Difference between revisions of "Outworld/The Wyrdwood"

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I didn’t think we’d have this much in common...</i>
 
I didn’t think we’d have this much in common...</i>
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<h3>Principles of Offensive Architecture</h3>
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''Authors: Carrion-Queen Vermilion and “Ten Count” Markowitz''
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“BE FREE OR BE FREED!”
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When he’d first heard the monstrous song of the famed Comrade Wings, “Ten Count” Markowitz had found it really rather amusing. Propaganda was a completely legitimate weapon of warfare and one the People’s Combine had worked hard to make their own, so he could respect the efforts to Shape something that would spread the quote-unquote good word of the Liberators of the Combine. Why exactly they’d chosen to place that burden on a gigantic golden dragon - something so undeniably cool that Ten Count had already started considering how to make one for himself - was a secret already lost to the ages.
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By the twentieth time Wings had soared overhead and bellowed out another convenient soundbite, the novelty had long since fizzled out and died. It was no more than a wild stab in the dark - time being the mutable and mostly-irrelevant concept it had evolved into - but Ten Count guessed he’d been hauling the extremely heavy cases through the Wyrdwood for at least a solid hour and this was all feeling far, far too much like hard work for his liking.
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He’d set off from Opportunity accompanied by two of his trainees, figuring that while neither Loomis nor Dager had shown themselves to be especially capable, they were convenient muscle and looked up to Ten Count with enough reverence that they’d obey orders unquestioningly. It seemed like a perfect plan - they carried the munitions, they saw a little more of the world outside Opportunity and if anything looked to be going south, he could use them as meat shields. Sensible, considered and with absolutely no consideration for anybody but himself; if that wasn’t the Margin Driver brief in a nutshell, he didn’t know what was.
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And then the little shits had gone.
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One moment, they’d been dragging the metal case through the cloying mist at the edge of the forest; the next, gone. Disappeared, vanished, evaporated into thin air and abandoning thousands upon thousands of credits worth of valuable tools where they stood. A normal mortal or some of the weaker-willed Shapers may have retreated, taking it as a sign there were eldritch forces at work that clearly had no time for intrusions, but in the immortal words of the mythical Jimmy “Two Fists” Morris - fuck that, there’s money to be made.
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And so it was that a sweaty and aching Ten Count dragged his payload over yet another gnarled tree root and into a blessed clearing, letting the case fall to the floor and sitting down on it. High above the treetops, Comrade Wings breathed a white-hot stream of flame and roared wordlessly. “Fuck off, you tacky lizard,” muttered the extremely grumpy Shaper, patting his many pockets. “Gold was so three seasons ago.”
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“Are you in need of assistance, traveller?” boomed a voice that already sounded far too pleased for the distraction for his liking. Ten Count had registered the clearing and the ugly stone walls already but, in his head, there were more pressing matters to attend to than working out where they were. Rummaging through his vest, he emerged with a single, electric blue pill, the last of his recent efforts to distil Vitamin Glee down to something a little easier to carry.
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The voice attached itself to the figure who’d detached themselves from the shadows inside the castle gates and only then, as he necked the pill dry, did the gears in Ten Count’s mind start clunking together. “The only assistance I want you are not biologically capable of giving me, sunshine. This Vermilion’s place?”
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“Indeed.” In time-honoured tradition, the pair sauntering in his direction mixed the unwarranted confidence in their abilities only the truly incompetent have with the genial boredom of career guards. “You have the honour of standing in the Wyrdwood, dominion and demesne of the Chimerical Reagant, Her Inesteemable Majesty the Carrion-Queen Vermilion, the Unrepentant Fury of Nature…” the taller of the guards trailed off, looking uncertainly towards his counterpart, “...have I missed any?”
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“The Lady Incarmine?” the other asked with a shrug. “Broodmother? Queen of Flame and Darkness? I don’t know, I can’t keep track for you.”
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The taller one would have spoken up again had Ten Count not intervened, pain adding extra fuel to his fire. That was the problem with the Glee pills, you sacrificed speed of impact for ease of transport. “Pardon me muchly, I thought I was coming to visit the Monarch of the Kingdoms, not watching a fucking atrocious double act. Do I look like a fucking Valtarian to you?” This time, it was the stout one’s turn to be rudely interrupted, with Ten Count warming to his theme. “Look closely, look really closely, note how I’m not wearing armour with sculpted abs on it, see how nothing has any brocade or lace or fancy fucking silver cloth on it, take a close look at how painfully non fucking Valtarian I seem and go tell Mumsy that there’s a nice man at the door who wants to do business with her.” Cracking his neck sickeningly, both for effect and because it was genuinely cramping to hell, the deeply aggravated Shaper produced a cigarette from somewhere. “I’ll wait.”
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It has been said that people who spend a larger-than-average amount of time in one another’s company develop a sixth sense for what their partner is thinking, feeling or about to do. These two guards, sadly, had yet to reach that level, which is why the taller one wasn’t quite able to restrain his stouter colleague before he could make one of the worse mistakes of his thus-far uneventful life: putting his finger into Ten Count’s face. “Do not think you ca-aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH,” was as far through the threat as he managed before the increasingly furious Shaper bent his finger back on itself and effortlessly broke it.
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“If you don’t mind me quoting for a moment,” said Ten Count, suddenly much calmer now he’d found somebody to be violent towards, “in the words of Delilah DeLuxe, come again?”
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“I don’t know who that is.”
