “You know what, Lexy?”

Alexis said nothing, only starting at the bleeding apparition outside her window.

“No one man should have all that power.”

______________________________

“POWER?”

The tower boomed with laughter. The pale walls reverberated with the echoes of its voice as the floors swayed and bucked with mirth, throwing Phere to the ground with a clatter of metal on bone. Eyes flickered open across the tower, flashing glimpses of distant worlds before fluttering closed as the spasm passed. The green eye squinted at Phere. “WELL NO WONDER YOU AND OUR DEAR DEAD CROWE WERE SUCH GOOD FRIENDS. POWER.”

Phere squirmed against the uncomfortably warm floor and glared back. She let the silence stretch out, studying the behemoth carefully. “Answer my question.”

The green eye’s laughter was joined by a murmuring chorus of quieter voices nervously giggling to one another, whispering jumbled words and phrases in languages Phere didn’t recognize. Their hisses undercut the green eye’s booming roar as it rolled languidly in its socket, casting its gaze across the slopes of its countless sleeping lids. “VERY WELL, LITTLE QUEEN. SINCE YOU ASKED SO NICELY, I’LL TELL YOU A STORY. LET’S SEE NOW. OH, IT’S SUCH A FAAAR WAY BACK, I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN REMEMBER IT … THERE WAS A SILLY OLD MAN WHO MADE A WORLD AND GAVE IT AS A GIFT TO HIS HUNDRED THOUSAND CHILDREN. WHEN THEY HAD HAD THEIR FILL OF KILLING EACH OTHER THEY CAME FOR HIM AND HE TOLD A TINY RED WORM TO MAKE THEM SUFFER. TO MAKE THE WHOLE WORLD DISAPPEAR. WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A WORM EATS A GOD?”

The tower paused and it took Phere a moment to realize it was waiting for her answer. The quiet voices snickered distantly; she glanced around irritably for their source but found nothing other than the tower’s slumbering eyes. “I don’t know.”

“REALLY? CROWE GOT THAT ONE THE FIRST TIME WE ASKED.” The eye turned dismissively away. Under her chair Phere felt the tower’s floor tremble as the whispers grew more urgent. “HOW ARE YOU GOING TO REPLACE HIM IF YOU HAVEN’T DONE YOUR RESEARCH? YOUR APPLICATION’S LOOKING SHODDY, PHERE. IF THE RED LADY COULD PULL HERSELF TOGETHER SHE WOULDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU WERE TRYING.”

“Replace him?” Phere snapped, futilely tugging at her wrists. The metal was beginning to chafe her skin: already she could see flushed red rings where the binds had bitten into her arms. Her mouth twisted into a scowl. “As the Spectator’s errand boy? Are you mad?”

“OH, DON’T CALL IT THAT, HE GETS SO INSULTED,” the tower sighed. “BADMOUTHING YOUR COWORKERS IS AGAINST COMPANY POLICY.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” the queen said coldly. Composing herself, she swept the room for anything that seemed likely to free her from her shackles but found that the tower was completely bare: its surface was spotless and pristine, lacking even seams where the walls met the floor. There was nothing but smooth planes of bone-white stone everywhere she looked. “I serve no one. No man or woman alive. Not even the Spectator.”

“PHERE, PHERE, DON’T BE HASTY, NOW. CONSIDER YOUR OPTIONS.” The tower’s tone was casual, aloof, as though it was discussing particular tepid weather, but the green eye’s gaze held Phere like a floodlight. It flashed with an image too quick for her to recognize. “YOU BROKE HER FAVORITE TOY, AFTER ALL. HER POOR LITTLE MOCKINGBIRD. YOU AND ALL THOSE OTHERS SHE WANTED SO MUCH, ALL GOING BEHIND HER BACK AND MEDDLING WITH HER THINGS. WHAT DID YOU THINK SHE WAS GOING TO DO? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR BELOVED SPECTATOR DOES TO THINGS THAT HURT HER? LOOK AT ME. SHE LIKED ME.”

“Crowe did this to himself!” Phere snapped, irritated by the tower’s condescension. She gave her wrists another jerk and was rewarded with a searing burn from the suddenly blistering metal encircling her arms. She yelped and bit her tongue; the whispering voices screamed with laughter, spitting her name like a blasphemy amidst their hissing curses.

“IS THAT SO?” The tower said. The green eye glowed like an ember, a brilliant green sun nestled in the bone walls. “HOW ODD. I SEEM TO REMEMBER HE BEGGED FOR HIS WORTHLESS LIFE FOR HOURS WHEN THE SYMPHONY ATE HIS BONES. I REMEMBER HE DIED SCREAMING YOUR NAME. WHAT WILL THE RED LADY SAY WHEN I TELL HER? POOR BLIND SPECTATOR. SHE’LL CRY FOR DAYS. HOW SAD.”

“What will you gain from this madness?” Phere snarled through her teeth. The metal of her bonds was rising in temperature; she’d pressed as far back from them as she could but the iron chair afforded her nothing. The heat radiated against her skin in a constant threat. “Kill me now if that’s what you want. I don’t fear you,” she lied. “The Spectator will know what happened.”

“AND WHY DO YOU THINK THAT?” the tower purred. Slowly the metal began to glow, silvery orange with the runes burned out in white-hot strokes. The floor rippled around the chair, inching away from the heat. “OUR DEAR LADY’S IN PARTS AND SHE’S SO VERY CONFUSED. WOULD YOU TRUST YOUR EYES WHEN THEY’RE ALL YOU HAVE, PHERE? WOULD THEY LIE TO YOU? OH, YOU SHOULD HAVE PAID MORE ATTENTION TO CROWE, LITTLE QUEEN. HE KNEW WHAT POWER WAS. WHEN YOU SEE HIM AGAIN, ASK HIM HOW A WORM BECOMES A GOD.”

Abruptly the bonds of the Symphony chair flared a brilliant gold and melted, pooling away from Phere’s white-knuckled hands into puddles of smoking sludge. She rose to her feet, clenching her shaking fists and steadying a gaze at the waiting green eye. It shone back at her, glowing softly. Lights reflected in its massive curvature; it took Phere a moment to realize they weren’t the molten remnants of the chair but the fires of Santa Nada, smoldering into the night.

“NOW THEN,” the tower said as the city focused in its iris, “IT’S BEEN SO EXCITING SINCE YOU LEFT. ONE OF YOUR LITTLE FRIENDS IS DEAD, PHERE. DON’T YOU MISS THEM? WHAT WAS THEIR NAME…?”

Phere stared coldly at the eye, carefully stepping forward to examine the scene. The Thünderwölf fleet was in total disarray, what few ships remained now fleeing from the coast in haste. The center of Santa Nada itself was little more than a smoking crater. “Let me see them more closely,” she commanded.

“NOT IMPRESSED, ARE WE?” The tower laughed, but obliged. The green eye’s iris swelled with the image of her fellow contestants. Phere frowned. Nalzaki seemed to be missing, but it was possible the tower was lying to her. It had admitted as much earlier. It was clearly insane; who knew what its goals were?

“What now?” She asked, gazing at the thousands of eyes observing her. Surreptitiously she rubbed her wrists, her skin still hot from the molten chair.

The green eye rolled, giving Phere the impression of a shrug. “WHAT NOW INDEED? GO ON, PHERE. GIVE US AN ORDER. ISN’T THAT WHAT YOU WANT?”

She bared her teeth. “I will not stand for mockery from you.”

“OH, RUDE,” the tower said huffily. “FINE THEN. DON’T SAY WE NEVER DID ANYTHING TO HELP YOU. I HOPE YOU’RE AS GOOD A DANCER AS YOU ARE A TERRIBLE GUEST, PHERE. IT MIGHT COME IN HANDY.”

She felt a pressure building in her Hollow, a tremendous force pressing out from inside her skull that made the tower’s walls flash gold and black, and she heard the eyes all laughing at her in the few seconds before she failed to feel anything at all.

Across the ruined city of Santa Nada, five similarly unfortunate beings vanished quietly into the night.

SpoilerShow

Round Three: The Sable Masque. A very lavish masquerade to celebrate the coronation of the Spinel Kings, held on the premises of an ancient and highly historically relevant palace. All kinds of dignitaries and notables are present, as are a few… less desirables. Each contestant is now in possession of an (in)appropriately designed mask; this is your invitation. Don’t lose it. And you absolutely, positively must remember this one thing.

On a side note, since apparently some people doubt my ability to relay simple messages, the approximate deadline for this round is October 1. Five months. I understand you are busy, but surely you can manage more than one post in several months, can’t you?

We apologize for the late start. Happy hunting.

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

---

Phere screamed; she could not help it. Her hollow burned red hot and for a moment before the pain left her she tried to claw the artefact from her face, digging her nails into her skin. Something was in her way; she pulled it off and threw it aside. Slowly the pain faded away and she became aware of the silence and the stillness that surrounded her. She lifted her gaze from the marble floor where it had settled and took in the room as a whole. It was enormous and lit by dim candlelight from a number of candelabra. Sheets of sumptuous lustful violet cloth were hung across every wall and doorway. The inhabitants of the room were dressed, or undressed as some of them were, in varied and vibrant formal attire. All of them had seemingly come to a stop in whatever it was that they had been doing before Phere had arrived.

To say that the outfits that the party-goers were wearing were exquisite was to do them a disservice. They were jaw-dropping, masterpieces of fashion design. Each one appeared to have been custom tailored to perfectly suit the wearer. Some of the outfits seemed to go that one step further, to separate themselves by their complete disregard for the laws of physics of logic itself, all in the name of fashion. From behind ornate masks that covered every face in the room except her own Phere could see the guests staring at her. Their folded arms and hostile glares seemed to suggest that what they were looking at was not in fact a person but a heap of stinking trash that some incompetent had mistakenly dumped in here and now the stench had completely ruined the good time everyone had very recently been having. Their expressions suggested that they were just waiting for someone to come and take her away.

