Where Armies Fail

Moirean

A followup to events started in this log: http://forums.aetolia.com/discussion/1490/yoohooo-mogheeeduuu

Spinesreach wants to take out the growing threat in Moghedu and liberate the people from the military state that has formed in the power vacuum.

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Part one: Meeting with Galatesh

Galatesh the Exile gives you a respectful salute.

Eyebrows raising in surprise, you say to Galatesh the Exile, "Galatesh!"

Lowering her hand and giving you a crooked grin, Galatesh the Exile says, "Yeah. Hi. I would have reached you sooner but I was inside a bottle."

You wryly say to Galatesh the Exile, "That tends to happen when you visit Spinesreach."

Galatesh the Exile smiles wryly.

Galatesh the Exile says, "I also met some nice boys that tried to tie me up. I knew more knots than them so I sort of... turned it around."

Galatesh the Exile shrugs helplessly.

With a frown, you say, "From here?"

Galatesh the Exile says, "Yeah. Or the tundra. I wasn't clear on that."

Galatesh the Exile is still grinning as she moves to lean against the edge of the gate.

You have emoted: Moirean remains frowning, shifting her weight with a clatter of platemail. "Do I need to find someone to press charges....?" she asks.

There's a dusty chuckle from Galatesh the Exile , who shrugs. "I'm not pressing charges. They can, once they manage to untie themselves and find their clothing."

You have emoted: Moirean bites back a chuckle and nods, asking, "So. Uhh. Spinesreach still able to help, somehow, with that situation in Moghedu, or are you moving on?"

Galatesh the Exile says, "Well... I don't know. That's up to Spinesreach, isn't it?"

Galatesh the Exile creases her brow in a frown.

You have emoted: "There's interest in assisting," Moirean assures Galatesh the Exile. "It may not necessarily be officially sanctioned, but...there are people who will help."

You have emoted: Moirean glances over to Rashar, telling Galatesh the Exile, "Let me deal with this ruffian first, and we can talk somewhere a bit less. Umm. Eavesdroppable."

Galatesh the Exile nods her head at you.

Rashar enters quietly, in time to hear the Exile's comment. He comes to a slow halt a few paces away from you, studying the conversing pair with flat, lifeless eyes. His arms lift and then fall, sinking pale gray hands into his pockets. "Ah," he murmurs. "Never know when I'll be giving away all of your state secrets."

Galatesh the Exile glances over at Rashar, a strange expression on her face as she folds her arms.

With an upnod towards the gates towering over the city's entrance, you say to Rashar, "Recite the oath, there."

Galatesh the Exile says, "If I were still Moghedian, I'd be winning so many bets right now."

---- induction stuff ----

You say to Galatesh the Exile, "Right. Shall we...?"

---- travel to a meeting room, get Syssin peoples. Well, people. Only Trager wasn't afk. ----

Silently, Galatesh the Exile seats herself upon the floor, crossing her legs and resting her hands upon them. The position is lotus, clearly derived from martial training.

Trager dips his head slightly in greetings before folding both hands behind him, interlaced at the small of his back.

You have emoted: Moirean frowns as Galatesh the Exile sits down on the floor, but rolls with it, taking a seat at the chair nearest the Mhun. The positioning casts her into the shadows, obscuring her features. She lifts an arm to gesture for Trager to do the same.

Galatesh the Exile's dark eyes fix on Trager.

Galatesh the Exile says, "We had a bet on him, too. Sad to say I lost this one. I thought for sure he'd go to Bloodloch."

Trager slowly appraises those gathered, ever wary, alert, before he finally moves to comply. He slips himself around the chair, and down into, leaning back in a languid sort of fashion. "Should have clued me in," he rumbles out absently when settled. "Sure we could have come to an arrangement." There is a jest in his words, however, so the voracity of them go unknown.

"No good," Galatesh the Exile replies, shaking her head. "All bets off if there was interference."

Galatesh the Exile removes a knife from her boot, a whetstone manifesting in her hand. She begins to sharpen it while she waits, her eyes following its razor edge with every soft, metallic drag.

Trager watches on with no particular show of interest, apparently content with the silence permeating the room. Every so often his eyes flicker towards you, the torrential coloring showing more question then anything.

You have emoted: Moirean remains quiet through the pleasantries, before she clears her throat, stating, "The rest appear to be sleeping. I can pass on whatever decisions we make and recruit additional help." From the shadows, it's hard to see her expression, but a heatlight flash of her eyes makes it clear her gaze has shifted to Trager. "Infiltration," she continues. "In my opinion, a small, stealthy group, infiltrating into the heart of the priesthood will do better than any army. It would be near-suicide, but being able to take them down from the inside, to make it look like an internal failure and organic change in power, versus a conquering army would be far better for your people. For whatever government would come next."

You have emoted: Moirean's heatlit stare shifts back to Galatesh the Exile as she falls silent.

Clearing her throat, Galatesh the Exile says, "Moghedu's population is tens of thousands strong and growing fast. It is self-sustaining. There is subterranean farming, subterranean water sources, and an abundance of ore. The alliance with Arget Massai and the trade that is now occurring guarantees surplus food, herbs, and other aboveground goods and luxuries. There is a standing army around ten thousand strong, including a thousand Priesthood-trained elite, equipped with good armor, war pickaxes, and mechanical crossbows of our own invention."

You have emoted: "So, yes, invasion is not ideal," Moirean surmises.

Galatesh the Exile says, "A thousand more of these Priesthood-trained disciples patrol the full extent of the city and mines, telepathically monitoring surface thoughts for any sign of dissent and treachery. These are trained in the Nesventian fashion - a mix of Sapient styles and a martial style of her own invention."

"The idea of mustering any sort of force to take on those odds are far from appealing," Trager rumbles out slowly. He props himself up on on elbow, now leaning slightly to the side. "Especially in their own halls." Something the Mhun says catches his attention, and soft rustling of clothing is manifested in a sharp twist of his gaze. "Where -is- Nesventesh?"

Galatesh the Exile says, "They are capable of telepathy, subterfuge, and barehanded fighting primarily, but they also shoot well and they employ magic."