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The quiet whimpering of the guard reduced to three working fingers couldn’t disguise the uncomfortable pause. “You don-ah, for fuck’s sake. Of COURSE you don’t fucking know, what WOULD you people know about NBTV?” Purely out of frustration’s sake, Ten Count grabbed a second finger and snapped that as well. “Delilah DeLuxe, used to be an adult entertainer, now has a huge line of marital aids. It’s a pun, or play on words. You’re fucking clueless, aren’t you? Go tell Vermilion that ‘Ten Count’ Markowitz wants to bend her ear a little bit and I won’t keep breaking this one.”
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*****
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The sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor was merely the latest in the series of irritations that was comprising the Carrion-Queen’s day. She was entirely out of outstanding correspondence, the rats had gotten into her library, which of course she couldn’t deal with in her usual preferred manner due to the obvious issues of ‘fireballs’ and ‘library’, and she was evidently more out of practice with the old throwing knives than she’d thought. She was, therefore, restless, irritable, and dangerously bored.
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The hapless guard entering her quarters, however, clearly had no idea of the mood his monarch was in. Otherwise, the knife that narrowly missed his nose would have come as far less of a surprise.
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“Damn and blast it, you fouled my shot!” She glared at the interloper, the knife (quivering slightly in the doorframe) and the rat (eyeing her defiantly from just inside the hole in the wall beside the door which it had prudently retreated to) with equal degrees of frustrated malice.
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“I, uh… sorry, ma’am? I mean, uh, Majesty?” He shuffled awkwardly, clearly flustered in a manner that went somewhat beyond a near-miss with a knife. She frowned at him in puzzlement.
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“You don’t appear to be the Royal Ratcatcher,” she observed. The obvious thought of 'we have one of those?' drifted clearly across his face; her lips twitched ever so slightly, knowing full well that in point of fact she didn’t, and somewhere in the castle her seneschal was scrambling to rectify the omission. “I presume therefore you have an excellent reason to be disturbing me.”
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“I, uh, well…” Belatedly realising the danger of an irritated Monarch fidgeting with her last throwing knife, he jerked abruptly into some semblance of attention. “Intruder at the gate, Majesty. Or, uh, possibly a visitor. It’s a bit… confusing.”
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Vermilion’s eyebrows rose. “Confusing.”
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“Yes, Majesty.” He nodded desperately. “He said he’s not Valtarian, but apparently he’s a Count? Marked of a witch? But I’ve never heard tell of any Count with colours like that in their heraldry, and, well… he’s very…”
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“Confusing.” Vermilion’s voice was dry. “I see.” She shrugged, shot one last baleful glance at the rat, and tucked her knife away. “Well, this should be… diverting, at the least. Do let us see who this Count is...” She stared at the Guard until he got the hint, an instant later than was prudent, and backed out of the doorway, turning to escort his Queen to meet her guest.
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A short while later, she paused in the gateway of the Citadel of Bone, looked from her visitor to the guard at her side and back again, and sighed. Turning to the guard, she raised her eyebrows. “Tell me, lad. What is your name?”
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“...Agravaine, Majesty.” He eyed her nervously; she was not, after all, known for taking an interest.
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“Hmm. You see, Gawain, the thing is-”
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“Uh, it’s Ag-”
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Her knife was suddenly in her hand and laid across his lips. “Interrupt me again, Gawain, and you’ll be answering to worse. You see, Gawain, the thing is, names have power. The names of Shapers more than most. For instance. Our visitor here is not ‘a count’.” Enjoying the scene intensely, Ten Count tucked his cigarette neatly behind his ear and flashed both palms at the recently-renamed Gawain. “When someone tells you their name, Gawain, you should, therefore, damn well pay attention.”
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Calming herself somewhat, she stepped backwards, knife vanishing into her clothing again. “So. Consider this a learning experience. Once your shift ends, you will seek out my Seneschal for a full list of Shapers currently active in the Outworld. You will memorise that list, complete with notes on faction, aesthetic of attire you should be expecting to see should they arrive here, and what if any you believe my current relationship with them is. In a week’s time, you will present yourself to me for examination. If I am suitably impressed with your performance, I might even be persuaded to give you your name back. Possibly.”
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She smiled, bright and cold as snow. “Of course, if you prove… disappointing… Well, my former liege had some very complete theories on the uses of pain as both memory aid and motivational tool. And, unsurprisingly, I remember them remarkably well.” As Gawain paled and took a step back, she turned away, clearly already having dismissed him from her consciousness. Her smile widened, taking on at least a hint of genuine warmth.
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“Ten Count. This is an unexpected pleasure. Please, do come in.”
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“Your Majesty,” Ten Count sketched a bow, for once not intending to be insulting with the gesture. “I do enjoy it when I meet somebody who has an appreciation for a spot of tutelary dentistry. Oi, you,” he added, leaning past the Carrion-Queen for a moment and acknowledging Gawain’s existence again, “be a sweetheart and if you bring my shit, I’ll give you a couple of answers. In the meantime…” for reasons even he wasn’t quite aware of, Ten Count offered her his arm to take, “I believe we have much to discuss.”
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Eyeing him with some skepticism, Vermilion’s desire for a decent distraction overrode her fairly reasonable misgivings and she threaded her arm through his. “Such as?” Absently guiding their steps towards the Great Hall, she ran a thoughtful glance over her visitor’s attire, taking in the full depth of the difference from how he’d dressed last time she saw him. “...Interesting new look, by the way. Very… bold.”
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“You’re too kind, too kind.” Ten Count adjusted his collar, today lurid and disgracefully pink. “I’m a big believer in cultural cross-pollination, see, and Opportunity’s ripe for that. Protean Dynamics are taking pointers from us on stakeholder engagement, Joy Effect are stealing their lingo and being the only Margin Driver this side of the breach, I thought I’d try to bring some colour in all of our lives.”