Phere was not feeling at her best. Her encounter with the tower had been humiliating, it had demonstrated just how unprepared she was for the task she aimed to complete, and just how much more use she could have gotten from Crowe if she had pushed him just that little bit more. The judgemental glare of this crowd was not exactly helping her state of mind. For the moment she just wanted to be alone, away from the scrutiny of these people, away from the reminders of her failures thus far. She wanted to take a moment to look back at her kingdom; at a life where she was able to accomplish the goals she set out to achieve and where she had once been successful. Part of her felt like she was out of her league here, but most of her wanted to press on, to find a way to make this battle her own.

The silence lasted perhaps a full minute before she regained her wits. Her bemused expression hardened into a scowl. “What do you think you are looking at?” she snapped at the staring crowd.

As if on cue a pair of things unfurled from near the doorway. It was like watching a carpet unroll itself, only somehow vertically. They were suits; the red jackets traditionally associated with the uniform of a valet, black trousers, white gloves and a Venetian joker mask where there ought to have been a face. Their movements were clumsy and awkward, like that of puppets, but as they reached Phere and took her by the arm it was clear they were far stronger than they appeared.

“Get your hands off me.” The Empress tried to pull away but their grip held tight. Though she thrashed against them, they managed to pull her to the doorway easily, as though she were nothing more than a rag doll. One of the valets brushed aside the violet cloth that hung there and they left; the quiet murmur of conversation and other activities returning to the room as they did so.

The corridor was long and winding, decorated with portraits and occasionally occupied by couples looking for a little privacy. Phere was currently too preoccupied with the unnaturally strong uniforms that were inexorably dragging her from the party to cast her gaze into the rooms that they passed. Even she would have been shocked by the excesses of decadence and debauchery taking place in some of those cloth shrouded chambers. Eventually they emerged into a room, which it had to be presumed was the main hall. While the violet room had been pretty big comparatively it was some poky box room. The hall was several stories high, with a marble staircase off to one side of the room and numerous balconies upon the floors above overlooking the throng of well dressed people down below. There were people everyone, many clutching glittering neon cocktails in their impeccably manicured hands, others slowdancing to the tune played by a full masked orchestra in one corner.

Nobody paid Phere and the valets the slightest bit of attention despite her kicks and her screams. The valets moved through the throng surprisingly easily, and they approached a small doorway. This was pushed open and Phere was rather unceremoniously shoved through it, into the cold night air that lay beyond.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

Cascala leaned against a wall, the flounces of her once-again redesigned garments making it rather difficult to do so comfortably. What the hell had happened to her? What had she been thinking? With her staff once again firmly in her hand and not a musical instrument at all, it was hard to remember anything about whatever "song" she'd spent so long gibbering about and serving. It was like...

Well, it was like trying to remember her mindset when she'd been a vampire. Or an evil, weather-controlling scientist. Things that had been so clear and obvious then were just muddled half-thoughts now, memories of memories of insanity. Why had she been so changed with each round? Hadn't a lifetime of mental training and iron-hard psychic fortitude prepared her to resist exactly that sort of mental dominance?

But then, maybe it wasn't mental dominance. Maybe it was just the setting inserting itself into the empty spots in her head. She was becoming a different person with each different place she went because she wasn't a person at all. Who was "Cascala"? Her entire life had been lived as a title. She wasn't a woman – strong, proud, or otherwise. She was just a human-shaped concept, a weapon cultivated by uncaring wizards to combat a threat that had existed before she had. She wasn't in the battle: she was the battle. What had the Spectator said to her? It felt so long ago now, though it couldn't have been. It felt as though she'd lived a dozen lives since those words, possibly because she had. And none of them had been hers.

She spared a desultory glance for the new finery she'd been bedecked in. It was of course lavish, an ocean of glittering and flowing cyans and ultramarines with cream and daisy accents. She was as heavy with jewelry as ever, and could even recognize many of her own pieces in among the throng of glittering baubles that seemed to have been brought into being with the express purpose of adorning her. The garments themselves were astonishingly light and smooth for their bulk; their cut and style reminded her vaguely of Ephiberean fashion. The entire ensemble was certainly much more overstated and large than any Bellizhi artisan would ever have crafted. Even her burns from the first confrontation with Ivan had been neatly bandaged in what felt like weightless moonsilk and covered in demurely long sleeves. She was wearing a mask, too, but naturally she couldn't see what it looked like.

It was all beautiful. Transcendentally so, even. She'd grown up royalty in the wealthiest nation in her world, and even she'd never worn such finery. For all that through her childhood – and even her adulthood – the only vice, the only bit of indivuduality she'd ever had had been her primping vanity, she hated it all. Every masterfully-invisible stitch, every decadent thread painstakingly assembled by a supernaturally-gifted artisan into textiles that should have been worth ten times their weight in magesteel... All of it quietly whispered to her that she was nothing more than a doll to be dressed and redressed and sent on fantastical adventures with no more say in the matter than a literal toy would have. There was no personality under the layers of shimmering blue that wrapped around her, and there was no expectation that there should be.

She slid down to the floor, skirts somehow gracefully bending and folding to avoid unsightly wrinkles during a battle to the death. Her chin hit her chest, and she struggled not to sniffle like a child. If only Gesperi could see her now. He'd always said flow was the wrong school for the prophecy when he thought she couldn't hear, and often when he knew she could. She'd bend and yield too easily, wouldn't she? And he'd been right. Minutes into each new place and she'd been replaced by a cackling madwoman or a grinning idiot. She thought back to her encounter in the alleys of Genre City, back to exsanguinating two men without a second thought. Where had that gone? Why had it been so easy for her to lose the one piece of identity she truly had? Why hadn't she killed Harmon the instant they ran into each other? Some nonsense of singing and sense of obligation to a world that was not hers, both borne of the plane itself.

Well, that was it. No more flow, no more fitting into the shape of the container she was poured into. She would be as hard as ice and as unforgiving as a storm. No more would she let the trivialities of each new place she was put seep into her and change her very being. Maybe she wasn't a real person, but she didn't have to be a golem either, and she damn sure wasn't going to let anyone or anyplace else put more words in her head. She was going to–

"My, my, what could a lovely lady such as yourself be doing all alone in a quiet little nook like this? And looking like someone just told you you were about to be graded zircon no less?"

An elegantly-manicured hand, glistening with jewelry and rimmed with sumptuous violet cuffs, materialized in front of her.

"This is a happy occasion, and it just doesn't do to be seen like this."

Cascala grabbed the hand and let herself be hoisted upwards. She came face to face with an eagle-masked man grinning beneath his beak.

"Come on, let me show you how to have a little fun at this kind of party. You wouldn't want to end up like the one-eyed old witch that got dragged out by the Moppets, would you?"

---

As Phere had been kicking and screaming her way through the halls of the Resplendent Palace and Cascala had been devolving into another existential crisis, three men had been sitting in a darkened back room around a faintly-glowing tabletop. There were several flashes of brighter light across the object of their attentions, and one of the men grunted in surprise.

"Surely they wouldn't be so blunt? There's not even a trace of aura-concealment."

One of the others shrugged. "They obviously wanted us to notice these ones. It's a cover for whoever they're actually sending in of course."

The first one cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, but they'd know we'd figure it out if they were that obvious about it. You don't think it's a double-bluff? Make us focus on finding the hidden ones so we miss what the obvious ones are doing? Nobody ports this crudely."

The third finally cut in. "It's not our job to decipher their plans, merely to react to what we find. By trying to overthink our observations, we allow them to influence us."

There was silence for a beat before he continued, somewhat less somberly. "Besides, it's probably just some half-trained Talent or an Unpolished peasant trying to crash the party for some liquor and entertainment. Look, one of them's already being shown the door, and all we've got in the Amethyst wing is rank-3 Moppets."

The other two hmmed in unison.

"I suppose you're right. I'll send a few Tireless Men in to keep an eye on them, but it's probably best not to overreact."

The third clapped him gently on the back. "Good man. You'll get the hang of this yet. Send out a dispatch and let the diviners know we're up to red, but don't worry too much."

The second nodded, still looking slightly nervous. "Besides, it's not like the Kings are defenseless without us."

A grim expression crossed the three faces simultaneously. They all knew that well enough.

SpoilerShow

Dialogue colored with samples taken from opal, malachite, and hematite, respectively.

Originally posted on MSPA by Akumu.

---

In the midst of the tossing sea of bodies in the main hall of the Resplendent Palace, the addition of one extra went largely unnoticed. At most, there were some eyerolls and mutters about how gauche some people could be as Melissa Harmon popped into her newest battlefield. Unlike the previous locations, here she had not even had the courtesy of a cursory introduction. One moment she had been rock-and-roll battling the smoke monster from an off-Broadway version of Lost, and the next she was being yanked through the void by her eyeballs and deposited in an endless cocktail party. She stood stock-still like a deer in the headlights and tried to take in her surroundings.

A sea of silk and chiffon and lace in a riot of colors surrounded her. Men and women alike were fabulously adorned, and all in fantastical masks which left their identities concealed. That explained the light, form-hugging fabric that swathed her and the object over her own face reducing her visual range more or less to what was straight ahead. The masquerade stretched in all directions, and she was completely exposed. When after thirty seconds or so there had been no attempts to murder her, Melissa began to relax and try to think out her next steps.
Along with the other changes to her attire, she found herself holding on to a sparkling green clutch. Snapping it open she saw that it contained the vital components of her harmonometer, thank god. Now if she was lucky enough to find the parts that it needed, she might be able to put it back together. She frowned, considering that while they were common enough on Earth, there was no telling what would be available here, or the next insane locale. If something was available she would have to take full advantage of it. A footman passed by with a tray of champagne flutes, and she snagged one and quaffed the fizzing contents in preparation for diving into the social crush.

