Tales of Duskvol
Linmer and Cruncho search for new allies. The gang ensure Sizzle’s date with Valanthe goes smoothly. Mikh gets his dog back. Giancarlo welcomes new family.
At the Creak Tavern, a Skovlan bar at the Docks:
-Linmer TENTATIVELY made some connections with some dockworkers, and has furnished himself with an application process for potential crew.
-Cruncho has connected with Ulf Ironborn’s gang upon beating up and helping to disappear a Bluecoat.
-Jammer got into a fistfight with Margaret Clave, her former workplace enemy, and accidentally wingman’d Linmer with a member of the Skovlan nationalist Grinders.
At the Unnamed Arena
-Sizzle took Valanthe out on a date to see an underground theater production loosely based on the Nameless’ exploits (think “Our Town”, but for crime).
-Meanwhile, Arkin set up Viktoria Karhowl for a fall.
-These two threads converged in a mini-heist, during which Viktoria’s ghost was exorcised from Cole’s body and put into a small robotic walking table. This also involved a great deal of surgical work and ghost-suplexing, as Viktoria had wired Cole’s body with an automated Lugos sicko mode and associated embedded cybernetics. Cole Ardmore is now rescued, free of possession, and in the care of his sister Valanthe (who has really let her bluster down and opened up to Sizzle).
-Some stagehands were hired to play ninjas to help accentuate the ambiance of the date. It didn’t go well for the stagehands.
-Valanthe and Sizzle got to emotional third base (tearful revealing of emotional weakpoints and past traumas!)
-Arkin has suborned and rigged up Viktoria’s basement Lugos factory, using the Clockmaker’s OS.
-Neither the Spider nor Casta know about the Nameless’ involvement in either of these things.
In the Dimmer Sisters’ lair
-Cruncho, accompanied by Sizzle, freed Bhed the Wolf into the delighted embrace of Mikh.
-Render caught Cruncho’s Cinderblood, and Cruncho spilled all the beans on the Spider that he was capable of giving, including her likely nobility.
At the Nameless’ Lair
-Sizzle began a long-form investigation into how to (as per Caleb Hollow’s suggestion) find Joseph Woodward/her father’s sense of purpose and reveal aspects of his identity. This investigation involved uncovering that her father primarily remembered her and their home life through the lens of want and privation (perhaps a hint as to why he went full Seventh Tower?). After a few abortive attempts, the father/daughter duo tried out a cooking class with the Nameless’ own Giancarlo. While Giancarlo refused to use the forbidden arts of François to heal Woodward’s psyche, he DID agree to teach Woodward about cooking. This has led to a gradual healing of Woodward’s psyche, and Giancarlo has adopted Joseph Guiseppe Woodward as his son, and Rosie Roselina Woodward as his granddaughter.
-Cruncho, having shed his silver skeleton, freed Bhed the Wolf, prepared his body AND Blighter’s new body, was ready to die. Jammer enthusiastically beat him to death, allowing Blighter to take on her new physical existence and go in peace to destroy the world to the best of her ability. With Orianna using Vazaran magic to bind his spirit to his dead body, Cruncho has now awakened as a (Vazaran) vampire!
Together at Last
This is what Arkin’s security devices and other Nameless security measures/psychometry/etc will see and report:
As soon as it’s empty of Nameless, Blighter’s new body slides and slithers its way into the basement Lugos factory that had previously been Viktoria Karhowl’s. She looks around the machinists workshop with an increasingly contemptuous gaze . . . until her gaze lights upon a bipedal mechanical table. THEN her face brightens immesurably.
Walking over to the table, Blighter headbutts it into smithereens. A faint ghostly aura rises up out of the wreckage and tries to flee off somewhere. With all of the nasal power of the world’s greatest cocaine addict, Blighter snorts the ghost of Viktoria Karhowl.
Job done, she leaves.
This is what those same devices and measures will miss, as nobody in the Nameless is all that psychic.
<-YOU TRAITOROUS FILTH I’LL->
<Viktoria! You glorified vibrator-monger, it’s been centuries!>
<. . . Blighter? By the Emperor, how->
<HA! You oil-sucking gear-botherer, the Emperor has nothing to do with it! I am Blighter! I FOUND A WAY!>
<Of course you did, my Mistress. And what now? You put together a glorified soup, proclaim that it will destroy everything, and I bow and tell you that your studies have surpassed mine?>
<No, I imagine you will have some suggestions! ‘What if you did it with wires and tubes, Mistress? What if we made it out of gears, Mistress? What if we reduced ourselves to upjumped tinkerers and amateur blacksmiths, Mistress?’>
<Bah! At least my work cannot be approximated by rutting sacks of hormonal meat!>
<And at least MY work cannot be thwarted by a bit of moisture!>
<Ahhh . . . I have missed you, Mistress.>
<And I you, my darling Viktoria. Shall we destroy this world that the Cinder King has made?>
There is a slight, nigh-unnoticeable psychic pause.