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“You succeeded. Avoid that flagstone,” Vermilion gently guided Ten Count to the left. “I understand dismemberment often offends. So, the new heraldry has nothing whatsoever to do with you being repeatedly mistaken for a member of the Penitent Order.”
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“I have absolutely no idea what you could possibly be referring to, your Majesty,” the words oozing sarcasm. “I like the Order well enough, some of them seem to have their heads screwed on straight, but you can only threaten to pistol-whip another Shaper so many times before it gets tiresome.”
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“So, is the colour scheme an exercise in fashion, or psychological warfare?” Her tone was light. “I mean, you clash with the decor, with my outfit… in places that outfit even manages to clash with itself. All in all, it’s an exquisite exercise in subtle torture of the senses. I thoroughly approve.” Another subtle side-step. Behind them, Gawain steered an equally well-practiced, if less precise, waving course along the corridor.
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“My understanding is that it works in the opposite way to camouflage. With practise, you can craft a colour palette so appallingly garish that the eye just slides off it for its own protection. Besides, I thought Valtarians rather enjoyed a bit of excess in their attire. Not,” Ten Count hastened to add, “that you don’t look rather striking, that is.”
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“Thank you; I try.” She smiled and nodded. “With us, of course, the colours tend to owe a lot to the old rules of heraldry; all about what the average peasant can clearly recognise on a shield across the battlefield. Requires a degree of simplicity, though as you say, we do rather enjoy taking those basic colours and symbols and seeing just how far we can take them…”
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As if on cue, the doors of the Great Hall came into view; carved from bone, inlaid with gilded skulls, with blazing red banners hanging to either side. She raised one hand, and the doors swing open at their approach with a satisfyingly ominous groan.
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Within, the same theme to the decor continued; red drapes, pillars clad in bone and walls of black marble; and a truly ostentatious golden throne, ruby-eyed skulls glaring balefully out across the room. One great table was almost entirely taken up by the great Cornucopia, and the steaming food brought forth from it. And on a less ornate (but considerably more comfortable-looking) chair to one side of the great throne, a harassed looking woman, currently glaring at a younger girl who looked if anything even more stressed than she did.
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“Look, I don’t care if we’ve never had a Royal Ratcatcher before, her majesty says we do, so we do. Get some damn livery on, would you?” Belatedly registering the sound of the doors, she looked up, rose hastily, and bowed, trying not to look like a woman wondering how much of that her queen had heard.
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“Oh good, you found them. Good work, Seneschal. You - the blasted creatures have gotten into my library, get to work before they eat any more of the books. Vivienne - we have a guest, have one of the suites made ready, and de-activate the security measures in the public areas.” Looking relieved for an excuse to be elsewhere, the two women hastily made themselves scarce.”
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“Deactivate? Shame. I was looking forward to seeing what this place had to offer.” Ten Count sauntered around the table, looking curiously at the gigantic horn of plenty and swiping an orange. “Full credit to you, Valtaria does do a great line in opulence. This is fucking class,” he said, sitting down in one chair and resting his feet on the arms of the second. “Don’t mind me, my fucking feet are agony.”
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Vermilion laughed. “If you’re that curious, I can open up some of the other sections. Forgive me for not wanting all my front-line intruder defences giving away their secrets on a first visit…” She settled into the throne, tossing her own legs over one of the armrests. “Now, then… not that it isn’t good to see you, but what brings you to my Wyrdwood?”
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Behind them, the sweating Gawain finally yanked Ten Count’s cases through the door. “Perfect timing, boyo, down here,” he said, snapping his fingers at the unfortunate guardsman. “I know we had a chat last time the Nexus was open but like I said, I’m a big believer in cultural exchange. Diversification is a fucking cornerstone of sensible risk management and I want to ensure that Opportunity never has the chance to get stagnant. You need a wide portfolio to be sure you can weather any market shocks that come along, and Axle’s bunch of morons are a flying supply shock.”
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Vermilion shot him a sharp glance at the mention of Axle’s name - most people would have said Maximum’s, or Valve’s if they were paying attention, what does he know - before recalling her focus to the discussion at hand. “If you keep talking like Glimmers, I’m going to need to work up a translation spell,” she muttered. “A flying what now?”
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Ten Count waved a hand in dismissal. “Technical term. In this case, used to refer to the grinning imbeciles who thought it’d be funny to have an affront over the Apparitions and might have seriously fucked the world engines, but that’s another story for another day. Point is, you deal with people who have godlike powers and often don’t have the common sense or self-control to use them properly, and what I’m eager to do is establish better links both on the macro and micro levels.” Catching Vermilion’s blank look, he added, “Between both nations as a whole and individual Shapers, what with us all being sovereign nations unto ourselves.”
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“Oh, so that would be how the Affront Apparition acquired his stylish new face?” She shrugged absently, before swinging her legs back round and leaning forwards, suddenly intently interested. “I’ve been having… similar thoughts myself. The Concord were planning on building this place solo, after all. And instead, we’ve wound up with multiple factions building our realms in, well, pretty different directions. I have this uneasy feeling running down the back of my spine. Like, maybe there’s a risk of the whole thing coming apart at the seams when the scaffolding comes off, if we don’t take precautions to avoid it…”
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She smiled blithely, apparently completely at ease with discussing the possible disintegration of the world they were standing on. “I’ve been working with the Walkers already, of course - the Crucible and the Chromatic Expanse could probably merge into each other fairly well at this point, and if all goes to plan we should have a while to refine it further. Trying to get the rest of the pieces of the puzzle to fit together, that’s going to be more of a challenge. The Combine especially; they’re… not exactly big on compromise. Still, one step at a time.” She tilted her head to one side, looking at him curiously. “I take it you have something specific in mind?”