Melissa sidled up to tall, thin man in a dark robe trimmed with white, yellow and red feathers. “Excuse me,” she began, edging her voice higher and laying her hand on his back, “I’ve gotten a little bit lost.”

The man turned smoothly, pointing the beak of his avian mask in her direction. “Honey, we all know that.” The masqueraders immediately around him tittered into their hands. “Porting into the middle of a party is so low-class.”

Melissa’s cheeks burned underneath her mask and her non-threatening smile faltered for a moment as she fought down the instinct to respond in anger.

“I’m so sorry, it’s clear I’m not prepared for such a grand occasion, but if you could take me under your wing,” she put a bit of emphasis on this, but not a single smile was cracked, “it would mean the world to... um...”

Everything started to go a bit liquid. Melissa took a step back, staggering on her heels, and blinked hard. She rasped her tongue against the bone-dry roof of her mouth and tried to drink from the champagne flute she still held, but it too was dry.

“Not five seconds in and she’s already getting luce. At least she’s in the spirit of things!”

The birdman was talking at-about her. She tried to focus on him, whites showing all the way around her irises through the eye-holes of her mask. His own mask was running, fusing into his face, and she saw now that the feathers were not coming from his robe but through it, out of his flesh. Melissa gasped and her glass fell from limp fingers. She watched it fall and form an undulating tube of glass along its path, and she heard it shatter again and again before it had even hit the ground.

Bezio Foscari watched, with initial amusement that shaded into exasperation, as the woman in green stumbled about making wounded animal noises. Her black demon’s head mask, glimmering with emerald iridescence, should have marked her as a power player, and her dress was exquisite, angular enough to make a statement but curved in all the right places. How this particular woman ended up inside of them was a mystery. She couldn’t even handle her ‘gens. She’d probably start screaming soon enough, ruining the high he’d been carefully maintaining for the last three days.

A flattened Moppet drifted down gently from the ceiling, foomphing into fullness a few feet from the ground. Bezio inquired politely if it could possibly take this distraught guest to a fainting couch somewhere, but it diligently kept gathering up the broken shards of the dropped flute.

“Oh, for the love of... woman, let’s get you somewhere that’s not here.”

Luckily he had not been in the middle of anything important, having taken a short break from power and/or information brokering to just enjoy himself. He cooed his apologies to his conversation partners, took the pitiful thing by the upper arm and followed after the retreating Moppet as it cut a swath through the attendants in its single-minded way. Hopefully he could find a rank-2 or a rank-1 to pass her off to before long.

From the balcony above, an otherwise motionless figure turned its head to track the pair, the whir of autofocus lenses sounding from behind its smiling mask. An internal list of potential threats expanded to include one more guest.

SpoilerShow

Goldenrod on DarkRed for Bezio. His costume was inspired by the crested crane.

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

---

SpoilerShow

PYPs reserve is still in tact, I just had this post already partially hammered out and I wanted to get it posted. I made sure there were no conflicts or whatever.

As soon as she found her footing Phere spun around, almost tripping over her high heels as she did so. She scrambled for the door but before she could reach it it clicked shut and that seemed to be the end of the matter. No matter how hard she pulled upon it, it would not budge, not an inch. When this stratagem failed she tried knocking but received no answer; perhaps the music that was playing inside was too loud, or more likely they simply did not want to answer her. It took her an angry minute or so to concede that she was not getting back in through this door, after which she finally noticed the incongruity of the fact that she was unexpectedly wearing high heels.

Before she’d been removed from the party she had been too busy to notice her new outfit, but by looking at herself through the eye of her hollow she was able to see that she was wearing a backless purple dress almost identical to the one she had been wearing when she had been first tossed into this battle. This one however was more glamorous; it sparkled and shimmered in a way her old dress never had, in a way that was almost difficult to look away from. It was very reminiscent of the outfits the guests inside were wearing. She also noticed that she was wearing matching shoulder length gloves and though her high heels were not visible beneath the hemline of her dress they were very pointy and elegant and significantly less comfortable than the boots she had been wearing previously. Her long black hair had been tied back into a loose chignon; the only thing preventing her from looking exactly like one of the party guests was the lack of a mask, which she dimly recollected throwing to the ground as her Hollow stung. Phere scowled as she regarded herself; she hated her new outfit instantly. It was probably not the outfit that was the cause of this so much as that circumstances had already put her in a foul mood; it was probably the fact that someone had dressed her up as though she were their doll.

But as much as she resented whoever had done this to her, the fact that she was dressed for the occasion was an undeniably good thing. When she got back inside she’d blend right in. She wondered if the same was true of her competitors. She felt a little disconnected from the battle after spending a round trying to outbluff their host and she was sort of concerned about what had happened in the meantime; whether they had been forming alliances in her absence and had found a new leader to step into her void, or whether they had just devolved into mindless chaotic fighting. After a moment of thought she had an idea. Phere activated the radio implant she had had installed in the first round and tried the frequencies of the radios that she’d given to her allies, in the hope that one of them would be able to let her back in. It was disappointing, but not surprising that there was no answer.

It was chilly out here. Phere wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to preserve some warmth and she looked around. Beneath her feet and stretching out in every direction were jet black sands. The palatial grounds were enormous; it was only just about possible to see the wall that marked their edge from where she stood (at least without the use of her Hollow). Growing here and there were trees as white as ivory; their trunks were ancient and gnarled, their branches twisted and bare. It was a perfectly clear night; the sky above was inky black and dotted with far off specks of light. Almost certainly somewhere upon the grounds there were people holding one another tight as they stared up into the perfect sky. Phere did not so much as spare these familiar skies a passing glance.

She took a couple of steps away from the building, kicking off her high heels when it proved difficult to walk upon the soft sand with them and took a good look at the palace itself. It was her kind of palace; elegant in its simplicity and upon a monumental scale. It made her own palace back home look like a hovel and though she might have disagreed with the vibrancy of the trappings inside, part of her coveted it for her own. She forced herself to put that to one side reminding herself that as grand and as desirable as this place was, it was only temporary. It was the other battlers that she cared about and with that thought she focused upon her objective, to get back inside. The front door was out of course and the windows were too high to sneak in through.

After a moment her eyes alighted upon a slender man in a black suit and bow tie smoking a cigarette near a discreet staircase, a little way away. Without a moment to lose she strode in his direction, already concocting a story as to why she was stuck outside. As she approached the man quickly stubbed out his cigarette and slipped on a featureless white mask.

“Excuse me,” Phere asked putting upon her most sympathetic tone, “I came out for a little fresh air and the door locked behind me. Could you just let me back in?”

“Certainly madam.” The waiter said courteously. “If you could just show me your mask I would be glad to let you back into the party.” Phere was surprised for just a moment, but it was just a moment too long.

“Oh shoot, I must have misplaced it.”

“That is a shame.” The waiter replied. “I am afraid I cannot let you in without a mask.”

“But I misplaced it.” A tone of irritation crept into Phere’s voice. “This is not fair.”

“Maybe not, but these are the rules that we must follow.” The waiter replied. “It is more than my job is worth to let through someone who was not invited.”

Phere scowled. “I was invited.” She snapped. “My mask is inside. If you’d just let me in I could lead you straight to it.” The waiter just shrugged. It was not his problem.

“If you will excuse me madam, I have to get back to work.” He turned and started towards the staircase, and Phere panicked. She needed to get back inside. She’d already been sidelined for a round dealing with Crowe; she needed to be amongst the thick of it this round before the others forgot about her entirely. In her desperation she grabbed the waiter, convinced her chances of getting back inside disappeared with him. “Excuse me madam, I’m afraid you seem to have grabbed hold of me.”

“Look.” She said. “Let’s make a deal. You let me in and I’ll do something for you.” The waiter looked her up and down, or at least the mask moved in a fashion that suggested that this was happening. “I can find things. Let me in and I will find you whatever you want. What do you want?”

“I want you to let go of me.”

“Then you’ll let me back in?”

“No.” he said bluntly.

Phere was at a loss. She could not believe she was losing a battle of wits against a waiter of all things. She was perhaps more shaken up by the Tower’s barrage of insults than she had thought. She was not strong and her magic was not something that could be relied upon. She had no ideas left, so dumbly she let him go. He promptly took a couple of steps back and regarded her as though she were something pitiful. Phere was just about to tell him to get bent when he said: “If you really want in that badly I know of a way you could get in…”

--------

It was a couple of minutes later that Phere stepped back into the main hall, not happy but at least she was inside. Gone was her glamorous outfit, now she wore the uniform of a maid and carried a plate of unidentified snacks. Behind the plain white mask she scowled.

Originally posted on MSPA by Pick Yer Poison.

---

Embarrassment - and fear - filled Klendel's thoughts. Neither were feelings he particularly enjoyed. He had lost control of the situation, and he'd nearly paid for it with his life. That was embarrassing. But even worse, he'd been afraid. He inspired fear in others, not the opposite. He might have chuckled. First the glass in round one, then the loss of control in round two - it was as if this battle had a mind of its own, and was determined to teach him a lesson.

Klendel finally drew his attention to the environment around him. He was in a massive ballroom, possibly even larger than the opera house he'd just been taken out of. Fancy glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling above like bizarre fruit ripe for the picking, large wheels with spokes holding burning candles that let off far too much light to be altogether normal. Masked beings in extravagant outfits milled around the floor, socializing and sipping at drinks taken from platters that waiters and waitresses carried around tirelessly. An invisible cloud of petty fears and concerns permeated the room - Is my dress cut too low? Does this color match my eyes? What if I slip in these heels? - creating a mental fog that draped itself lovingly over Klendel, who was none the happier. He knew instantly what this was. It was a ball. Not simply a party, not merely a social gathering, but a ball.