"There is one limiting factor," Galatesh the Exile continues. "In spite of their possession of starburst tattoos, they fear death, and they fear not being turned back from the Underhalls. They believe that should they die, Mheribus will take them onward. They will therefore fight more conservatively, to a point, than you will."

Galatesh the Exile says, "Nesventesh is missing. She said she had to go find something. We haven't seen her in years. Layentesh claims her authority in Nesventesh's name, and that's not entirely wrong. She was the only member of the Merchant caste that Nesventesh consented to train. The rest of her chosen were mostly Laborers and Crafters."

You have emoted: There's a faint rustle of fabric as Moirean shifts her weight, her nod barely visible in the shadows. "That's something, then."

You say, "Layentesh is the one who imposed the castes, yes?"

Galatesh the Exile says, "Not so. The castes have always existed in greater or lesser form, albeit with alterations through the ages. They've been solidified and instituted under law for the first time in centuries, though."

"Me and my sister Aveya were miner-laborers before we paved the way for the creation of the military caste just above it," Galatesh the Exile explains. "I don't know who the General is now, but they've probably taken my place on the Council."

One hand comes forward and into the light, coming down lightly at the edge of the table. Trager taps a single finger a few times against the wood, emitting a slight rapping sound before he speaks: "I remember Nesventesh, she was around during the time I led those years ago. I have difficultly in believing that she just -left- as you put it, leaving behind this space for others to fill."

Galatesh the Exile says, "She believed it was important that we, as a free people, found our own way, and not be led solely by her. She was, however, serving in an advisory capacity, as your Gods do, before she departed. We do not know why she left us, but until that point we were living underground. Undoing the damage, rebuilding our city from the top down. There's extensive work being done in the lower levels."

You have emoted: Moirean's tone sounds skeptical, but she offers, "I suppose one option could be finding her."

Galatesh the Exile pauses, examining her now-sharpened knife. Tossing it into the air and letting the blade spin and flash, she snatches it again, fingers coiling nimbly around the hilt.

With bitter amusement, Galatesh the Exile says, "It's funny how you say that. As if we didn't all try."

"If my memory of her is still correct," Trager returns slowly, "I don't imagine her being particularly fond of the choices from the Priesthood. Why try jumping into such a volatile situation, with the deck so thoroughly stacked, if she could be found, and things made right? I do not imagine her people doing anything other then rejoicing and supporting her if returned."

You have emoted: Moirean points out, "We do have more resources at our disposal." A pause, and then she allows, "Though, given the power she displayed, I suspect if she doesn't want to be found, she won't."

Trager idly flicks his index finger in your direction, a low, rumbling hum echoing out from his shadowed form that speaks of his agreement.

Galatesh the Exile says, "Yes, and if the Spirits returned, the Mhun the world over would finally be freed from oppression. But the Spirits aren't real. Nesventesh thought so, sure, but in the end she was just a mortal. An Idreth. The first Mhun of that stature to return to her people, sure, but that doesn't make her a Spirit either."

Galatesh the Exile says, "She's not coming back. The great people of this world do things and then they go away."

"Then infiltration seems the best route," Trager relents with low murmur, as if already resigning himself to what is to come. "That is, it holds far more benefits as the Chair said - all out confrontation."

You have emoted: Moirean's tone is sharper as she counters, "Some do. Some don't. Some die. Some become corrupt. Some stick around and go crazy or become brilliant. The world's a pretty damn big place to make such generalizations." She lets out a huffing noise and mutters something to herself.

Thought: Someday people will realize that *I* am great. SOMEDAY.

Galatesh the Exile says, "Then where's Sahmie? Where's Exodus? Where's Ishuri? Where's Clio? Where's Anya? Where's Szan? Where's Daelar? What about the Seluno brothers? They're gone. They're all gone. And so is Nesventesh."

Curtly, you say, "That's like saying a healthy apple tree is dead because a few of the fruits fell down."

This reasoning seems to fall on deaf ears. Galatesh the Exile sheathes her dagger, scowling down at the ground. "Infiltration wouldn't be easy either. They either read you and out you, they detect you in phase and deploy eye sigils, or they can't read your mind and ask you why you have unauthorized telepathic shielding before they fill you with crossbow bolts."

Trager shifts himself slightly in his chair, a soft grumble echoing out from his chest as annoyance begins to set in. "You are leaving us with precious few options, Mhun," he rumbles out dryly. "Assault, infiltration, Nesventesh.."

Galatesh the Exile says, "That, and you'd have to look Mhun to begin with. If you didn't, they'd shoot you without even asking questions."

Galatesh the Exile smiles wryly at Trager.

You have emoted: "Then we will ensure none of that happens," Moirean crisply retorts as she clears her throat and palms something, her gesture obscured by shadows. There's a blue glint as the dim torch light reflects off whatever it is she is holding, and then a faint flash. The outline of her body begins to change, form growing more slender, and then she extends one hand to splay on the table, her skin a rich, dusky brown hue in the low illumination.

You stroke a sea-swirled gem of Change, picturing yourself as a living Mhun. Moments later, your form ripples as the disguise takes effect.

You have emoted: The shadows stir and Moirean leans closer, the torchlight picking up her features - familiar, but...changed, skin darker, body leaner, facial structure subtly still her, but also, somehow, Mhunnish.

Desc:
She is a typical Mhun, lean and lithe. Slender and wiry, her body bears evidence of battle training, with calloused hands and toned muscles. Her skin is a dusky brown hue, enhancing her curiously amber eyes. Curly auburn hair, so dark to be nearly black, hangs around her face, grazing against high cheekbones.

Hesitating, Galatesh the Exile says, "My advice, if this were to be attempted, would be a state of hypnosis that would suppress any damning surface thoughts but would also get you where you needed to go. You would not be, as it were, 'conscious'. If you were, you'd stick out like a sore thumb."
With a nod, you say to Galatesh the Exile, "That was my plan - hypnosis has been used like this in the past, to fool interrogation."

You have emoted: Moirean frowns faintly, brow furrowing as she admits, "To fool telepathy would require a masterful job, but. Hmm. I remember something, once, where multiple Syssin worked together..."

Galatesh the Exile says, "And what would the idea be? Assassinate Layentesh?"