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“I do, I do,” replied Ten Count, filing that all away for future use. “Quite aside from the obvious ideological differences, the Combine being so dogmatic is deeply worrying and I have good reason to believe it’s going to lead to open warfare at some point. I’m not the only one who’s concerned about the Nexus’ structural integrity. And that leads right to my doorstep.” A combination of the mist in the forest and being jolted around had made the latches on his cases a pain to get undone, and he took a knee while he futzed with them. “You tend to gravitate towards fire as your offensive weapon of choice, yes?”
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“Outside the Affronts, yes.” Vermilion grinned sharply. “Funny thing, those. I’ve spent pretty much my entire career trying to avoid getting into that kind of fight. Close quarters, two dimensions only, even numbers?” She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s entertaining enough, but it’s not warfare, is it now?”
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Ten Count groaned, mostly for theatrics. “Don’t talk to me about the Affronts. Last time out, Opportunity decided I was going to be their fire support for the realm-on-realm fights. It made sense on paper, there’s nobody who could hold a candle to me for marksmanship, but then Chain Dog and Trojan Force decided the best tactics were to leave me completely undefended and let that big lug Abanox run in unopposed and batter me. Don’t know why I wasn’t charging them for my time. A-ha!” The final latch gave way and he triumphantly flipped upon the case. “What’s your Affinity again, Bastion?”
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She shot him an odd look. “You’re not confusing me with the Steadfast, are you?...Used to be Tempest. Refocussing to Edge for the next time. If I’m going to have to get up close and personal, I may as well enjoy it.”
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Ten Count stopped shifting kit for a moment to fire a look at the Carrion-Queen. “Bethany? You don’t have a Penitent draped over you and I haven’t had to threaten to scalp you yet.” The cornucopia shook as he clunked six feet of heavy ordnance on the tabletop. “I’ve got something for Edges, give me a minute,” he said, tossing a brutally oversized revolver up to join it.
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“‘Yet?’” Vermilion sounded amused. “Well, I shall file that under ‘things to look forward to’, then…”
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“Try not to get excited, it’s not good for you.” His voice was muffled, as well one would expect from somebody whose head was jammed inside a crate full of foam and metal. “I just want to ensure that she does right by Soar and comports herself like the hero he thinks she can be, and if the best way to accomplish that is with three barrels in the solar plexus then so be it.” He emerged briefly to dump one of the aforementioned triple-barrelled shotguns next to the growing pile. “That’s how your Monarchs-in-Shadow like to do things, ain’t it?”
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“Prove yourself worthy or face the consequences? Sounds about right, yes.” She shrugged absently, watching the pile of weaponry grow with abstract curiosity. “Not often things escalate into lethal violence, well, lethal for anyone who matters, at least… Scalping, though? There’s been at least one Monarch-in-Shadow who collected them. And as threats go, it’s nicely colourful. Always helps to focus the mind.”
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Ten Count wrenched a rogue sub-machine gun from a deep recess and looked at it curiously. “How did you get in there?” Hurling it carelessly over his shoulder - where it landed with a squishy noise in a pile of ripe fruit - he shouted in triumph. “Fucking knew it! If I ever actually have to scalp her with all the principles, this is what I’d use.”
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Considering how nasty and full of malign promise everything else appeared to have, the blade Ten Count unsheathed was almost disappointing; the edge on the blade looked suitably sharp, but the dull, flat blue colour and the strange hilt, a pistol grip with knuckleduster-style holes to thread one’s fingers through, just paled in comparison to some of the monstrous weapons Vermilion had seen and fought against.
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Vermilion shot the knife a skeptical look. “Really? With that? For something you’d count worthy of tasting Shaper’s blood, it seems a little, well… modest.”
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“You’d think that.” First things first; Ten Count emptied the tiny bag of revoltingly green powder into his mouth and pointed at the chair he’d been resting his feet on. “Are you particularly attached to that?”
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She laughed lightly. “Hardly.”
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“Excellent.” The sudden violence shouldn’t have been shocking but, even with the strength and power the Shaper’s gift granted, there was no way the blade should have cleaved through it nearly that easily...and it definitely should not have ignited the bisected chair as it did so. With a casual flick, Ten Count ran his fingers along the flat of the blade. “This thing will go through bone like butter. Torgue presents the Provocative Stance.” With a smirk made uglier by the growing flames, he laid the knife back down. “Isn’t technology wonderful?”
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“Oh, my.” With a delighted smile, Vermilion rose from her throne and came to inspect the damage. “Now that’s quite something.” Not that she hadn’t seen enchanted weapons do similar - the Soulchainer tended to be carrying that flaming sword of his around, for a start - but most of them tended to provide rather more in the way of advanced warning. Which had a value all its own, but one didn’t survive too long as a Monarch-in-Shadow without learning to appreciate the value of a well-timed unpleasant surprise.
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“...of course, while I’m passing fond of both her and indeed Soar, I’m now almost hoping the Steadfast does give you reason,” she muttered thoughtfully. “I rather imagine that would prove quite the show.”
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It took him a few moments to find something suitable in the mass of food. “Ah, but I’m very definitively not Edge-aligned. I did try to convince Chain Dog to give it a try, but all he had to say was ‘the Chain Dawg’s got merchandise to move, awooooo’. The Asset Stripper next, I think.” Hefting the revolver in one hand, he offered a watermelon in the other. “Would you mind throwing this in the air? There may be splatter.”