Klendel hated balls. It was bad enough having to stand and socialize politely for hours on end, pretending to care about whatever the other party had to offer, but Klendel was a born liar; he could handle that. No, the true source of his dislike was the lighting. He cast his gaze up to the too-bright chandeliers, curling his lip. He was currently in the darkest part of the room that he could see, and he still felt their luminescence sapping his strength. Judging by the way the costumes he could see were glinting and flashing, the light in the brighter areas was strong enough that after a few hours underneath it he'd be having difficulty standing up under his own power. For a moment, he contemplated simply remaining in the dark corner where he was, but he knew that he could ill afford to be a sitting duck, and discarded the thought.

He found the masks to be quite unsettling. Not be design, but because everyone was wearing them, and many also wore outfits that could easily be disguises. He could be looking at one of the other contestants right now and not even know it. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he had been conferred the same advantage, and he looked down to see what he was clothed in. To his surprise, he found himself staring at what appeared to be twinkling clusters of stars set against the backdrop of space itself. The remarkable fabric reached down to his ankles, spreading out after his waist. Unlike most people, Klendel was not at all surprised to find himself wearing a dress - where he came from, it was a perfectly acceptable male outfit. He allowed himself some hope - perhaps his outfit would be an adequate disguise after all - but this was quickly destroyed as he felt at his mask and found it to be nothing more than a domino mask, concealing very little of his head itself. He knew that he'd still be perfectly recognizable were someone trying to look for him.

He gathered his wits about himself; he had to form a plan of some sort, or he'd be flying blind. While his first instinct was to assume that a ball as extravagant as this must be in honor of someone important, he knew he couldn't be sure. For all he knew, this could be standard for a small-time village ball; with nothing to compare it to, there was no way of telling. He also knew next to nothing about the building he was housed in, other than that it contained the room he was in right now. What if this time it was the strings section versus a brass band? Unlikely, he admitted, but one could never be too prepared. He decided his first course of action should be to figure out why the ball was being held; from there, he could deduce a good deal more about the ball itself.

He began looking closely at the guests - or rather, the connections between them. He was looking for a specific kind of social clique, with the right mix of mindless gossipers and yes men to have nothing to talk about but the party itself, and to be too timid to call out unrecognized latecomers. As he watched closely, the mob of partygoers began to change from an incomprehensible mass of exquisite costumes to eddies and currents, waves in the social sea. It was almost like he could hear her voice in his ear, whispering what to look for. Just like the first time. Klendel noted the familiar whirlpool of guests around popular figures, something he was only familiar with from the center, as well as the breaking waves formed by small groups on the outer edge of the scene, quietly expressing their disappointment with the turnout amongst each other. But what he was really looking for was a patch of calm water, where guests with nowhere else to go gathered, rarely leaving. He noted one, hesitated, then stepped into the light and strolled to it leisurely, mimicking the fluid gait he saw most of the other guests making. To add to his disguise of belonging, he picked a drink up from a passing counter and swallowed half of the liquid inside. The alcohol wouldn't affect him, but the emptier glass would hint that he hadn't just arrived.

To his relief, no one called him out as he walked to the group. To be fair, he reflected as he watched a guest sip its drink via its armpit, he was hardly the strangest creature present. He spent a few minutes on the outer edge of the group, politely sipping his drink, then, when several of the partygoers shifted at the same time in the right way and a crack appeared in the wall they'd formed around the most active talkers, Klendel edged himself in and got close enough to hear what was being gossiped about. From snippets he caught between heated conversations about fashion and which public official looked like he had the weirdest kinks, Klendel managed to figure out that he was at a king's coronation.

To his surprise, the discussion suddenly turned to him, as one of the active speakers noticed him for the first time. "Oh, you simply must tell me where you got that dress. You look absolutely stunning!" She shook her head sadly. "Such a shame you can't fill it out properly." Klendel opened and closed his mouth a few times in astonishment as his mind churned over what she was saying. Did she...think he was a woman? He prepared to tell her that she was wrong, but stopped himself as a plan began to form in his head.

A spectacularly terrible plan.

Originally posted on MSPA by Akumu.

---

Jack Moulin’s fingers flew over the keypad of the ancient laptop, entering figures with practiced efficiency. With his left hand he moved another packet of papers onto the completed pile, hit enter with his right, and sat back with a sigh. It was a beautiful day outside, and sunlight filtered in through the window over the lab-equipment covered counter at the back of the room. Jack clasped his hands over his head and pulled upwards, feeling the tension in his shoulders uncoil and his spine straighten into the shape it should have been all along.

Muffled voices from the front office raised to a frenzied tenor and Jack froze in mid-stretch. Sounds of a scuffle and a pained cry spurred him to action, and he pushed his chair back away from his worktable and looked about the lab for anything that could be weaponized. He settled on a meterstick, favoring its reach over the heft of a chemical reagents catalog. He turned to the door, shoes squeaking on the linoleum, and came up short. The intruder had already made it back to the lab, was standing in the doorway, and was utterly impossible.

“Jennie?”

The last time Jack had seen Jennie Zurich, she’d been in a casket. Long black gloves had covered the slashes on her wrists, and it was the only time he could recall seeing her look content. She had always been pushing for the next thing, the better thing, drawing the best out of all of them but never quite satisfied. It had been the sheer force of her that had drawn the collective together, the nucleus that they all buzzed about, and when she had been lowered into the ground they all blew apart, seeing too much of themselves in each other to stand it for one more second. Jack thought of that time only rarely now, but it all smashed back into him in that moment, the heights of freedom and power they had pulled each other up to and the long fall back to earth when the reality of their actions became clear.

Jennie stepped into the lab, hightops squelching wetly, and pushed something hard against Jack’s chest. He looked down and was surprised to see a jet-black pistol crumpling up the fabric of his labcoat. Jennie grinned at him, eyes hidden behind ruby-tinted aviators that took up half her face.

“Hi, Jackie baby. Ya miss me?”

She shoved the gun forward, and Jack stumbled back, flopping into the chair he had recently vacated. It rolled back on its casters, and Jennie followed it, leaning over to peer at the laptop screen while lazily keeping the pistol pointed in Jack’s general direction.

“Glad you’re still writing, Jackie. You know how much I hate it when you slack...” Jennie trailed off as her eyes scanned over the spreadsheet open on the computer, “What is this shit? Numbers? I know you’ve been writing. I can feel it.”

She jabbed a red-lacquered finger at the keyboard once, twice, then swept the laptop off the table. It flew through a flurry of paper and slammed into the wall with a sharp crack that cut through the haze of shock that had been surrounding Jack.

“Jesus Christ, it’s really true, you killed Norm! The cops picked up Lexy for that. They think she’s crazy!”

“You’re writing right now, aren’t you? Don’t lie to me, Moulin, I know you are.” Jennie said at the same time, rooting through the piles of papers on the table, then caught the last of what Jack was saying. “Maybe she is. Maybe we all are. Where’s the Tome?”

Jack’s brows furrowed, trying to follow what she was saying. “The?”

Jennie wheeled on him, straightening her gun arm and bringing it terrifyingly close to his face. “The Tome, Jackie! The fuckin’ magical macguffin you were all chasing after before you got poor Macy killed? You and Jake had it last, so where is it now?”

“Harmon and Phere had it last,” Jack said, looking cross-eyed at the black bore of the pistol and immediately questioning the wisdom of correcting a dead woman in the middle of a psychotic break.

“Yes, my precious doves, so armored they cannot fly, they were falling, falling, falling. Where are they now, Jack? They need me, and I can’t see them! What have you been writing?!”

The needle that had been wavering between ‘cooperate’ and ‘get out’ on Jack’s mental scale of what was least likely to get him killed swung firmly towards ‘get out’ as Jennie screamed. He kicked sideways at her knee as hard as he could, his chair swiveling with the motion. He spun. Jennie crumpled with a hiss. The gun went off, and everything went white.

The left side of Jack’s face, angled towards Jennie, blazed with pain, but at least he was still alive to feel it. He vaulted out of the chair and raised the meterstick he still clung to, twisting his whole body into the motion as he brought it whistling around thin-edge-first into the back of Jennie’s neck. The thick layer of scarves there absorbed much of the blow, but the cheap wood still shattered apart on impact and Jennie was driven crashing into the floor. Jack stared for a second at the results of the greatest violence he had ever committed in his life. He began to lean down towards his old friend, but when she started to push herself up with a groan he turned and fled.

Out of the lab, down the side hall, the main hall, past the prone form of the receptionist, Jack waited for the gunshot roar and the punch of a bullet shattering his body. It wasn’t until he was in his car peeling out of the clinic parking lot that he felt he had actually escaped. One hand on the wheel, he flipped open his phone and glanced down at his contact list, frowning. If anybody would know what the hell was going on with Jennie, it would be Gerald. He hit dial, clamped the phone between his shoulder and head, and hoped to whatever gods were watching that Botterson hadn’t changed his number.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

The purple eagle swept down the corridor, his coat swirling and flapping with a surreal elegance, his hand still wrapped around Cascala's.

"Now, I'm sure you'll see this as familiar, even cheeky, but I think you and I can have quite a time tonight, together. Lord Herrastel, by the way, baron of Irl."

Cascala considered her response for several seconds before opening her mouth: on the one hand, playing along with this effusive man would be just the sort of nonsensical story-following she'd just finished telling herself she was too strong to fall into again; on the other, she didn't know where she was, what the place was like, where her targets were, or even the sort of thing that would get her killed for stepping out of line. Perhaps she'd follow his charade for a bit, but... just as a form of reconnoitering. She certainly wasn't going to be joining his little social circle or whatever he had in mind for him.