"No," Trager rumbles out immediately. "That would do little in the long run. We need a way to discredit them, turn the masses against them."

You have emoted: Moirean glances to Trager for a moment, before looking back at Galatesh the Exile. "I think that would only, potentially, invite the same issues," she muses in agreement. "The priesthood itself has to be changed."

Galatesh the Exile says, "Well, you can't exactly kill the entire Priesthood."

Shaking her head, you say, "Not kill. Change. You can't mean to say that an entire caste of people decided to build the world that Moghedu has become - there are leaders and followers."

"Find what brings the cause together," Trager murmurs softly, the light strumming of his fingers across the table picking up once more. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. "Unravel it. Sow dissent. Give them something to question."

Galatesh the Exile says, "No. Layentesh was not the only one. It was the combined, scattered customs of all the people of Moghedu - as well as the Mhun that came from abroad to fight Bloodloch when the shift was attempted. Layentesh was the one that gathered all those ideas together. Cherentesh put the common stories down in text. The book I gave you."

"What is the hold the Priesthood has on the populace at this time, Mhun?" Trager queries finally, dispersing the very pregnant pause that has filled the room. "Fear? Obedience? Blind loyalty?"

You have emoted: Moirean counters, "And all these people decided to create a police state? All these people decided to commit genocide?" Her eyebrows raise. "Ideals and goals can be twisted, easily, by people with power. Things snowball, and are hard to stop unless more people rise up to question the trajectory."

Galatesh the Exile says, "It wasn't the Priesthood that carried out the genocide. The Priesthood exploited the raw grief of it, the trauma of the people, to rise to power. The Priesthood gave them comfort."

Galatesh the Exile says, "No. ...It was my military that killed the goblins. My military that killed the traitor Mhun."

Despite her best efforts, Galatesh the Exile's voice can be heard to shake, all of a sudden.

Trager's shadow can be seen faintly, his head cocking to the side in what could be taken as a curious, almost absent curiosity. "Why?" he rumbles out simply.

You have emoted: This gives Moirean pause, and she leans back, vanishing into the shadows. Only her heatlit eyes can be discerned, staring at Galatesh with a smouldering glow. She's silent for a long span, before she quietly states, "You thought that was what needed." There's almost a trace of sympathy in her voice, but, more than anything, it's coldly factual. "And maybe it was. But the result is that it created a precedent and a power vacuum - and instead of being free, as you all intended, you are still slaves. The master has simply changed.

Her voice wrenching, Galatesh the Exile says, "You think I don't know that? I watched it happen. I didn't want that responsibility anymore. I didn't want the blood on my hands, and Layentesh had answers. She had good answers. For me. For everyone. All of us. The Priesthood was happy to help us be better, and so what if we... If some of us vanished."

Anguished, her lip trembling, Galatesh the Exile spits out, "We deserved it. We deserved it for what we'd done to our own kind. We were ALL race traitors."

You have emoted: Moirean's tone is relentless and cold, driving home the point, "And now you're gone. They are all there, and you are gone." A faint sneer can be heard, as she adds, "Crying about how things can't be fixed, about the past, about how you fucked up, instead of seizing a chance - ANY CHANCE - at fixing it."

Voice dropping low, you say, "What are you AFRAID of?"

Tears streaking her eyes as she leaps to her feet, a knife in her hand, Galatesh the Exile screams back at you, "I'M NOT CRYING!"

Galatesh the Exile says, "SHUT UP! SHUT! UP!"

You have emoted: Moirean dryly corrects, "No. Not crying. Bawling."

Tap, tap, tap. Trager lingers in his silence. A bright, crackling energy igniting under his flesh with every point of contact that digit makes. "You think your emotions empower you?" he finally rumbles out, an almost lazy tilt to his words. "That they make your plight that much more real?" A low snort, a slight shake of his head. "No, lass. You need to learn the way of being objective. Distant."

Thought: She is so much like you.

Thought: SHUT UP.

Galatesh the Exile whirls on Trager, knife darting forward to point right at him. "I've had years of that. I've had years of burying it nice, and deep, and cozy, while we killed children with the wrong parents. Until you've had to do that, you can take your smug and choke on it."

Hissing, tears still streaming down her cheeks, Galatesh the Exile says, "We have a solution. Hypnosis. Going in. ...changing things. Somehow."

You have emoted: Moirean leans forward again, nodding. There's a narrowing to her eyes, a flash of compassion, before she speaks again, tone coldly encouraging. "It's something. A chance."
You tell Galatesh the Exile, "And...hold on to that anger. That pain. It makes you strong - if you aim it right."

Swallowing hard, reaching up to wipe her nose, Galatesh the Exile says, "Yeah. I can... I can give plans. At least, current to my memory. Things keep changing. Tunnels. Checkpoints. Gates. We've been experimenting with ways of compressing space. Making homes fit into the space of one small room. If that ended up working, if Dr. Odrieb's... experiments were successful, the entire lay of the place could be changed."

Galatesh the Exile trails off into silence - still shaking, still trying hard not to cry, she offers a mute, almost defiant shrug.

You have emoted: Moirean's jaw tightens, but she grimly nods. "We'll make it work," she insists. She's quiet for a moment as she thinks, before asking, "Do Mhun - the priests, in particular - drink? Being drunk would be a simple, handy cover for being lost. Or reassignment to a new area. Being laid up sick. There are lots of reasons we could prepare."

"Aye," Trager murmurs out softly before he leans forward into the light. "It is something," he drawls absently. His form comes closer in proximity to the point of the knife, most likely only a few hairsbreadths from his face before it falls away. "Can you share your memories? Have you tried?"

Galatesh the Exile's finger trails over to you. "Ask her. She still owes me money from the last time I did that."

You have emoted: Moirean grins at that, eyes narrowing at the memory. She lets out a breathy sigh, a glimpse of something distant, reverent crossing her features. "Oh," she murmurs. "Yes, they can." There's a thud on the ground, filling the silence that follows, a clanking noise as a small pouch lands beside the Mhun's feet.

Galatesh the Exile snatches up the bag of gold, pocketing it. "Vodka money," she whispers, smirking across at you. "Speaking of vodka, no, we tend to... not drink as much. Official policy is a state of high alert. Anything past tipsy is illegal. Doesn't mean people don't do it, but you'd be making some other excuse and trying not to think about it."