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Vermilion hesitated briefly, mindful of her dignity, before shrugging, clearly deciding she was sufficiently intrigued to go along with it. Stepping back, she bounced the watermelon experimentally in her hand a few times, getting a feel for the weight, before launching it towards the ceiling. The pistol blurred as Ten Count swept his hand up and fired, perforating the melon neatly in the centre. There was just enough time for Vermilion to raise an eyebrow and wonder what there was to be impressed about before the fruit erupted, a localised explosion that blasted it to hundreds of tiny, soggy pieces.
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Twirling the pistol around his finger, the smug Shaper laid it beside the blade. “Nice throw. Torgue’s Asset Stripper: for when you need to paint the walls with brain matter.”
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“And fruit,” said Vermilion acidly, wiping juice from her forehead, the faintest hint of an amused smile visible despite her clear annoyance. “Was that entirely necessary?”
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“I did say there would be splatter,” replied Ten Count, trying to shrug carelessly and filing away the mental image of the occasionally high but extremely mighty Carrion-Queen spattered with bright red watermelon juice. “Now, what else...what’s your policy on explosions?” He patted the rocket launcher with the closest thing to affection he could manage sober. “I’ve never tried to kill something that’s been Shaped into being, but I’m pretty sure this beauty could bring that fucking dragon down a few pegs…”
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“You leave Wings alone!” Vermilion glared at him, hands on hips, the suggestion clearly enough to distract her both from the watermelon (rapidly disappearing into her clothing’s enchantments, designed for blood but coping well enough) and from the rather more welcome prospect of explosions. “He might be a misguided idiot of a dragon, but he’s my idiot of a dragon.” A deep breath, visibly trying to restore her equilibrium. “Besides, if I’m going to try nailing the world together through geomancy in the long run, I’m going to need to keep something Combine-flavoured around. And I’d far rather keep the dragon than the propaganda machine.”
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“Shame,” Ten Count said, still affectionately stroking the missile launcher. “Well, if you ever need something reduced to its component atoms, you know where to come.”
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“I’d hardly object to your taking potshots at the airship. Or the banner.” Mollified, she relaxed her stance, smile returning to her face. “Still can’t believe they gave me a dragon, head full of daft ideas or not.”
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Hefting it up onto his shoulder, Ten Count smiled back. “I’m jealous. All I got was a computer virus from the Walkers. So, think we can make a deal? A little technology for you, a little magic for us and everybody goes home feeling a little bit friendlier.”
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“I’m listening.” A fleeting frown passed over her face as she briefly wondered why the Walkers were fucking with him, and how one of these ‘computer’ things her seneschal had tried to explain to her could get sick. Filing both questions away for later, she shrugged. “I suspect for that kind of cultural exchange to be anything more than a minor novelty we’d be looking at pointing geomancy at the problem to integrate the additions into the local paradigm, yes? What exactly did you have in mind?”
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Integrate the additions into the local paradigm, fuck me. That is a good sentence. “I have always wanted to add arms dealing to my list of achievements, the old CV hasn’t changed much lately. I’m thinking...gargoyles whose eyes fire lasers, to make sure any intruders have decent reaction times? Fragmentation mines rigged for sound or movement, so to encourage stealth and caution? If you like that jumped-up lizard up there, how would you like a couple of statues that spit liquid fire? Really, your Majesty, the world is your oyster. If it falls under munitions, I can craft it.”
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Vermilion’s smile broadened; her voice was practically a purr. “Oh, you are definitely talking my language. I like all of those ideas.” Curiously, she tilted her head to one side, looking at him levelly. “And what magics would you be looking for in exchange?”
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It was a fair question that he had absolutely no intention of giving a fair answer. “Well, you know me, you know my vices, you must know what I do and you know your magic much better than I. What do you think is worth offering?”
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She raised skeptical eyebrows. “I think you overestimate my knowledge of your vices, Ten Count... “ A brief pause, thinking, and then she smiled. “On the other hand, you walked to my gate carrying your own luggage? I know what you need - undead minions. Reliable, obedient, thoroughly deleterious to enemy morale, being slaughtered only slows them down till they can pull themselves together. And not being people, you can take them travelling much easier under the current state of play - you should have seen the faces of the first few Combine who saw me riding in with a pair of skeletal horses.” She shrugged, still smiling. “Probably a rather predictable answer, coming from the Carrion-Queen - there again, there’s something to be said for playing to your strengths. Your people would call it ‘branding’, yes?”
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“I think I’ve fallen in love.” Ten Count let the barrels of the rocket launcher dip to the ground in only half-mocking awe. “I have always wondered what the manpower in Opportunity’s like for those working on infrastructure, if you can form us up a service industry of the undead then hallelujah and praise the Unrepentant, more time for everybody else to enjoy themselves.”
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“There are limitations to what they’re capable of, of course.” She smiled, shrugging. “They have a certain brute cunning for warfare, but outside of that they’re a bit limited for intelligence - need a bit of supervision to get useful results, or you get the classic old tales where they keep digging out the cellar till they hit a river... In general, though - the more boring a job is for actual people, the better suited undead are for the task at hand. Hazardous working conditions no object, obviously. We can figure out the details later - type of undead for the task at hand, that kind of thing… but this sounds like we can come to an arrangement?”
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“I’ll have a contract drawn up, a straightforward quid-pro-quo agreement to be executed at the geomancy tables. Now,” he said, enjoying the feeling of a job well done and gesturing to the door, “shall we see if we can bring down that eyesore of an airship?”
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“By all means.” Vermilion grinned a predatory grin. “Probably won’t work, of course, geomancy being what it is; but no reason we can’t have ourselves some fun trying…”