It went without saying that he wouldn't outlive his usefulness by much. No more mercy, no more caring too much about whatever disposable world she landed in.

When she finally spoke, it was with the practiced condescension she'd developed over a lifetime of royal upbringing and inherent importance. While her world – or at least her empire, and she had little time for the political systems of mud dwellers – didn't exactly have "barons", the magic of the Battles had supplied her mind with a rough equivalent. This man was barely noteworthy, then, and it seemed obvious he was trying to hitch his wagon to her star. She took a small gamble, and tugged her hand slightly, stopping him in his tracks.

"And where, Lord Herrastel, do you think you're taking me? Don't you know your peerage?"

The man's face didn't even fall slightly, which surprised Cascala.

"Oh, but I do. And that's the thing, isn't it? I recognize everything about you, but I don't recognize you."

"It's a masquerade. You're not supposed to recognize me."

His permanent smile gained just a bit of a laugh at the edges.

"That's a point, that's a point. I mean, it's a totally ridiculous one, but it's there, isn't it? I think maybe you should just keep coming with me."

Cascala finally pulled her hand totally free of his grasp.

"And why," she spat icily, "would I even consider doing that, after all the disrespect I've just seen?"

"Because," he said, visible portions of his face still carefully arranged into the guise of someone enjoying a pleasant chat with a friend, "there are other people who felt your arrival, and they're a lot less interested in what you're trying to accomplish than I am. Might even have a few things to say about it. Nasty, pointy things."

He stretched, hand just happening to gesture towards the frescoes on the ceiling in the process, then put one hand around Cascala's waist and pulled her in close. Her eyes followed his hand automatically, and she noticed a number of things she hadn't bothered to take in about the setting. Aside from the seas of flowing fabric and tapestries that decorated walls and doors, the ceilings were painted with patterns that wavered between the abstract and the representative; on the border between cloth and stone and plaster, a number of ornamental humanoid statues lounged, supporting the ceiling and generally tying the scene together at its edges. For all that they were tastefully arranged and designed to merge seamlessly into the colorfully painted scenes above them, Cascala realized they all seemed to be looking at her.

And for all that the entire area was suffused with an unbelievable amount of free flowing mana, as well as energy bound up in the the subtle enchantments seemingly woven into every objet d'art that festooned the garish palace, the statues themselves were all reinforced with subtle auras and interconnected with communication spells.

Oh.

She reconsidered her decision to lash out against the baron, and instead demurely leaned into his embrace, her cheek brushing against his and her lips barely parting as she exhaled "What do you want from me?"

He gave a carefully conspicuous glance up and down the hallway, then brushed gently against her face and compunctiously took her earlobe in his teeth before muttering "Just keep following me. I've got some friends you should meet. You're obviously powerful, but you're alone and unsubtle. It'd be a shame to see you get yourself caught, and there are people who can help with that."

If she was interpreting what the man had said and shown her correctly, Cascala didn't really feel like she had much of a choice. This still isn't fitting myself into the round. It's just a setback. I'm still resolute, still have my eyes on the goal. She gave an embarrassed smile and looked down, pushing the baron backwards halfheartedly; he smiled more broadly and tried to pull her closer, and she forced a giggle and broke off. She felt... stupid, and dirty, and it probably wasn't a very convincing performance. She hadn't had much practice, certainly. Herrastel seemed to feel it was good enough, at least, and he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and took her hand again, leading her once again through the labyrinthine halls; she watched disinterestedly as color schemes melted gradually into each other, shifting through a rainbow of cloth and gems before eventually the pair stopped in an apparently-secluded wing bedecked in whites and opalescent greys, resplendent in pearls and a roiling cloudy motif.

He pushed her gently into an alcove, and his hands drifted to her waist again. She gave an embarrassed smile, struggling not to snarl or lash out with her foot or staff.

"You realize that if you really try anything that I'll pull every ounce of fluid in your body out through the most painful orifice that presents itself."

He leaned in against her, one hand going up her back and the other feeling the wall behind her through the cloth that hid it.

"Mmmhmhmhm," he chuckled in a way that made it even harder for Cascala not to kill him where he stood. "I like a girl with spirit."

Something of the cliched nature of the phrase was lost in translation, but it still managed to sound just insincere enough to calm her hackles. With a click, something yielded beneath Herrastel's inquisitive fingers – on the wall, thankfully, not Cascala's corsetry – and the pair gently merged through fabric and wall, landing in what might have been a very sexy heap under other circumstances in a sea of pale chiffon and pillows and poufs.

Back in the corridor, footsteps that had been echoing quietly behind the pair nearly since Cascala's appearance – which Herrastel had been painfully and intriguedly aware of and Cascala had been too preoccupied to care about or consciously notice – approached the nook the pair had vanished into. A perpetually smiling face stared at the spot they had occupied, a quiet whirring replacing the sound of walking and its internal systems updating several statuses.

---

The room was still dim, but it was being somewhat more illuminated now that more surfaces in it were glowing. Only one of the three men was still at the original table, plotting the course of one of the brightly-glowing patches; the other two were both staring at a wall with luminescent schematics and lists and displays emblazoned on it. The apparent senior was carefully manipulating a cloud of light that clustered around his hands and stuck to his fingers like silk, occasionally flashing various colors or fading to black.

The man at the table cleared his throat and spoke up. "We've lost visual contact with one of the original six."

One of the others, without looking away from whatever was occupying his attention, responded after a few moments. "Which one, and where?"

"The, uh, the blue one. We don't know a lot about her except her apparent rank. Her costume is elaborate enough we don't know for sure who she is, but she's been with a low-ranking noble since she ported in. Baron of Irl, I think."

The man with his hands enveloped by light smiled. "And I assume we lost them in Pearl? One of the private rooms?"

The first checked, then nodded. Realizing nobody was looking at him, he blushed slightly and spoke up. "Yes, actually. He did appear to be attempting to seduce her when we could get a clear view."

"Good for him, then. You can always count on John at these things. Keep a Man on them, but I don't think you'll be seeing any kind of problems out of the two of them. He just likes a challenge."

"You don't think that perhaps–"

The second man, who had been quiet for some time, snapped. "Will you shut up and get over here? We've had more important things going on for half the time you've wasted on that stupid woman and her stupid paramour. Sapphire's on fire, and it's all we can do to keep the surviving moppets on top of it!"

"He's just following protocol," rumbled the third. "No need for all that."

---

Suleiman waved a small jar of potent smelling salts beneath Fatima's nose, but the old seer refused to wake. Gesperi stood above them both, arms crossed and face arranged in an expression that combined the worst aspects of extreme annoyance and smug self-righteousness. The other two Magi stood on either side of the inactive scrying circle, trying to avoid each other's gazes nearly as much as they were trying to avoid Gesperi's.

Eventually, Suleiman stood up, shaking his head. "None of my potions or mundane remedies are working."

"Then use magic. You of all people should have no trouble rousing someone."

Suleiman shook his head. "No, Gesperi. You were part of the circle yourself, you must have felt how crude the transition was. Fatima shielded the rest of us from the brunt of that power by taking it upon herself."

"And?"

Finally, the old Life mage's patience snapped. "Think, you impetuous child! Her body wasn't the target of the feedback, her mind was. If I wake her now, I may wake her as an empty husk. She must recover on her own. No magic."

"Perhaps if you were competent–"

"And perhaps if you weren't an idiot!" Nazim burst out. "Are you really going to let your impatience destroy any chance we have of following Cascala?"

"Who's calling who an idiot now?" Gesperi seethed. "I seem to recall a certain Terra specialist in this group ought to have been able to set up wards to prevent exactly this sort of thing from happening. What happened to him, exactly? Did, perhaps, all his hand-wringing precautions amount to nothing?"

"Oh, it's easy to sit back and watch real mages work and laugh when they fail, isn't it? What would you have done, burn the scrying circle until it stopped reeling from magic we don't even understand? Maybe make some kind of illusion so whatever is dragging Cascala all over the planes forgot what it was doing? You've contributed nothing to–"

"Enough!" Suleiman roared. It was perhaps the only time any of the Magi had seen him shout in the entire time they'd held their positions. "Our empire, our magic, and our very way of life is at stake. We all know this. But to devolve into bickering at the first sign of stress is to do emperor and empire a disservice, to say nothing of shaming ourselves."

Most of the assembled mages looked at their feet and shuffled awkwardly, but Gesperi simply sneered. "We've all seen how she's been handling the stress. We could never shame ourselves on the level she already has."

Suleiman's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You... You are not there. You saw, but you did not feel."

"If I were there–"

"I shudder to think what would have happened if you were! Cascala has lived and breathed this destiny for all of her years. Don't let your jealousy convince you that your soft-headedness isn't more salient."

As Gesperi's teeth gritted and heat wavered from his clenched hands, a soft voice spoke up from near the circle, breaking the mounting tension and drawing the attention of all present and conscious.

"I think I have an idea."

---

Cascala quickly disentangled herself from the arms of her apparently-lecherous companion. She then darted back to the floor to retrieve her staff before standing over him threateningly and scanning the lacy walls for more evidence of watching eyes. Instead of enchanted statues, she found the small room rather crowded with serious-faced men and women, all dressed for a party but none acting as though they were attending one.

"What," the weather witch hissed, "is going on here?"

Lord Herrastel stood up, straightening nonexistent creases in his coat, smile finally fading from mania to reasonability.

"These," he said, gesturing at the assembled figures, "are the associates I mentioned. Young lady, meet the Ebitrean Tea Club."

---

"Even with Fatima, ah..."

"Indisposed."

"Sure, indisposed. Even with that, and her unable to guide the spell or anything... It's still set up to find Cascala, right?"