You have emoted: Moirean nods, prompting, "Such as?"

Galatesh the Exile says, "Oh. Headache. It's possible you got reassigned. They shuffle us around a lot, actually. The top level is mostly military and it stays stable in case anyone causes trouble in the aboveground shops, but below that... Oy."

Galatesh the Exile shakes her head.

"Mm, I suppose we can come back to that, then," Trager allows slowly. "At the very least I'll be needing to start any learning sooner rather then later. "Hypnosis," he muses aloud. "How deep a state, though?"

Galatesh the Exile says, "They generally read surface. If they don't know you at the checkpoint, they'll do a more-indepth scan. So it would be deep. You would be essentially unconscious while a hypnotized personality got you past the security."

Pensively, you say, "It'll be a masterwork, that's for sure. There needs to be some level of autonomy there, in case we need to fight. Layers within layers."

You say, "Can't just slap something on there, or we'd be sleepwalking ducks."

Galatesh the Exile nods her head in agreement.

Galatesh the Exile says, "You'd need a lifetime of Mhun culture and language. You'd need to be Mhun, culturally, mentally, religiously, without even thinking about it. Just a part of who you are. There's thousands of little things."

You have emoted: Moirean exhales slowly, one hand lifting to tug reflexively at a lock of hair. "We'd need to be you, basically," she says.

Nodding firmly, Galatesh the Exile says, "Which means that I need to help with the hypnosis. There's no one else."

Galatesh the Exile hesitates, just a moment.

You have emoted: "Right," Moirean agrees. "Like you did when you taught me Mhun. But...so much more."

Galatesh the Exile says, "...and it would have to be a woman. I don't know enough about being a Mhun man. Have to be a woman."

Both of Trager's elbows come down on the table top as he leans forward once more. His fingers press intently into each temple, massaging there for a time before he finally nods his agreement, steeled once more. "Aye, this could work."

You have emoted: Moirean hesitates at that, and then nods again. "Do you think," she asks. "Do you think we can create the hypnosis. Uhh. Formula, as it were. And then, like, use it on a few targets? One person, alone, seems so...fragile."

Frowning, you say, "Or would that be too draining, for you, sharing with multiple people?"

Matter-of-factly, Galatesh the Exile says, "Doesn't matter. If multiple improves our chances, we can do multiple. If one gets discovered, though, the entire place goes into lockdown, they'll find the others, jail them... and then interrogation. Then the Priesthood likely denounces Spinesreach or declares war."

Galatesh the Exile gives a faint, glassy smile. "That would be bad."

With a grunt, you say, "Let's be honest - the way things are going, I think war may be coming from them eventually anyways."

You have emoted: Moirean pauses, head tilting and then suggests, "...though. If we are messing around in there already with hypnosis, could try to scour out the most obvious Spirean links."

Galatesh the Exile says, "With one, at least, we might be able to establish plausible deniability."

You have emoted: Moirean lets out a low sigh, nodding thoughtfully. "True, true," she mumbles.

"I am not in favor of sending one person in alone," Trager rumbles out firmly. "Too much to chance. More people, better odds, a quicker mission."

Galatesh the Exile says, "We'd want them buried deep until they got into the Priests' quarters. The disciples don't scour there as thoroughly, so they'd probably be able to act consciously without too many risks."

You have emoted: Moirean's stare slides across the room, over to Trager, before shifting downwards, just for a moment, to his crotch. She coughs and glances away, pointing out, "You've. Uhh. Got some work to do if you're volunteering."

"Such things can be changed," Trager grits out slowly, though clearly he seems to be reconsidering the statement made previously. "It could be worth the.. Unpleasant time."

You have emoted: Moirean lowly intones to Trager, "Every month."

Galatesh the Exile glances over at you, back to Trager, and, in silence, holds up her dagger, as if offering.

Trager sits back finally, disappearing into the shadows in a huff as his arms cross over his chest. Almost protectively, at that. "Much cleaner ways to go about it," he snaps quickly.

You have emoted: Moirean's lips twitch in the barest hint of a suppressed smile.

Galatesh the Exile shrugs helplessly.

Galatesh the Exile says, "I'm going to crawl back into my bottle. You need me for anything?"

You have emoted: "We'll find the volunteers," Moirean replies. "And get started on developing the hypnosis. I think it'll take a good number of Syssin." She pauses, and then asks, "Any suggestions for who to pick for the actual task? Any particular traits we should look for, other than. Umm. Breasts."

Galatesh the Exile says, "Fluent in Mhun to begin with. Once the hypnosis lifts a bit to permit consciousness they'll need that to navigate. Stealth. They need to not be seen. The stealthier the better."

You say, "Feasible."

"A bottle won't be helping plans," Trager chides under his breath before speaking out louder next. "Aye. Am sure there are a few in mind we can approach until we next meet."

Galatesh the Exile says, "They need to be able to keep their heads on their shoulders. Once they're in, they need to stay in. There's always at least one telepath with a mindnet up."

You have emoted: Moirean wryly adds, "And suicidal, I suppose."

Galatesh the Exile says, "And... They need to not play heroine. They're there to do a job, not to save the poor oppressed Mhun."

Narrowing her eyes, Galatesh the Exile says, "Got it?"

You have emoted: Moirean nods with finality, twisting up to stand. "Got it," she declares, making for the door. "We'll start preparing things on our end. You. Uhh." She waves her hand vaguely. "Prepare however you need to on yours."

Trager dips his head slightly, showing his understanding before he stands, pushing himself up out of the chair. "Hope to hear from you soon, then."

Galatesh the Exile says, "I'll be around. Drinking."

You smile wryly.

You say, "Perhaps you should consider moving here. If - when - this all is done."

Shrugging, Galatesh the Exile says, "Maybe so."

---- Everyone goes their separate ways ---

You tell Trager, "What do you think?"

You tell Trager, "Growing breasts?"

Trager tells you, "If I have to."

Trager tells you, "And learning Mhun, obviously. I'll go about working on that."