Revision as of 18:36, 6 October 2017


A Dark Dream

Author: Vermillion

In the depths of the Wyrdwood, there stands a castle of bone and black marble.

In the highest tower of the castle, there stands a four-poster bed, adorned with golden skulls and hung with drapes of blazing crimson and midnight black.

In the bed a woman lies sleeping, red hair bright against her pillows, eyes twitching as she dreams.

Around the bed, an elaborate pattern of sigils and symbols shows this is no normal sleep; candles stand flickering, halted mid-flame, drops of wax paused halfway through rolling down their sides.

Vermilion sleeps, and dreams, and Shapes her realm. She is too young to remember Valtaria as it was in the beginning, before the games of light and shadow; but every child born to Valtaria knows the legends, brings them to life in their imagination. Vermilion sleeps, and dreams, and the world of her childhood fantasies takes shape once more within her mind, and flows out into the portion of reality that is hers to Shape.

Her dream-self walks the forests, hunts with the wolves; soars above the fields, hearing the cries of the birds that wheel about her; stands high upon the mountains, ruler of all she surveys, with the sound of great wings beating behind her. All is as it should be; wild and untamed, a land fit for heroes to rise in and stride through and prove themselves against, a land fit for villains to reign over briefly and gloriously, and be cast down from the high places of to nurture the woods with their blood…

Around the bed, a soft glow rises; drawn to the exercise of power, the Wyrdwood’s newest denizens gather, a clutter of ghostly spiders spinning ethereal webs between the bedposts. It is their nature to appear where there is danger, as a herald and a warning; and the Carrion-Queen is, after all, by far the most dangerous creature in her realm.

She stirs in her slumber, and looks up at the spiders, her Partner’s gift to her realm. A smile forms on her lips as she falls back into her dreams; eyes already closed, she whispers words that shiver through the air with power borrowed from the ongoing working.

“I will reshape the world in your image…”

One trailing hand reaches out and drowsily grasps a strand of spider-silk, drawing it back with her into the dream.

A shiver runs through the air, a flash of power rolling out from the Wyrdwood through the Crucible of Legends.

And where it passes, the forests of legend become haunted by spiders.


Comrade Wings

Author: Vermilion

Liberator Wings banks and turns over the Wyrdwood, angling himself for the light of the sunset to catch his golden scales just so for maximum inspiration. He sails majestically towards the red-and-golden banner of the Combine, dipping one wing in a reflexive salute, and draws a deep breath to echo its message.

“GLORY TO THE COMBINE!”

The proudly defiant roar echoes across the forest; below him the small figures of the locals pause in their own journeys, or in some cases scurry into cover. Ah well. They will learn. He has time.

The familiar glide beneath the banner; its own light catching his scales beautifully. He’s sure the sight will make a wonderful inspirational poster, once the RevCorps make it this far.

And then, something unfamiliar; a sudden flash of crimson light to his right, then to his left. Witchfire. An attack? No – the globes hang there, at a safe distance, glowing brightly. As he glides on, further pairs rise and illuminate in front of him, clearly marking out a trail. Landing lights, albeit of an unfamiliar nature; charting a path down to a clearing in the woods whose edges are marked out in the same crimson fire.