<. . . We’ll do our best, of course.>
<Marvelous! To wrack and ruin!>
Interlude
A Brief Interlude With Dr. Carver Wrackham Malleus, PhD, IFD
When the Black Knight Sveta kicked down his door, he felt relief.
When Render questioned him about his studies of forgotten gods, he felt numb.
When Render tore his skin from his body and the . . . thing . . . exploded forth from him and into the ghost field, he finally knew quiet.
When death came for the former professor, he welcomed it as an alcoholic welcomes drink.
A Brief Interlude With the Babadick (to be Shrieked Shrilly, as if to a Straddled Sleep Paralysis Victim)
YOU CAN’T GET RID OF THE BABADICK!!!!
IF YOU’RE A REALLY NASTY ONE, AND YOU KNOW WHAT IS TO TAKE
IF YOU’RE A REALLY LUSTY ONE, WHOSE LIBIDO CAN’T BE SLAKED
THEN YOU’LL BE JOINED WITH A SPECIAL ONE, A FRIEND TO CADS AND RAKES
BA-BA-BA DICK DICK DICK
I’LL SOON BEGIN MY NEWEST TRICK!
COME SEE, COME SEE WHAT’S IN YOUR JEANS!
COME SEE, COME SEE WHAT LIES BENEATH!
The Three Cs
”. . . and then . . . yeah, I woke up and they . . . these people were over me, and my sister was there, and . . .”
Cole’s recitation falters as he makes eye contact with his girlfriend. Claire is huddled on the end of his bed, pale and trembling.
“Oh my GAWD, Cohle . . .” she begins, voice choked with emotion, “I can’t . . . Like, I literally can’t. . .”
Cole blanks for a second, and then tentatively moves to give her a hug.
“Babe, it’s totally fine! I’m okay!”
He places his hands around her with all the confidence of a brain surgeon who has just realized those brownies in the break room had been laced.
“I’m okay . . .”
Quick as a flash, Claire slaps a hand-sized metal spider to the back of Cole’s head. The young man immediately goes limp. His eyes flicker for a moment, and then his mouth moves of its own accord.
<I have interface. This young man is, indeed, using my programming.>
“Hrrrn.”
Claire’s face has undergone a similar change. Her expression has gone dispassionate, and her voice has dropped about twenty octaves. She begins grabbing at Cole’s arm, tracing the subdermal wiring.
<However, this is not my work. The construction is crude, possessed of a certain brute elegance. I believe . . . FASCINATING. I have seen this work before . . .>
“What’re its capabilities? Useful in a fight?”
<It would depend on whether you had any interest in him surviving the combat.>
For the briefest interval, Claire freezes.
“It would be . . . preferable. Bereavement invites scrutiny.”
<Ah, of course. Pity. Regardless, he might prove useful under the right circumstances.>
“Hrrrn. We’ll keep a spider on-site, then.”
<As you say, miss. I’m inserting backdoors in here now. Can’t be too careful . . .>
For a few moments, there is only the whirring in Cole’s implants.
<Miss, it occurs to me . . . Cole’s implants would permit him movements and a fighting style similar to yours. His strength, while unequal to yours, is still markedly enhanced.>
“Your point?”
Now it is the Clockmaker’s turn to pause for a microsecond.
<Cole Ardmore could provide an adequate false Spider. If Render should track us down.>
There is no pause when Claire responds.
“NO. No replacements. It’s me. To the last breath. Only me.”
<I understand->
“Besides. Plan against failure, not for it. Victory is the only option.”
<. . . As you say, miss. I am nearly done. Best to get ready.>
Claire moves to hug Cole’s body as the whirring subsides. The Clockmaker settles Cole’s arms over her in an embrace. The hug is a different flavor of awkward here: more an estranged father and daughter.
”. . . I’m okay, I swear . . .” Cole resumes.
Claire permits herself a second to conjure up some tears, and then lets out a theatrical sob.
The Marinara of the Covenant
In a small village market near Bright Harbor, an amateur bake-off underway.
