#plot and prose

Leaning just a bit closer to the microphone, you part your lips to tell lies.

“First and foremost, I would like to thank each and every one of you for allowing a troll of meager standing such as myself walk amongst you. The title of Matriark is an honor beyond compare, and the status it gives me unparalleled. I find myself a bit overwhelmed when I ponder it in my spare time. It’s a mantle of honor that I will wear happily, and with humility,” You put your head down a bit to accompany that sentiment. Someone snaps a picture. “However, it is also a great burden. The responsibility which accompanies my privileged status is daunting; to represent the jadebloods of the empire, to lead and shelter them, to provide a voice where none was previously heard. This is what I must do, for the sake of my caste siblings, and I intend to fulfill that role thoroughly. I have been granted the means to make a difference, and I will not fail to grasp at whatever straws I must in order to give my caste what they truly deserve in this life.”

You pause to clear your throat, then shoot an inviting smile across the crowd. “And of course, a door must allow one to pass two ways - any who wish to learn more about my charges are always welcome to visit the caverns and gain firsthand experience in our lives. The sharing of information and experience should always be open.”

Finally, it was time. As she sat alone in the courtyard near the back of the palace, you descended upon her, landing in a crouch with sword in hand. The look of shock on her face did nothing to help her head sliding from her neck in a clean slice.

Retrieving the head, you cast a levitation spell on yourself and begin floating airily toward the front entrance. You snag a flag with a spike on the way, for good measure. Once at the front gates, you drop to the ground with a small burst of sparks, and plant your flag in the cobbles of the path.

This message would be clear: the head of Sara Neadie, who had assassinated the High Priestess, cut and mounted on a spike. You also take the time to leave a short message, a couple lines of Elvish shimmering in the air above the gruesome sight.

Strider is here. Your shit is wrecked.

You’re in a garden in 17th century France. With one hand tied behind your back and the other tied to a fencing foil, you have only just enough time to sweep your eyes over the message before someone removes your shades and replaces them with a blindfold. The man you’re about to duel, a viscount of something or other that he said earlier and you forgot immediately because you weren’t listening, calls to you from across the small area you’d marked out. He asks if you’re really quite certain you want to do this. You tell him you’ve never wanted to do something more in your life. He says it’s your funeral.

The message you read brushed from your mind instantly, you assume a stance and lunge - and for a moment you almost feel as if the ground has been moved under your feet. You stumble forward, and you can hear your opponents sword audibly cutting through the air.

Then your perception shifts. You’re simultaneously disconnected from the timestream and shoved straight into the middle of it, no longer an outside observer. You contract in on yourself, and then explode outward. Expanding, expanding. You’re everything. You’re a meteor hurtling past a sun millions of light years away, and you’re the sun itself burning eternally. You can feel all of your atoms humming in resonance with everything else, and you’re acutely and painfully aware of every single thing contained in your physical form.

The sword connects with you, but it doesn’t. You feel your body warp out of the way, shifting from solid to gaseous to ions in the wind. Nebulas explode in front of your eyes. You fall backwards onto the ground, feeling the rotation and orbit of the planet in every cell of your body. You’re combusting endlessly but you feel cold. So cold.

Dirk’s gaze was transfixed on the man at the head of the table, as was nearly everyone elses, though for different reasons. His own father’s voice was surreal in this moment, in this context, although perhaps the most grounded thing he’d encountered since arriving home early that morning.

With the dishes drying on the rack next to the sink, he proceeded to thoroughly wash his hands before heading back into the study. On his desk, he had already gathered the required items. Obtaining the needle and other required tools were easy enough. The mana stones were significantly more expensive, and had taken him a while to accrue. Crushing them into dust had been even more laborious than buying them.

Taking a seat, he took stock of his other items. Rags, for the blood and other humors. Extra needles. A piece of paper with his painstakingly chosen sigils illustrated on it. Half of his research time had been spent on those damn runes. Picking up the bottle of ink, he swirled it a bit to watch the mana stone particles go up in a storm of blue sparkles. Mixing it would also be important.

He turned in the seat to remove his shirt, discarding it on the floor, then turned back and laid his left arm on the desk in front of him. The left side had been randomly chosen by a coin toss. He knew either would be fine, as he was ambidextrous. His hand would be steady.

He decided to start on the palm and work his way down. The arm would be the easy part, but he’d probably have to get Sawtooth to help with his chest. He was nervous about assigning such an important task to a golem, not because he thought Sawtooth couldn’t do it, but because he knew it would have to be perfect. He only had one shot at it, after all.

Plucking the needle gun from the table, he checked that the stone powering it was still in place, and then loaded the jar of ink. He had promised Roxy he would be careful, and he would. He had lotions and poultices at hand, just in case, although he knew the pain wouldn’t be a problem so much as the thought of infection. Home tattooing was a dangerous sport, let alone tattooing with mana infused ink.

You’re standing in the middle of your very small office in the caverns, remaining stock still as it’s searched. The troll sent for your inquiry is actually being decently unobtrusive. As in she’s not making a mess out of the place and she left her guards outside, which is really about all the courtesy you can expect.

You feel like you got slipped some bad acid, like you got existentially broken to bits and then built back up the wrong way. The stars in your eyes won’t go away no matter how many times you blink and rub at them. You manage to stumble down the stairs from the balcony containing the transportalizer, then give up somewhere between that and the couch.

It’s not so much different from how you normally feel. You’re still infinite and wibbly and everywhere at once. It’s just completely different in every single imaginable way. And your jacket changed colors. So that’s just great.

The trip to the town where Vriska’s ship was docked was long and boring. Your usual transportation couldn’t be expected to be nearly as nice as what the palace sent for your last trip, after all.

Of course it’s dark when you finally do arrive at the port city. That’s to be expected. You would almost regret wearing the wide brimmed hat on your head if it didn’t pull your outfit together so nicely. One of your usual guards, a large man with sharp horns, tells you that they’ll be driving you directly to the dock to meet the Curateur. You can tell by the tone when he says her name that he’s curious, but trying not to ask.

Watching the streets pass outside your window, you can’t help but wonder what this city is like. You only go into one town for typical excursions because it’s the closest and thus easiest to get clearance for an outing. You’re definitely not used to coastal areas and the ocean remains somewhat of a mystery to you even though you’ve seen it once or twice already.

As your car pulls up to the dock, the two guards disembark first to assume their posts. You turn to gather your things as the tall man from your side comes to open your door.