Well, then. If someone in this lair of villainy wants to speak with him, he is not about to miss a chance to spread his message.

He lands, flares his wings to reflect the sunset briefly, and looks around to get his bearings as he furls them. A simple clearing; one large rock set like a table and piled high with food; a second rock beside it; one seated human-

-no, one Shaper. And from the red tint of her hair and the skulls she wears proudly, he knows exactly which.

“YOU!”

The Carrion-Queen smiles. “Good evening, Comrade Wings.”

“CAN ANY EVENING BE DESCRIBED AS GOOD WHILE TYRANNY ENDURES?” He paws the earth in frustrated agitation. If she is at all disturbed at being this close to an angry dragon, it does not show.

“Well, that’s a matter of perspective. Would you care to discuss it over dinner?” She gestures towards the waiting food. It does, he has to admit, smell delicious. Still-

“I WILL NOT ABET YOUR EXPLOITATION OF THE PROLETARIAT.”

She glares at him, clearly insulted. “Cornucopia food, produce of my own magic. You people are all about sharing the fruits of your labours, right?”

He eyes her suspiciously, and decides to let ‘you people’ slide for the moment. “IS THIS SOME KIND OF TRAP?”

“If it was, would you expect me to admit it?”

“FROM WHAT I’VE HEARD ABOUT MONARCHS-IN-SHADOW...”

“Alright, point taken.” Her lips quirk upwards in amusement. “Full disclosure, then; the food is enchanted.” She raises a hand to forestall his response. “Nothing harmful – a little wanderlust, an urge for adventure. Given you’re a Combine creature operating solo in Crucible lands, I don’t imagine that’s at all alien to your nature – honestly, I’d be surprised if there’s a noticeable effect. But, since you had the sense to ask...” A shrug. A smile. She reaches for the food herself, bites deep into a leg of meat with no apparent hesitation.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT, TYRANT?” He shoots her a baleful glare. She smiles, and shrugs again.

“To talk to you. Is that so hard to believe?”

“FRANKLY, YES.”

“Well, maybe not so much ‘talk to’ as ‘argue with’. Debate, that’s the word. I want to debate philosophy with you.”

He tilts his head to one side. “ARE YOU CONSIDERING ACCEPTING THE INEVITABLE LIBERATION OF THE COMBINE?” It seems unlikely, but he has to ask.

The Carrion-Queen almost chokes with laughter. “Hardly, dear boy. Are you likely to abandon this Combine nonsense and try being a proper noble dragon any time soon?”

“DON’T BE RIDICULOUS. AND IT IS NOT NONSENSE.”

“Good.” He blinks in surprise. She flashes an impish grin. “Wouldn’t want it to be too easy.”

“DO YOU THINK THIS IS A GAME?”

“Of course it’s a game! Which doesn’t mean it’s just a game, of course...” She smiles again. It’s rapidly becoming annoying. “You people take these things far too seriously, you know that?”

“THE LIBERATION OF THE OPPRESSED IS SOMETHING I TAKE EXTREMELY SERIOUSLY, YES. I WOULDN’T EXPECT YOU TO UNDERSTAND.”

“Pure and noble heroism, believe me, I understand quite well. Conquest by fire and the sword, forcing compliance to your own ideals by violence and bloodshed and brainwashing, I understand that too. The way your lot conflate the two, however-”

“ENOUGH!” He rises, roaring, flames flickering about his jaw.

“Oh, we’re just getting started.” She rises also, crimson witchfire whirling about her in an obvious shield. “You do realise my people are more afraid of you than me?”

He stares at her, looking for signs of obvious deceit. Nothing. She appears to genuinely believe what she is saying.

“WHAT? BUT WHY WOULD THEY-”

“Firstly – dragon. They’re a little concerned that you might eat them. Some dragons do, you know.”

“I WOULD NEVER! I WANT TO SAVE THEM, NOT-”

“I didn’t say I thought it likely, but you take the point. Secondly – Combine. Fire and the sword, like I said – some of yours think liberation through death is preferable to allowing those who won’t convert to live.” A moment’s hesitation. “Well, some of yours on Homeworld did, at least, and this place was shaped in part from my memories, so... Admittedly, those this side of the breach haven’t even tried to kill me yet.”

“NO-ONE IS IRREDEEMABLE. EVEN YOU COULD YET BE SAVED IN TIME.”

“...an argument for another time, perhaps. And lastly...” She sighs, shield flickering away into nothingness as his own fire dies away. “I’d taken care of it before you came, but your people put something in my territory that was whispering in their heads, trying to force them to conversion. They’re afraid you’ll do the same. They’ll get over it once they get to know you, I expect.”

“THE CLARION CALL OF FREEDOM MUST BE HEARD.”

“Ah, but is it truly freedom if one never has a choice about accepting it?”

“TO REFUSE THAT CALL IS UNTHINKABLE. ALL SOULS CRY OUT FOR LIBERATION.”

“Unthinkable to you, perhaps.” A softer, sadder smile as she retakes her seat. “Perhaps in time, you might come to understand why it is not so for us. Freedom means different things to different people, you see.”

“BUT ONLY ONE OF THOSE DEFINITIONS IS CORRECT.” His stomach growls. Somewhat against his better judgement, he investigates the food, which tastes as good as it smells.