You tell Trager, "It occurs to me that I seem to posses some already, as well as a rather from-the-source knowledge of Mhun."

You tell Trager, "Though. It might be a bit reckless and irresponsible, given my duties."

Trager tells you, "I had hoped you would be beside me during it all."

Trager tells you, "Or more aptly put, me beside you."

You tell Trager, "Hmm. I'll consider it."

Part Two: Stage One of the plan

--- Later, at the Inner Gate ---

Trager tells you, "Care to put some work into what this all will entail, by chance?"

Trager tells you, "I mean, sit down, have a drink, figure some things out?"

You tell Trager, "Yes. When?"

Trager tells you, "Now, is fine."

--- Trager enters ---

Rashar catches Trager's eye and nods. "Hey," he greets, little more than a grunt. "Done napping away the month?"

You have emoted: Moirean gives Trager a nod, letting out a sigh. All of a sudden, she looks a bit weary. "Moment," she tells him, before turning back to Rashar.

--- City stuff ---

You have emoted: Moirean lifts her chin at Trager, stating, "...And you now."

Trager turns away from the conversation to cast an appraising eye over you. "Aye, now is good."

Trager murmurs something softly to Aryanne.

Aryanne sighs with disappointment.

Aryanne nods her head at Trager.

A secret, hidden ball pit. (Spinesreach.)
A concealed trapdoor beneath the Chair's chambers leads down to this hidden alcove, cleverly built into the walls of the government spire. Dimly lit and low-ceilinged, the room is an odd sort of place - half-shrine to everything Spirean and half-possibly a place of punishment (or merely a spot to stash excessively annoying petitioners), the chamber features a shallow wall surrounding a central pit, heaped higher than an Imp is tall with brightly-painted, wooden toy balls, providing a clear culprit to the mysterious source of said toys' constant, trickling bounces around the city. Surrounding this pit, pedestals sport a range of artifacts (if such a word could be used) from Spirean history, with tattered leaflets advertising riots framed beside IOU-notes for a vast range of construction projects. Half-finished journals on sundry subjects are stacked in piles - titles reading things like "Me, Myself and My Shadowplague" and "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (It's a Grecht Army)" - alongside rather woe-begotten (and in some cases scorched and bloodstained) manuals on topics such as bomb defusal, firefighting and beginner's bear taming. Finishing off this rather chaotic, secret chamber, hand-drawn posters are proudly plastered on the walls, illustrating stick-figure Spireans bravely facing mighty adventures, from drinking to carousing to drinking some more to a Sciomancer (staff upside down) fashioning a rather unstable-looking singularity to a wild-eyed woman waving a glowing sword at a stern-faced God. There are 2 monolith sigils here. A round black velvet cushion sits on the floor, soft and inviting.
There are no obvious exits.


Trager follows you down through the trapdoor before finally stopping and taking a moment to look around slowly. "A ball pit?" he rumbles out bluntly, one eyebrow arching up his forehead. "Y-.." He sighs, words falling off into a simple, albeit dismaying shake of his head.

You have emoted: Moirean leads you quickly through the city, up a spire, into an office and, with little preamble, through a trapdoor, falling abruptly down into a sea of hollow toy wooden balls. She lifts her chin, staring over at you through the pit, and coolly remarks, "They had to go SOMEWHERE."

Trager's lips purse together as he comes up along the side of the pit and offers out a hand to you. "Come along then, Chair," he chides softly, though he fails to keep hidden the amusement in his tone. "Can think of all sorts of fun to be had in a ball-pit, but certainly not plotting, eh?"

You have emoted: "Nonsense," Moirean counters, letting out a haughty sniff as she eyes your hand. "I conducted a press interview here just last month." Still, she obliges, in her own fashion, waiting just long enough to make it clear that it's by HER choice that she's exiting the pit, and heading for a spot far enough away from you that she can climb out unassisted. Once on solid ground, she tosses her hair back, digs a stray ball out from the front of her bodice, and sinks down onto the cushion next to one of the piles of books. There is, rather noticeably, only one in the room.

Trager allows his hand to hang out over the pit for the entirety of the time it takes you to exit, and take a seat, before he slowly straightens, the furrow of his brow deepening considerably after he himself notices no other open seating arrangements. He appears to contemplate something to some small extent before he moves himself beside the cushion and seats himself bodily atop the stack of books. "Hypnosis," he states finally, once he is readily situated, hands folded comfortably in his lap.

You have emoted: Moirean nods in agreement, echoing, "Hypnosis." She makes a contemplative sound, musing over the topic, before she squares her shoulders, chin lifting to stare up at you. Her eyes meet yours, inky black stare impossible to read, but the set of her jaw is tense, perhaps apprehensive. She licks her lips and swallows, before she says, "We need to practice." There's the barest trace of nervousness in her voice.

Trager's awkwardly straight positioning seems short-lived, as he leans forward, elbows finding purchase atop his knees to level a gaze almost even with yours, though maintaining, whether intentionally or not, the barest of height dominance. "I will work on you, first," he declares firmly, as if the matter has already been decided upon. "Now, what to have you -do-, however..."

You have emoted: Moirean's eyes narrow and her nostrils flare the slightest bit, a faint flush coming to her cheeks. "This is not some game to make me do absurd things," she growls. "This is a different, deeper sort of hypnotism. You need to...be graceful, gentle, weave through my mind in whispers and hints, suggestions and layers. You need to be able to change ME, not simply force some crude sort of marionette actions."

You have emoted: Moirean glances away, eyes closing, and draws in a quick breath. "I..." Her voice is shaky. "Once, I was a Syssin, and Dhasan, and a man I loved introduced me to his Mother." She lets out a bitter laugh. Pauses. Explains the joke. "He was a Horkval. The Hive Queen...took my mind, my entire identity, twisted it, shaped it, inside me, into something else, something fragmented and changed." She looks back up at you and lets her breath out slowly. "That's what you need to do, but even more subtle."

"I know what is at stake here," Trager snaps back immediately. One wrist flicks in annoyance, the fingers of that hand curling together without intending to. "To understand what we are to change you INTO, we should know what it is we are changing, aye?" He rubs his palms together slowly, a hint of excitement setting in at what is to come. "Allow me?" he rumbles out finally, though without a response, his hands come up, cool flesh pressing to either side of your temples. "Let me see," he rumbles grimly.