The judges, a trio of friendly-faced elders, take turns sampling the various desserts on display, offering kind words or gentle criticism. The contestants are nearly all local, of all ages, and largely united in good cheer and a kind of heatless hunger to impress.
“Nearly all”, I say, for there is one that does not fit this description. Tall he is, pale even for a world with no sun, but blessed with a vigorous build. His eyes are flat and glassy, like a shark’s. His hands are calloused and strong, befitting of one who has known ladle, knife, and rolling pin since before he could speak.
The judges approach to judge his work: a Tycherosi Maven cake with a confected replica of the Steel Library. He offers a slight smile at their awe, a courteous nod at their raptures of enthusiasm, a handshake to the doughy grandmother who can scarcely speak over her delight. None of his courtesy and friendliness reaches his eyes.
His name is Francesco-Rocco, and he knows he has already won this bake-off.
He does not pay further attention to the judging of his former contestants, already planning the next steps of his journey. A jaunt to Sunfall, of course, to cook a five-course lunch for the Ordo Pescatus, and then perhaps a week as a guest chef at Kevensie’s, and then-
“Well, I’ll be damned!” croaks one of the elders, “Everyone, we have a tie on our hands! I suppose we’ll need a second round as a tie-breaker!”
Francesco-Rocco is agog, presuming he has misheard. He wheels around to see the simpering face of some country bumpkin who is happily clasping at the judges. At her table is . . . an ordinary fish pie?
But no . . . the woman cuts open the pie, and reveals the multilayered contents. There is fish, yes . . . but also an exquisite buttered potato substrate, laced through with a savory sauce that might pierce the nose of God. Beneath this, a delicate latticework of properly green vegetables that could only be from the northern Dagger Isles. A fish and salad course, all within a single pie.
Meals within meals . . .
She is not done. As she pulls a slice out for one of the judges to enjoy, he finds his eyes drawn to the disconnect between the size of the pan and the depth of the pie. In growing horror, he watches her move the fish pie to reveal the second level to the tin: a sweet custard desert, cooked in perfect sync with the fish pie!
. . . and flans within pans.
She meets his eyes and gives him a guileless nod. She takes up the knife, to cut the pie open. In her eyes, Francesco-Rocco sees a subtle cunning that he had not marked upon entering the town hall. Only now does he fully realize his mistake. Only now does he understand the trap into which he has fallen.
<Uncle . . .> he thinks to himself, with all the vehemence of a terrible curse.
As the judges slowly elaborate on the rules, Francesco-Rocco sets his eyes on his ingredients . . . and begins to properly TRY.
“You set me up.”
Baron* Vincenzo does not deny the charge, and merely caresses the first-place ribbon that his nephew is brandishing before his face.
“Of course, dear nephew. I wanted your triumph to feel EARNED, after all. What sort of excitement could there be in a bake-off between a lot of yokels and the pride of my House?”
Enraged, Francesco-Rocco flings his pie tins about the shop. Baron Vincenzo permits the outburst.
“Who was she? What was her name??”
“Merely a Bene Dessert witch. I would even say, ha-ha, a MOLTO Bene Dessert witch. Gave you quite a start, didn’t she?”
Francesco-Rocco begins to growl, and Baron Vincenzo’s manner sobers.
“There is, of course, another reason for my meddling, nephew. I needed to see if you were still sharp, still capable. I needed to see that you were still YOU.”
“And WHY,” spits Francesco-Rocco, “would I be ANYTHING ELSE, UNCLE?”
“Because Giancarlo has adopted a new son.”
Francesco-Rocco freezes. His growl dies in his throat.
“And that son . . .” continues Baron Vincenzo ”. . . has a grown daughter already.”
The Baron looms over Francesco-Rocco, his manner no longer avuncular. For his part, Francesco-Rocco shows fear for the first time.
“So you see, nephew, I do not come merely to challenge you. I come to see if you are still what you were, so that you may become what you are MEANT to be. I would look in your face, nephew, and ask you: do I merely behold Francesco-Rocco Valentini? Or do I behold the TRUE scion of Giancarlo Valentini, who the Bene Dessert call the Quiznos Sandwichman? Do I behold the one who will tame the Trai’NuFüd? Do I behold the one who will give Akaros its Lean Paradise? Do I, NEPHEW, behold the Grill’san al’ GrubEats???”
*Not LITERALLY a Baron. That’s just the name of his food company. They make a frozen kind of cheesy flat bread with salted meats that, when heated . . . It doesn’t matter.