Nazim nodded, and Mozhgan continued. "Now, I know that without Fatima's Sight, being able to track her signal across the planes doesn't do us much good. But I think that with that information I might be able to open a more direct connection to whatever plane she's on. It should have about the same effect as scrying, see, and..."

She shrugged, faltering under the combined gazes of her peers.

"You're suggesting we open a portal? Surely you can't expect to be able to predict what might happen if we interfere needlessly with whatever safeguards the god that took Cascala has in place."

Mozhgan blanched at the suggestion. "No, no! No. Not a portal, just a window. Just enough to let light through. It shouldn't upset anything, and probably wouldn't even be traceable unless you were looking for it. If, uh, it does become necessary to intervene, as we agreed..."

She stopped again, and Nazim put a comforting hand on her shoulder and shot a glare at Gespari and his smirk.

"It'll just make it easier to do something. If it becomes necessary. As we agreed. Somewhere to start from."

Suleiman paced near the couch they'd hauled Fatima onto. "I don't... I don't know that I like it."

Mozhgan wilted, but unexpectedly Gesperi came to her defense. In a way. "Of course you don't. You're too cautious. Would you rather just lose her? Would you rather have no idea she was about to be stabbed in the back or crushed by a monster, have no way of helping? See your precious empire's last hope fail and watch your mana drain away and know you could have done something but didn't?"

Still pacing, Suleiman chewed his cheek. He didn't like to admit it, but Gesperi had something of a point, for all his foolish bravado. Before he could respond, Nazim cut in, giving Mozhgan an apologetic glance.

"Maybe it would be safer to find another Sight mage, maybe one of Fatima's apprentices. They could help wake her, or run the scrying themselves."

"Hmm. I think..." Suleiman shook his head. "No, they'd be in over their heads. Even Fatima struggled with the complexities of this endeavor, and despite her age she's every bit our equal or better. Better to have a Grand Magus do something uncertain than a lesser mage attempt a task we already failed at."

"Well there's only the four of us," Gesperi said, raising his hand sarcastically. "Three to go through with it."

Nazim sighed. "Don't... Don't do this, Gesperi. Everything doesn't have to be a struggle."

He turned to Mozhgan and nodded. "Just get started, alright?"

She nodded and got to her knees, examining Fatima's spellcraft. "Gatework's not my specialty, you know, but... Well, I can't think of another Flux mage I'd ask. I, uh, I'm just trying to say this might be a few moments. Before I feel safe starting it, I mean."

The others nodded back, and she set to work.

---

All three men were at the wall by now, often striding between it and the various tables spread around their room, never devoting too much time to any particular instrument. For a time, it seemed as though they were all working at cross purposes, paying each other no mind and dealing with separate issues, but when one particular ball of light materialized, they all jumped to examine it.

"No," muttered the senior. "This doesn't make sense."

The second hurriedly shoved his hands into it, unraveling and rewinding it into a variety of different shapes that seemed to mean something to those watching. "It's not hostile. Not even any good for being hostile through. But it's astonishingly subtle. We're lucky the automatic aura fields even picked it up."

The first leaned in, twiddling several errant strands of luminance. "Can you tell where it's coming from?"

The second shook his head as the third brought out an arcane-looking eyepiece. "No, I don't think so. Not exactly. It's heavily baffled."

"Definitely extradimensional, though."

The others nodded in agreement.

"Not a lot of Talents can work at this level. Honestly, this seems like something I'd expect more from the Kings than a lesser grade." The man shook his head and remembered his own warnings not to overthink things. "Bring up a registry of everyone we know of capable of spacial distortion like this."

The apparent junior scurried off, the senior calling after him "Even the ones we think we know aren't here!"

The third man thought for a few more moments, then gave a resigned sigh. "Keep an eye on things here. I have to let the Kings know about this, personally."

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

---

Phere was having a hard time coping with this situation. She wanted very much to march straight back into the serving quarters, get out of this degrading maid’s uniform and get back into something that more befitted someone of her status. She resented that the situation had conspired to force her to lower herself to performing menial tasks in what she was pretty sure was a sexually suggestive uniform. Ideally she would have liked to ignore this world, its etiquettes and protocols, and find and seek out each of her opponents individually. However that had been her goal in the previous round and she had ended up in a prison cell isolated from those she most wanted to seek out. Whether she could have avoided that cell by taking a more pressing interest in that musical world was irrelevant; she could not afford to get locked out of this castle a second time. She had been lucky to be allowed back in the first time and she did not have the power to force her way back in. It was only that she knew she could scant afford to break the protocols of this world that kept her pride barely in check.

What was more was that she felt like she was under scrutiny, and, of all people, she would know when she was being watched.

And so, reluctantly, Phere found herself doing as she was bid. She picked her way through the crowd, holding aloft a plate of finger food which she did not recognise but which had a delectable aroma. As she did so, she caught snippets of conversation from the revellers that surrounded her. Most of it she quickly filed away as uninteresting and irrelevant, such as the gossip about, oh, wasn’t such a person looking simply resplendent this evening, and oh, did you see this other person who was in the same dress that she wore to the Winter Ball last year; what an embarrassing faux pas! However there was information to be gleaned; she picked up upon the fact that this was a prelude to a grand coronation that would be taking place later and there seemed to be something very interesting that was being discussed in subdued tones by a group of men dressed in similarly subdued tones, who would stop talking whenever she found herself in earshot.

She was almost being drawn into the glamour, the grandeur and the intrigue of the masquerade when amongst the crowd she happened to spot a familiar face. Klendel was milling around with a group of the less interesting kind of party-goer. He wore a twinkling midnight black dress and a domino mask that couldn’t even begin to conceal his identity, and she was a little surprised that such a thing was not causing more of a fuss. This was a perfect opportunity, not only had she stumbled across another battler but one who had previously proven to be useful. She could use him again, though it would mean temporarily acting outside of the parameters of her role. It would be worth it. She didn’t think that five minutes talking to a guest would be seen as anything too untoward.

“Excuse me, wench. Wench.” Phere was suddenly drawn back to the here and now by an angry voice coming from about knee height. She looked down into the irritated red face of a short and cross man. “Does it look as though I am capable of reaching the lofty heights at which you are holding those snacks?” He sneered. The Empress momentarily scowled before remembering where she was and the pains she had gone to to get here.

“Here you are sir.” She said, passing the plate down to the dwarf. Temporarily unburdened she made her way through the crowd to her ally.

“We need to talk.” The whisper caught Klendel by surprise. It was unmistakably Phere’s voice but what he was looking at was a white-masked maid. He had noticed a couple of them milling around the room, but in his musings about his potentially awful plan he hadn’t really noticed as one of them had approached him.

“What are you wearing?” Klendel whispered back.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Phere retorted. “We should speak in private. I am drawing undue attention.” Klendel’s attention snapped back to the crowd of revellers which he had positioned himself to infiltrate and noticed that he was getting a couple of inquisitive looks as Phere walked away.

“Excuse me.” He said. He quickly gauged the mood of the group and continued: “You just cannot get the help nowadays.” He followed it up with a look that was calculated to indicate a general distaste for the serving class and turned to follow Phere as the group took the cue to complain about their own personal servants. As he followed her Klendel noted that Phere’s pace was not the self-assured stride that he had seen previously, it was meeker, much more timid than she could possibly have been feeling. It was interesting. Eventually Phere nipped through a door off the main hall into an empty corridor that lay beyond, a minute or so later Klendel followed her through.

For a moment the pair stood there simply looking at one another, neither wishing to speak first and show their hand, so to speak. When they did, the subject of their clothing was not touched upon again. Klendel had noted how Phere was attempting to fit in but for all he knew she was simply trying to make the best of the costume she had arrived in, as he had been contemplating doing. Phere on the other hand had barely given Klendel’s dress a second thought. Either way it was not worth broaching.

“I want a status report. Who died?” Phere asked; the tower had indicated Nalzaki’s death, but she felt it would be a good idea to have this verified by someone she could, if not trust, then at least believe. Though it was the tone of the question that Klendel seemed to focus upon; she had spoken in the same low whisper she had used in the crowded hall, and Klendel responded by warily glancing this way and that. “We’re being watched.” Phere explained.

“Are you sure?” Klendel asked taking another glance up and down the corridor.

“Trust me, I'm the expert when it comes to this kind of thing.” Phere hissed. “Now stop acting so incredibly conspicuous.” Klendel returned his focus to Phere and she irritably she repeated the question.

Phere’s condescending attitude grated upon the Cog, but he was careful not to show it. “You tell me.” He replied indifferently. “I was busy at the time.”

“I’m assuming you were not busy for the duration?” Phere asked. “Give me some idea of what happened.”

“How about we trade;” Klendel proposed, “for every question of yours I answer you answer one of my own.”

“Unacceptable.” Phere hissed. “You work for me remember, we have an agreement.” There was a contemplative pause. While that was indeed true that agreement had been made a couple of rounds ago when Phere had had a certain degree of power and influence. Klendel had no great affection for the Empress; her attitude irked him even if he was to overlook the fact that she was part of ruling class that he hated.

The pause had gone on a touch long for Phere’s liking; “Co-operate or I’ll kick up a fuss and I’ll get us both ejected from here.” It wasn’t much of a threat but her instincts told her that Klendel wanted to remain part of this masquerade as much as she did.

Klendel scrutinised Phere’s blank white mask, to be honest he doubted that even if she hadn’t been wearing it he would have been able to read her expression. Instinct told him that it was a bluff but he didn’t want to test it for a scrap of information Phere could get quite easily from talking with someone else. Up to a point it was actually sort of advantageous to have Phere believe he was her lackey, it never hurt to have your enemies underestimate you, or better yet not realise that you were their enemy at all.