You have emoted: Beneath your hands, Moirean's skin is warm, flushing uncomfortably at the unexpected contact. Still, she remains still, jaw clenching and eyes fluttering closed. Her arm lifts - the forged one, light chasing across the steel in a silvery glint - and she lightly rests her fingers against your wrist. "Help," she mumbles in explanation, and then her hand rolls sideways, the slender, flowing trail of liquid soulstone grazing lightly, whisper-soft, against your skin.

The world falls out from beneath you.

You know your own mind, your own thoughts and soul, but suddenly, at the contact, that space expands, soaring outwards to engulf a second presence - this is what it must feel like to be two people, at once, and even as that comprehension resolves, so does a distinct and separate Other, another consciousness.

A stark shift in surroundings slowly manifest as the world as Trager knows it falls away, slipping off into seeming oblivion. No longer is he flesh, blood, bone, or anything to distinguish the man, the physicality of the man, anymore. Every part of his mind, his thoughts, slowly come together into a sullen, stormy nebula of the darkest, blackest blue. Faint marbling of a more brighter hue shimmer throughout the orb-that-is-Trager now, and you feel a very rough, callous presence attempting to burrow deeper into the only other thing it can find: you mind. Digging, sifting, ruthlessly attempting to discern anything it can, though with a very amateur practice.

You have emoted: It's almost like weaving through a labyrinthine museum as you push away from your own self and cross the link into Moirean's mind, memories and images thrusting up like walls in a tangled trail, deeper into her consciousness. Hazy tableaus of long-dead moments endlessly relive her history: blocking one path is a young, grey Rajamala, coated in blood, staring in horror at a pile of corpses, the stark blue and pristine white of her Paladin uniform nearly lost beneath the crimson. A graceful Mhun in silks and satins creeps across another route, slinking through the shadows to cut in front of you. An Imp, curls bright and tangled, giggles loudly, wolf at her heels, as she vanishes into a thicket of trees - the trail bends sharply, and then, rearing above the patch of ghostly, remembered forest, are the vast, rippling banners of an army, the gilded crest of Enorian waving above a desert sky. As you push onwards, the terrain grows uncertain, buried emotions swimming up to swirl about you, pitfalls of pride and valleys of sorrow and sudden blockades of loathing, anger, fear pushing against your progress.

...And as you continue, something curious happens. You begin to see familiar things among the maze - glimpses, flashes, only hints at first, but things you know, faces you remember, emotions you recognize with aching closeness. It is yourself, your past, your consciousness, drawn in as you clumsily infiltrate her mind.

Confusion. Each direction has something unfamiliar cropping up before the path his mind travels down. Each new turn leads him to a new bout of memory, this one as unfamiliar as the last, though with the the eerily familiar emotions that swim about the two consciences begin to intensify. Trager's thoughts latch onto those that scream the loudest: the pain, the anger, that all-encompassing fear of failure. Is it the familiarity in such an unfamiliar setting that he is drawn to? Or perhaps the emotions take up so much of the mind-space that surely they must be what he is searching for? A flash of tall, bronze-skinned Yeleni, then a small, strawberry-curls blonde. These images and more come forth from his own mind unbidden, traveling along the path of his own heightened, internal emotions that are tugged along without bidding from his own thoughts, slowly melding into yours.

A sudden voice, more akin to a thought, rings out along the expanse he travels long, a very tangible sense of fear lacing not just the words, but his entire being. "No. No, no, no. Those are not yours!"

You have emoted: And then something that is utterly Moirean's strides before your path - and yours as well, achingly familiar in His form, waters crashing about Him. Leaping and arcing through the misty spray are palpable, churning emotions, love and hate, resentment, rage, a maelstrom, cascading over you through you past you gone. More divine, more visceral reactions, each one as potent as a child's pang for a parent.

Trager mentally scrambles now. Still he sees every thought, every image and emotion as they visible pass by him, but now a greater purpose guides his actions. Attempting to draw back every flash of what is his, he clumsily sifts through each vision as it occurs, and even more that stem from behind it - a seemingly endless, hopeless task of reclaiming what is his own, with the worsening knowledge that surely a mistake or many has been made, and thoughts lost in the mess of both consciousnesses now seamlessly melding together. His presence begins to retreat. Now backing down some impossibly long, darkened hallway, grabbing hold and releasing each thought or memory, keeping it or casting it aside as he attempts to pull himself out.

You have emoted: Moirean's mind only twists around you - you must have gotten turned around, tangled up in what's you and her. The walls are more solid, the path straighter, a lifetime's cacophony of images sliding by in splashes of color and sound as the tunnel arrows onwards towards a final turn. The corridor unfolds - somehow, you've stumbled into the heart of the maze, the core of who she is. It is dark. Cold. Empty.

...No. Not empty. Something moves, in the far-off shadows, something small, and feeble, and tentative, edging away from you.

It is a child.

Trager's frantic actions abruptly cease as the confines of the hallway finally open up, broadening into this strangely empty, endless core. The hint of movement immediately draws his eyes towards the source, and upon sighting in the child he takes a single, half-step forward, one hand instinctively coming up in a gesturing motion before he pauses, testing his now-corporeal form, his voice. "H-hello?" he rumbles out in echo, the sound carrying impossibly far.

You have emoted: The child-inside-Moirean moves miles away without taking a step, her form receding into only a pinprick as the room's walls flee outwards. There is a very faint cry, strangled and soft, before the chamber warps, shivers, shudders, and collapses back in towards you. The girl drops into a crouch, arms crossing tight over her, head bowing down. Her body shifts, slowly and constantly, melting from one feeble form to another in a slow, languid churn - the grey fur of a scrawny Rajamala gives way to tangled red curls and drooping Impish ears before they are eclipsed by the tattered wings of a prepubescent Azudim - but through all the shapes, there is a constant, inexplicably obvious to you, though impossible to define why: her.

Trager somehow manages to keep his balance through the shifts and turns that his surroundings give of a sudden. His arms go out wide to steady himself, until finally the movements cease and he has his bearings once more. One step, two steps, then another, as he slowly moves towards the crouched, quivering thing that changes so rapidly before his eyes. "Moirean?" he asks cautiously, that same hand coming out once more in a tentative, slow-moving extension.

