mordicai caeli (mordicai) wrote,
mordicai caeli
mordicai

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The Dragonslayers.

We remember the Hammer-maker. His mother was the City, his father was the Work. He grew large on the milk of the city; he was the last of the giants. The Hammer-maker was born for war, but he loved only the anvil & the Riddle. He loved the anvil & the Riddle but alas for him, Swords & secrets loved him. His hammer did not ring at the forge, but instead drank deep of blood. Because of his size, there were those who thought him slow; & slow he was: slow to speak. Maker of terrible oaths, Basilisk-friend, the Hammer-maker knew that he must turn his hammer against himself, for he was The Monster of the City too. The first thing his hammer ate was its name; but in time, it drank deep of many names & many secrets. The White Witch of the Green stood with the Hammer-maker, but he died Nameless, breaking the mirror & skull of the Red Witch of the Silver thrice over, on the Blasted Heath.

We remember the Red Witch of the Silver. She was the mother of a thousand demons, hatched forth from her womb. When she was young she was promised to a woodcutter, but she fled her family & her duty. When she was young she watched the Mirror yawn & swallow her brother, & when she looked in after him she found a Horrible King. The King took her as his bride, & gave her back her brother The Twister covered in scabs. & gave her more besides, for she was full of belly & of wickedness. Her restless evil scoured clean all the other evils of the City & so we thank her. Her Alchemy seeped into the hills, into the air, & her diabolical children lurked in every reflection, in those days. In time, the Red Witch of the Silver was slain by the lawful treason of the Hammer-maker, though her children scattered wide from the Blasted Heath where she fell, & carried her Wooden Heart, the colour of pitch, with them.

We remember the Cheshire Courtesan. His father was the faceless City & his mother was the Madam. His sister became the Lawmaker & upon his shoulder sat a smiling Devil Monkey, ink-drinker. The Cheshire Courtesan lay with generals & faerie princes, shared smoke with goblins & gods, & his palanquin stalked in the Twilight of Urth. Alone among all living things did he snatch a tainted heart back from the scales of justice, washing it in blood. Where the Cheshire Courtesan walked, blue flowers grew, & he stayed the hand of righteous killing, for better or worse. He wore on his brow the crown of all his yesterdays, & he was the Jewel of the lower wards. The Thin World was his domain, & he extracted many pledges from those that lay within the scars of the world. The Cheshire Courtesan said he would be born again, & so we watch for him, & his sign is the Monkey's Paw.

We cannot see the Faceless One. It has sang to all the ghosts & now they are silent. The poliwogs croak shapeless, mindless memories. Those who seek The Faceless One out in thought are confronted by a Door of Jewels & Fire, & can go no further. The Faceless One sat on a throne of bones & bore a bone in its lap as a sceptre. Its body lies beneath no tombstone, the house made for it in the Necropolis is empty. Empty of poems, empty of tales, the Faceless One is forever with its Wife. The Secret City Within The City has given the Faceless One a name, & that name is the Heat Miser, & it has an evil Hand. The Faceless One will not be known till the titans wake & quake & break the world open once more. Until then the Faceless one is terror, thrice greater than you can imagine, forever burning, master of lies, a Prince of the Great World.

They went into the Great World. They killed the Dragon. We remember those we can, here in the Iron City.
Tags: campaign1, oubliette
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