“I was with Harmon and Cascala.” Klendel replied, he couldn’t help but notice that Phere stiffened at Cascala’s name. “She was acting oddly, barely lucid; Cascala that is.” Phere hmmed thoughtfully.

“Watch out for her.” She said. “She’s dangerous, cannot be trusted. Carry on as you were, blend into the crowd and find out what you can about this round. Get back to me if you find out anything interesting.” She paused. “Tell a maid you have a message for Meredith. They’ll see that I get it.”

“Anything else?” Klendel replied sarcastically.

“Yes, if the situation deteriorates to the point where we desperately need to move on I would recommend Cascala be the target of choice, but if Harmon is around then she is also acceptable.” Phere continued. “If you see Ivan before I do make sure to fill him in on this.”

“Excuse me?” The voice came from behind them, a white-masked maid peering through the doorway. Before Klendel could turn to see her, Phere slapped him in the face.

“I’m not that kind of girl!” she said at a volume much louder than their previous whispers, and without hesitation she strode past the Cog and towards the doorway where the maid awaited her. It was not the perfect cover, a determined observer would have seen Klendel follow Phere inside and know that the implication she was making did not hold true, but even that was far from enough to expose her. As she left, the maid followed her and engaged her in terse conversation that Klendel did not overhear.

He rubbed his face, more out of appearances than anything else, and contemplated his next move.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

---

"Enough of the tantalizing, mysterious non-information." Cascala growled. While it might have been wiser and more advantageous to cooperate, she had had quite enough of playing charades for watching statues. Besides, this kind of overt aggression was the exact sort of thing she needed to maintain to prevent being caught up in another story about a place she could not care an iota less about. "Tell me who you are and why you want me or I walk right back out into that corridor. Now."

A more cautious person might have realized the tenuous position they were bargaining from, but Cascala believed that if this man had gone to such lengths to introduce her to his group, he knew or thought he knew something that made her valuable to him. As far as she was concerned, she had the advantage. Whether that was true or not, the Baron responded.

"Haven't heard of us, then? You're even more unusual than I had guessed."

A white-clad woman doing her best to effect the appearance of a swan clucked to herself as she rudely manipulated the mana around herself and Cascala. "She tastes... foreign. She's not supposed to be here. Not anywhere here. This isn't her world. She's an Outside spirit, John. Are you sure about this?"

Far from being discouraged, he rubbed his hands together. "That's even better than I had hoped!"

"Yes, but–"

"Look, you can feel how powerful she is even if you can't simply see it. I know you can. She's just the trump we need for tonight's game."

"Enough!" Cascala made as though to sweep out of the room, but the Baron grabbed her sleeve. She yanked her arm away and glared through the mask she still hadn't seen. "Then you intend to explain yourself?"

"There are no ears here but ours. I may as well. The Club has a long and illustrious history–" Another glare stopped him mid-pontificate, and he grinned wider. "Alright, the short version then. We're a group of nobles and merchants and Talents greater than our station. We organize little events at larger events, just something to keep people on their toes, to test their strength. Really, at the heart of it all, we think everything's gotten a little too set in its ways. We shake things up for everyone, do everyone a service. How could anyone advance if nothing changed?"

The Grand Magus narrowed her eyes again, this time in thought rather than anger. After a few moments, the obvious occurred to her and she nearly laughed. "You're a bunch of rank anarchists? Decadent assassins?"

Another man lounging on a pouf that was probably more valuable than the totality of the village Cascala had been born in drawled out a sentence that was barely more than a warbling yawn. "What a classless way of interpreting things."

On the one hand, having been accosted by a group of pointless stone-throwers was almost insulting; on the other, their obvious lowness put them even more in her power than she'd believed when she'd been assuming they were actually important in their backwater world. They knew enough of how their world worked to be useful if she pretended to go along with them, to make them allies. Pretended to go along with them, she reminded herself redundantly. Do not forget that they are as unimportant and disposable as the basest reagents. She made up her mind to play their game and use them to find her targets in the process, but still had to effect aloofness for the appearance of the thing.

She chuckled as airily as she could, but she'd never been an actor a liar. "You can all see what you're speaking to if not whom. What would that, would I, possibly gain from deigning to set firecrackers beneath thrones with you? Why should I not simply leave, possibly revealing you all to the sort of people who would be very interested in your plans?"

The Baron laughed much more naturally. "Because you'd reveal yourself in moments out there. Not many Talents are even close to what I presume your grade would be, but every one of them will be at the Masque, and most of them won't be as interested, and thus forgiving, as we are. By all means, go. We'll be fine with or without you, but we all have reasons for being here and aren't already being monitored for suspicious activity."

Cascala doubted that she'd be as helpless on her own as he was implying; it was certainly just a bluff to convince her to join their nihilistic revelry. Still, if she wanted to use their resources to her own ends, it would help to have them think she was in their power. Or at least amenable to their suggestions.

"Fine," she spat. "You still haven't answered the question of what I gain from playing along with your dark impulses."

"Well," he mused. "I can't give an answer I don't have. Who can say what a spirit like you wants but you?"

"Then you'd see me leave, each of us forgetting the other."

"No, I'd see you tell us what we can do or give for your cooperation."

Excellent. Cascala thought she kept her face carefully blank, but her life hadn't given her the tools she needed to hide the satisfied smirk that crawled across her lips.

---

The man who'd left his station to alert the Kings of Mozghan's portal's appearance stopped outside of a surprisingly dull door. It was wooden, and thus incongruous with the rest of the palace, but otherwise uninteresting and tended to slide away from a viewer's eyes and out of their mind. Pitted and ancient, it looked about three termites away from collapsing into a pile of pulp; the handle had already come unscrewed in a couple of places and dangled limply. Wisely, the man pulled a perfumed handkerchief out of his plain robes and held it to his mouth and nose before apprehensively pulling the door open.

There was gloom beyond, but not the gloom of a carefully-sinister tomb or the darkness of a secret chamber; it was simply the shade of somewhere everyone had forgotten or tried to ignore. Three shapes loomed at the far end of a small room, crammed into wooden thrones that seemed as decrepit as the door had. They didn't stir as the man entered and they blurred back into the shadows as he closed the door behind him.

"What is it, Hematite?"

"Your predecessor never troubled us the way you do, Hematite."

"Perhaps we should find a quieter Stone to guard us. Hematite."

Muffled slightly by the hand and kerchief on his face, the man called Hematite spoke unhurriedly. "I only serve as you ask me to, Majesties."

"Blind adherence is not a quality we seek in the Hematite."

"Yours is a station of discretion."

"My apologies for the intrusion, but my I wouldn't have come unless I truly believed you needed to see the information I have. Majesties."

"Your competence has outweighed your bothersomeness in the past."

"Speak, then leave us to our celebration."

Hematite cleared his throat and transferred the handkerchief to his other hand. "We have a significant, but very subtle, dimensional breach."

After a few moments of silence, he nervously continued. "We can't tell who created it, or even where it's coming from, but it's definitely not of this world. It doesn't even originate in this one, so either one of our Talents left existence and has begun meddling from Outside, or something genuinely alien has touched reality."

There were several more silent seconds, followed by one of the hissing voices from the dark belching out "Show us."

Dutifully, Hematite raised his free hand and wove a tapestry of light for his Kings. With the glow from his arcane diagrams spilling into the room, his lieges and their surroundings were regrettably revealed again; in a parody or pale imitation of the sumptuousness of the surrounding palace, this room's walls were bedecked in cloth and weavings, but these ones were dark and rotting and could never even have approached the craft their counterparts had even if new. Frescoes depicting scenes of bleakness and hunger climbed the ceiling; the higher they went, the more they degenerated into incoherent madness, eventually abandoning narrative and form and simply crawling about as meaningless and unsettling shapes of bizarre geometry.

For all the decorations' unappealingness though, they were all easier to look on than the Kings themselves. They squatted in their thrones, bloated and decaying, corpulent and fetid forms spilling over the arms and legs they were bound to. Finery that must once have matched the transcendental outfits worn by their subjects struggled to contain the putrefying mass of fat and bone and blood that seemed to have been poured into it: it bulged everywhere and snapped or tore in places, constantly giving the impression that one gasp might send it disintegrating; in some spots the bulk beneath the fabric seemed to have grown into or through it, or perhaps the clothing had replaced skin that had never been there. What of the Kings was exposed was cracked and oozing, or pock-marked and scabrous, or simply liquefying with rot. Their faces glared in the sudden light, melting gargoyles of flesh and spite topped with eyes that refused to reflect a single photon.

Hematite put it all out of his mind as he had done a hundred times before and returned to his job, splaying his spell out and explaining what he could divine. It was little and fragmented, which made it all the more worrisome.

When he was finished, mercifully dispelling the glow and shielding his eyes from the creatures that faced him, there was more silence. Eventually, a voice rasped out and broke it.

"Did you come here without any suspicions of the culprit?"

"Yes and no, Majesties. Opal should have compiled a list of those capable of this manner of intrusion by now."

"Contact him."

Silence, interspersed with small gestures from Hematite, then ended by his recitation of the Opal's information. One of the Kings raised a hand, magic gathering around calcareous fingers like sludge, then splaying out like a noneuclidean spider's web.

"No."

"We can account for those you have brought to us. They cannot be responsible."

"Are your lists accurate?"

"I trust Opal's competence, despite his inexperience. As I said, the intrusion may be completely unrelated–"

"No. Not tonight."

"Forces beyond you, and beyond us, mass tonight."

"Tell us of any other suspicious incidents."

Hematite almost dropped his handkerchief in his nerves, snatching it back as the smell assaulted his sinuses. "Little that seems related, Lords. Mostly events I'd expect at a gathering this size. A few 'gen users that overestimated themselves, peasants porting in, small fights quashed by Moppets, that sort of thing."