You have emoted: The girl-creature suddenly snaps her head up, teeth gnashing at the air as she lets out a feral, defensive hiss. It's over in a flash, the child tumbling backwards in a panic, staring at you through wide eyes. Moirean's eyes. In a whisper, uncertainly, she stammers, "Are...are you my father?"

Trager visibly recoils, his first instinct consisting of of utter confusion, tinged with some revolting air that hangs around him like a heady aroma. "I am not you father, lass," he rumbles out immediately, momentarily forgetting most likely who exactly he is talking to.

You have emoted: Child-Moirean shrinks back at that rejection, head dropping down as she hugs herself tighter. "Nobody is," she hoarsely whispers, words felt more than heard, wafted towards you on a slow, weak thread of loneliness.

Trager changes tact suddenly, his features taking on an almost friendly, amiable state as he drops down onto the balls of his feet. "It is okay, lass," he rumbles out carefully, hand still outstretched in an attempt at welcoming. "Come here, little one."

You have emoted: The girl peers up at you from between her arms, her stare a wary one, strikingly reminiscent of the Moirean you know, the real Moirean. Time takes a long breath, slowing with a disconcerting lurch, and then she's there, before you, the chamber itself shifting to bring her to you, you to her, somehow both and neither at once. Her eyes remain locked on you, a fixed point amid the changing features. Words reach you, blooming in the shared mindspace. "Who - my father died - you - he never lived - why - never loved - here - they always leave -"

Trager's form remains rigid, secure in his stance as the room his mind suddenly surges forward with change yet again. The only thing that seems to phase the man is the now obscene proximity in which you has appeared before him. Slowly he rises up to his feet, attempting still his calming, soothing tone when next he speaks: "Easy, lass," he nearly croons out slowly. "I am not going anywhere, am I?" He manifests his words as if he himself is speaking, a stark contrast to the booming nature of you own.

You have emoted: Child-Moirean's arms slowly lower, movements cautious, stare trained on you. The walls around you rumble for a moment and, for absolutely no reason that you can pinpoint, the chamber itself seems firmer, more solid. The girl speaks again, voice lisping and quiet. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

"I am Trager," the Azudim rumbles out in a very matter-of-fact tone. Everything in Trager's words appear to be attempting to calm, soothe, befriend the small child, neither does he make any sudden movements. Slowly his arms come out at his sides, a very disarming gesture to the young girl before he continues, "I am here to check on you," he rumbles in reassurance. "I am here to help, little one."

You have emoted: "Don't need help," the girl stubbornly retorts, her tone exactly like Moirean's in one of her more willful moments. Still, your words seem to calm her, and she sinks down to sit on the floor, cross-legged. A tail curls around her waist, winnowing slowly from a fluffy, grey bottle-brush down into a slender, whip-cord thing, and then back to the fur again. Her head tilts and she stares at you, apprehension gradually shifting into curiosity.

Trager makes a point to slowly look about the chamber here, a dramatic attempt made as he does. "All alone up here?" he finally returns curiously, head canting gently to the side. He falls back down onto the balls of his feet before continuing. "Certainly not a very pleasant place for a little one, eh?"

You have emoted: The girl rocks slowly back and forth, giving a solemn nod, her wide eyes - Moirean's eyes - still studying you intently. "Never anyone," she informs you, the whispered words brushing through your consciousness like a tenuous breeze against skin, feathersoft. "See...a gargoyle, sometimes." She lifts her arm, hand shifting from paw to pointing fingers and back again as she gestures back down the maze-like tunnel you entered through. "Down there. Never here, though. Nobody here."

Trager continues easing his way down until finally he rests flat on his rear, both knees set so he is able to rest his arms atop them. "Has got to be pretty damn lonely, then," he murmurs out softly. There is a casualness to the words, though a minute narrowing of his eyes give hint at his attempt to gauge the little girl's reaction. "I know if I was here all alone, I could certainly use a friend, eh?"

You have emoted: Suspicion returns at that question, but it's an odd sort of type, one that you can feel down in your gut as a wave of emotion trickles through the link between Moirean and yourself. She doesn't seem wary of your intentions so much as disbelieving of the possibility of the friendship. Very slowly, very cautiously, she nods.

"You would like that, aye?" Trager rumbles out quickly, his words now coming through with an enthusiastic quality to them. "Pit, you would never have to sit alone up here, someone to talk to, play with, take care of you?" He offers out one hand, palm facing upwards. "Take my hand, lass," he urges Child-Moirean. It is clear that slowly, the Azudim seems to be making better progress in his control amidst the travel through your mind. As if he is becoming more confident, gaining the right touch required for such intricate traveling through the consciousness. "Just take it, little one, everything can be made right, eh?"

You have emoted: Hesitantly, the girl's hand lifts, reaching slowly, tentatively towards you. "A fri-" she begins, the childish voice echoing through your mind, and then it slides lower, deepening and growing richer. "-end? Trap-" A woman's voice. Moirean's voice, cutting in sharp, tinged with defensive, spiky notes, slicing at you with a painful pushback, walls of the chamber shaking, before the resistance snaps away, subsiding, as your control steadies. "...right..." The girl finishes, questioning, but hopeful.

Trager's features blanch at the resistance as it is felt. So close. So f---ing close. "Take my hand," he urges on once again, moving forward to come up on his knees. "A friend, lass," he whispers out softly, assuring, calming, soothing. "You don't want to be alone in here anymore, do you?"

You have emoted: Again, the chamber shudders, floor and ceiling swapping position in a gut-churning twist, a struggle, frantic, like a caged bird battering against bars. The child hesitates, eyes growing wide with panic, but it's over in a heartbeat - whatever passes for a heartbeat in here - that hesitation the window you need to seal in the hypnosis. Moirean - the semi-conscious surge of her self - subsides, leaving only her core, her deepest, most vulnerable part of her mind, there before you. Alone. Lonely. A wistful hunger slides in where the resistance flows out, an aching need for someone, anyone, and that's all you need. A whisper, a nudge, and she closes the gap, little child hand-paw-hand settling lightly into your own.