"There are guests uninvited."

"Aren't there always? We've found more than a few Talented spacewrights when they were able to–"

"Show us."

"Begin with any that arrived simultaneously, even if not together."

Hematite wove another informational spell, careful to focus only on it rather than anything it revealed. After displaying several clusters of information he and his partners had gathered over the evening, one of the Kings' hands shot up.

"There."

"Did you miss it, Hematite?"

"These six, they came from Outside."

"Well Outside."

"I don't see..." Holding his breath, he brought out his eyepiece again while maintaining the spell. Nothing stood out still, until he noticed a few errant trails of mana where there should have been none. "Ah. Your insight dwarfs my own again, Majesties."

"It should not have to, Hematite."

"This failure will have its consequences."

"Perhaps the Grey Nobles will see another Stone join their ranks, hmm?"

Hematite's face fell before he could stop it, but before he could protest he was interrupted by laughter that sounded as though a swamp was clearing its throat.

"No. Your usefulness in the past will save you for now."

"You are merciful, Majesties." Hematite's hands shook as he squinted further at his spell, trying to calm his heart. "But... these six don't come from the same source as the breach."

"No."

"But tonight, we do not believe this is coincidence."

"We will speak with one of these interlopers before we decide how to proceed."

Hematite nodded. "We have them under surveillance by Tireless Men, my Lords. I can fetch any at–"

"We will fetch them ourselves."

The King in the middle raised both hands, chains rattling as they were dragged through the air, leaving an oily tear in space behind them.

---

Klendel had come to the inevitable conclusion that there was little to do but return to the party and see what more he could learn before attempting to move forward with... Well, with whatever plan he came up with between now and then. One had certainly started forming, but it was barely more than a few concepts, completely disconnected temporally and causally. In the meantime, there was mingling and extorting to do.

He'd returned to the large, uncomfortably bright room and found another group of disposable partygoers to ply information out of. He hadn't really learned much worth knowing, but it was better than floundering alone in a corridor. A few goals were forming in his mind, but without really understanding the social structure of this place, or even common etiquette, it was very difficult to put them into action. What he needed was –

Midthought and without warning, Klendel dissolved. His shadowy body melted into the air, his cog following as though it was no more substantial than he. Disembodied and confused, he felt himself being dragged painfully through... Well, he didn't know what. If he didn't exist what was he moving through? And why did it hurt? But before he could think, and as abruptly as he'd disappeared, he reformed.

The first thing he became aware of was the darkness. The second thing he became aware of was the tendril of foreign thought pressing against his mind. The third thing he became aware of was a croaking voice.

"This is 'Klendel', it would seem."

Originally posted on MSPA by Godbot.

---

"But why are they having a party?" demanded Cedric as Ivan fumbled with the extravagant display of crystal glasses surrounding the punch bowl. Even his extra senses weren't enough to tell where one ended and the other began. "They didn't even kill anything," he muttered, folding his arms.

As usual, they'd been redressed for the occasion; Cedric's suit of armor had been replaced with a tuxedo with red trim, Sigrar had taken the form of an elegant saber, and Ivan was stuck in some sort of waistcoat. Ivan took a deep breath, pulled his hands from the dense fractal of glassware, and tried to fish one from the very top. Somehow, he ended up arms-deep in physics-defying crystal glasses, and as he finally managed to get his hands around one, the whole thing began to collapse inwards. As he scrambled to support the entire structure, a couple in clothing so decadent that it was impossible to tell which was the suit and which was the dress strolled past and delicately drew a pair of glasses from the bottom. The woman(?) simply passed her glass through the punch bowl, filling it up, and took a sip from the man(?)'s glass, which was now somehow full.

"I killed a dragon once," muttered Sir Cedric. "The city of Klangsbor threw me a party, and they'd never even heard of me."

Ivan coughed politely.

"But after that, of course, everyone had."

Ivan looked around helplessly.

"Excuse me, sir," he muttered to Cedric. "Could you, uh - could you help me with these?"

Cedric grunted and simply swatted the glasses off of Ivan's arms, scattering them across the table and sending several over the edge. Before any of them could hit the floor, half a dozen waiters and a few of the carpet valets swooped in and began expertly catching and restacking the glasses. Ivan watched intently, using the refraction of light through them and the perfect musical notes they made as they clinked together - good lord, the empty glasses were actually playing a symphony - to try and construct an accurate picture of the physical structure of the sculpture in his head, but something about how the glasses fit together gave him a headache if he thought about it too much. Which he did.

A waiter silently came up to Sir Cedric with a tray and a single glass of champagne to distract him from the minor inconvenience. Cedric picked up the flute-shaped glass, took a bite out of it, swallowed the champagne, and spat the crumbled glass out on the tray while glaring directly at the waiter.

The waiter's composure broke for just a second, and he took a step back. Cedric took a step forward, and the waiter turned and fled. Cedric smirked. That sure showed him.

"You ever fought niceras, Sir Ivangar?"

"What are those?" he asked exasperatedly, fidgeting with his little bow tie. Weren't they supposed to be fighting to the death, or something?

"They're... they're big nasty sea things. You know, with teeth."

"With teeth," said Ivan, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, you know," said Cedric, miming a big pair of jaws in front of his mouth. Ivan snorted and covered his mouth, hiding his laughter. Cedric grinned, but his expression faded after a moment.

"Hey, Ivan. Sir Ivangar."

"Hm?"

"Why's everyone staring at us?"

“I, uh…” Hrm. Now that Ivan looked around, people were staring at them, weren’t they. Well, Ivan supposed he was kind of underdressed in just regular old formal wear for humans. At least Spectator seemed to have a sense of what regular people clothing was like, even though she was always prancing around in that skeleton thing of hers.

Wait, no, Crowe said she was dead.

Her assistant, Crowe, who died right in front of everyone.

“Sir Ivangar?”

But the Vivacious Deadlock was still going. Was there yet another person running this battle? Did battles just continue on their own once you started one? Did they know what to do once there was only one person left?

There had to be a way to figure out whether this battle was manned or unmanned, as it were, but Ivan found himself realizing that he had absolutely no idea how to go about doing any of it. In fact, Ivan, realized, he’d been so focused on lying and smiling his way to power and survival that he’d hardly put any thought into figuring out who The Spectator and Crowe were. That seemed really relevant, didn’t it?

What kind of people gather up mere mortals, stick them in a room together, and pressure them until they start killing each other?

The bits of his brain that were still human called up a memory of when he was just a kid – when Gavin Stiles-who-never-seemed-to-leave-the-playground brought a jar of beetles to school and shook it to make them fight.

Probably the sort of people who think we’re too small for it to matter, Ivan thought darkly, his mind wandering back to CARET, or people who think being bigger gives them the right to do it. He wrung the pen he’d stolen in his hands, and jerked away violently when a sharp little blade dug into his thumb. A delicate ivory fountain pen in the shape of a quill clattered to the floor. He hadn’t even noticed the pen had changed into something else.

He picked it up with a shudder.

“Maybe it’s my beard.”

“Do you think it’s my beard?” Cedric asked worriedly. This was important.

---

beeeeep

beeeeep

beeeeep

(Those were a phone’s dial tone, by the way, not Jack Moulin’s thoughts right about now. Specifically, they were the three rings Gerald Botterson always allowed his phone to get through before he could be sure that it wasn’t just a text message that he could ignore.)

beeeclick.

“H’lo?” groaned Gerald in the voice that he’d reserved specifically for wishing he’d changed his number.

“Gerald, when was the last time you saw Jennie?” Jack blurted out.

The other end of the line went quiet.

Wait, shit.

“Gerald, I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

“Jennie’s dead, you asshole!”

“I know, I know, that, I was –”

“You, you came to her funeral!”

“Gerald, I know, I’m sorry,”

“Did you forget? Did you forget about when they buried my fucking girlfriend? How could you just – just call me and –”

“Shut up!”

There was a moment of shocked silence on both ends of the line. Jack took a deep breath. “I, I know it sounds weird, Gerald,” he continued carefully, “but I was at work, and I saw Jennie – she came to me, and –”

“What?”

“Gerald, I know, I know it sounds weird, but she, she – how could you not have heard about this, she killed Norm –”

“Jack, what the fuck –”

“She pointed a gun at me –”

“Shut up! Do you think this is funny? Do you think you can just trick me into believing that my girlfriend is alive – I was there too, Jack! I was there too when they buried her in the...”

“...Gerald, I know, I’m sorry, but –”

“What, Jack.”

“…Forget it.”

There was a long, pregnant silence, and Gerald hung up without a word. Jack wanted to bow his head and massage his temples, but he had to keep his eyes on the road. He wanted to pull over. Heated conversations and phone calls were both supposed to cause accidents.

If Jennie caught up to him, though, it wouldn’t be an accident.

Jack kept driving.

---

Gerald looked at his phone in silence for a moment before quietly setting it facedown on his desk. As he took a few deep breaths, his eyes naturally tracked towards his closed window – the room’s only source of light.

There was never much to look at outside – just some bare trees and a few mottled brick buildings across the street with shuttered windows that never seemed to have anybody in them. Even when people still came by here.

He shifted his weight and looked at the towering wall of infinite churning darkness maybe three feet to the right of his window.

It’s not like it was his fault. Why’d all this have to happen to him?

The void rumbled faintly, and Gerald got the vague impression of a roaring jet engine that he was completely tuning out.

His eyes followed the edge of the void past his window, into his building and along the space that one of his walls used to occupy. There was usually a faint purple glow behind the cheap paper screen he’d put up.

He followed the void to the other end of the room, where the girl in red aviators was occupying the room’s only chair.

“You are still my girlfriend, right?”

The void droned again, and she grinned to herself.