When the child's hand finally makes contact against Trager's, his fingers clamp down shut around it, taking it prisoner as his own. A low, triumphant rumble echoes out from his chest just as his eyes clamp shut, and he begins to revel in the flood of thoughts, emotions and vulnerabilities that are suddenly laid bare for him. With an almost greedy hunger he soaks in everything he can, remembering, copying, understanding. If something does not make sense, deeper in does he probe, though his newfound knowledge making it a far less unpleasant experience. During it all, his voice seems to echo out from the very depths of your mind. "Good girl, little one. Good girl. Let me in, I will not hurt you."

You have emoted: It's almost embarrassingly easy, now that you're in - the girl is lonely, weak, afraid, and your coaxing, your contact, she welcomes it, even as it strips Moirean's identity bare before you. At first, it's simple memories, more visceral and vivid than the ones tangling into paths outside, each one fully alive and immediate: you live through a lonely breakfast, shudder as you spoon porridge at the end of a breakfast table, a woman - your mother - laying dead in funeral garb before you. You taste ashes, dirt, vomit, your hands slippery with your own blood as you stagger away from a battle, homeless, spurned. Tears choke your throat as you dig in your garden, scooping out a shallow grave. You lay two children there, infants, eyes closed, skin milk-pale as they embrace each other.

You have emoted: The pace quickens, as you skate through Moirean's life at a sprint, moments and memories blurring into deep pangs and stabs of emotion, peeling away down straight to her very essence. Lonely. Stubborn. Angry. Faster, faster, more, overwhelming-

And then it is done. Trager rips himself out away from your mind, forcing himself back through those twists and turns with a speed, a determination. He must get out, and get out he does. His mind snaps back into his own body, the suddenness of it all sending him into a fevered pant, his breath racing in his chest. His clasp is like iron attacked to you skull, and for the time being, his eyes remain shut, forcibly so.

You have emoted: The forcefulness of your snap back thrusts Moirean backwards to sprawl onto the cushion, hair splaying around her face, skin pale, expression twisted and drawn. Her hand falls away, a roaring rush of sound - the normal, small sounds so loud they are deafening - filling your ears as the link is severed, leaving you alone in your own mind. It feels almost empty, after the expansiveness of both of your consciousnesses joined together.

You have emoted: Moirean groans quietly, fitfully shaking as her fingers twitch. Her eyes flutter, struggling to open.

Trager falls back over his stack of books, landing with a heavy thud that only adds to the amplified, albeit painful, sounds all around. He is back up in an instant, however, and there he is, kneeling down over the cushion, both hands at your shoulders. "Moirean!" he rumbles out hurriedly, giving you form a series of rough, jerking shakes. "Moirean! Open your eyes!"

You have emoted: Slowly, Moirean's eyes crack open, her inky black stare blank and unreadable. Her hand claws upwards, fingers gripping around your wrist, nails digging into skin. She swallows heavily, trying to speak.

Hoarsely, you say, "What..."

Trager breathes out an immediate sigh of what appears to be relief, though the sentiment is quickly followed by a wry, knowing grin that plasters itself across his features. "Step one," he rumbles out seriously as he sets back on his heels before you. "I know what you are." He finishes the speech with a strange sense of finality in his words, the humor in his eyes transitioning into something solemn in nature.

You have emoted: Moirean's fingers tighten, vise-like, as she hisses, "You...Where-" She coughs. "What-" And then her eyes widen. She draws in a sharp gasp, using your arm as leverage to wrench herself upwards. "F--- you," she growls, nails gouging in enough to draw blood. "F--- you, I'll kill you, you bastard-" Beneath the threats, her voice shakes. Her skin is pale.

Trager pushes himself forward at your reaction, one hand finding an vice-like grip at you neck, the other attempting to take control of one wrist. He applies a heavy pressure and pushes forward, intending to topple you back onto the cushion. "STOP!" That single, booming word ripples out from within his chest, tearing free from his throat with a snarl, more animalistic then human.

You have emoted: Moirean's a fighter, and skilled at that, but not in a match of sheer strength, especially with your leverage. She slams back down onto the floor, choking and gasping as she struggles beneath you, legs kicking as her hips twist, trying to push you off. You're too heavy, though, and she's pinned tight. She hisses again.

"STOP!" Again Trager bellows out the word, as if the sheer raise in volume might be enough to break through the sheer overwhelming rage, anger, and perhaps more importantly, the vulnerability he so easily recognizes in your eyes. His fingers relax minutely to show he means no true harm, but still he maintains a rigid, ready grip, just in case. "Stop, Moirean," he continues, softer now, though still in that deep, throaty timbre, edged in steel. "You knew this had to happen, yes? This is what we -wanted-, Moirean."

You have emoted: Moirean struggles beneath you for a moment longer, shoulders twisting to trying to loosen your grip, before your words cut through her haze of emotions. She draws in one ragged breath, another, and then slowly blinks. Her hands uncurl from the tight fists they had balled into and she lets out a long, shuddering sigh, tears welling up in her eyes. She breathes in again, steadying herself, and gives a mute, tense nod, slowly exhaling.

Trager finally begins to retract his weight from atop of you. He releases one wrist, then the hand at you neck follows, but not before he brushes the rough skin of his thumb lightly across you chin. The gesture is meant as something familiar, as if the man is somehow intricately familiar with what is going on within. Finally he is set back on his heels, staring with unreadable eyes, completely neutral. "You should rest," he finally states. Something more then a request, an offer.

You have emoted: Moirean cringes away at the quick, intimate gesture, face twisting in a fleeting glimpse of shame, and then she rolls onto her side, knees drawing up close to her chest. She nods again, silent, but her shoulders drop. Familiar as you have suddenly become with her, you sense she's reluctant, emotions raw, but acceptant. She knows you're right, as painful as it is right now.

Quietly, you say, "Step two...later."

A soft touch at your side, Trager's fingers brushing lightly over you skin, attempting to convey some sort of comfort. "Step two, later," he agrees softly, and then, he is gone.

A gentle humming fills the area for a moment as Trager concentrates, fading away again as Trager blinks out of sight.