“Where Shapers are involved, dear boy? We can disagree on what colour the sky is, and both sides of the argument will simultaneously be correct. And that, after all, is the root of the problem. Of many problems.”

“THEN WHAT IS THE POINT OF THIS CONVERSATION?”

“Well.” She shrugs elegantly. “We won’t be Shapers forever. And who knows what shape the world will have by then? So – I want to understand the other side of the argument. If there’s one thing spending time in the Nexus has taught me, it’s that one should never be afraid to learn, even from one’s enemies. Or to teach.”

“I HAVE NO DESIRE TO LEARN THE WAYS OF TYRANNY.”

“Understanding does not imply endorsement. The siege engineer and the castle architect have great understanding of each other’s thinking – it doesn’t mean they are not enemies.”

“HMPH.”

“And if you persist in thinking of our ways as nothing more than tyranny, you’ll really be missing the point. Let me tell you about my people. About how they’ve reacted to your people’s assault. I am proud of them – not because they are cowed into obedience to me, far from it! It is their fighting spirit that I prize...”


Time passes. The last rays of the sun fade away; the moon’s light and the ever glowing banner shine down, and the denizens of the Wyrdwood watch from afar in fear and fascination at the occasional flashes of light and flame from the forest when the discussion again grows heated.

By the time dawn breaks, both of them are flagging; retreading the same arguments, round and round in circles. At length, Wings draws himself up and strikes a pose, one leg braced on the table-rock to tower over the Carrion-Queen still further. “YOU HAVE TAKEN UP ENOUGH OF MY TIME, TYRANT,” he declares.

She smiles, unflustered. “Likewise, dear boy. Same time next week?”

His dismissive snort of flame falls a foot short of her feet. And then he stiffens, thinking on it, and meets her eyes defiantly. “NEVER LET IT BE SAID THAT TYRANNY WENT UNOPPOSED UPON MY WATCH.”

And with that, and a great downward thrust of his wings, he is gone, a flash of gold across the dawn sky. Behind him, the Carrion-Queen smiles, and laughs to herself softly, ruefully. “Still can’t believe they gave me a fucking dragon...”

Visiting the Crucible of Legends

Authors: Carrion Queen and Axle

Axle swore. The airship she’d borrowed from Crankshaft wasn’t exactly a smooth ride, and probably wasn’t built to be flown solo. She pressed a couple of buttons and yanked at the lever that was supposed to be controlling the altitude. The ship lurched downwards, it’s hull brushing against the trees of the Wyrdwood, as Axle slammed her hand down on another button in an attempt to stop the ship actually falling into the woods. So much for an impressive arrival. She inexpertly navigated her way towards the palace, landing outside it with a painful screech of metal on stone, causing some alarm to the guards on the door.

The Citadel of Bone was usually silent as the grave; the soft footfalls of servants, the faint cawing of the ravens of the towers, and the recent scurrying of rats seeming to emphasise the eerie quiet rather than detracting from it. The sudden tumult as ravens and rats alike fled in alarm from the disturbance was, therefore immediately obvious; the ghost-spiders paused in spinning their webs, and scurried eagerly towards the fresh danger. Vermilion smiled, rising from her throne, and strolled towards the doors of her palace to see what had created such a commotion.

Across the Wyrdwood, Comrade Wings opened a sleepy eye and looked down from the mountainside. He could have sworn he’d heard an airship, but the So Much For Subtlety should be at the other end of the territory on its propaganda run today. Perhaps he’d been dreaming, of the better days to come? Yes, surely that must be- wait, was that the glint of metal in the distance? Yes, sure enough, a little airship, far away, how splendid… except it seemed to be in some distress, lurching toward the ground like that… and there, of all places?

“OH, DEAR.” Shaking off the last of his sleepiness, he drew himself up, stretching out his wings, and leapt into the sky, hoping the situation did not deteriorate too far before he was able to render assistance to his comrades. Keeping his distance from the tyrant did, it appear, have certain drawbacks. “WHEN THE PROCORPS MAKE IT OUT HERE, I NEED TO HAVE A WORD ABOUT AFTERBURNERS.”

Meanwhile, Axle had swung herself out of the ship, and was kicking violently at a panel at the side of the hull, which eventually sprung open to reveal her hoverbike, already humming gently and newly polished for the occasion. She dragged it out, and attempted to lean on it in “Liberator Fashion”, waiting for Vermilion to appear, and trying her best not to look impressed at the imposing building she faced.

The doors swung open unaided, with an ominous creak that appeared, given how smoothly they moved, to be entirely deliberate. The guards abruptly snapped to attention, not needing to look around to recognise the signs of the Carrion-Queen’s approach. Heels clicking on the black marble of the floor, she paused briefly silhouetted in the archway, a blaze of red standing out against the backdrop, before spotting the visitor and smiling in recognition.

“Axle!” Her voice carried a note of genuine delight. “You came!”

Axle frowned slightly. “Yeah, I said I would didn't I?” She straightened herself up, and tried to recall the various pieces of conflicting advice her comrades (and Violet) had given her. “You’re um, looking well?”

“Thank you, my dear.” She smiled, trying for ‘unthreatening’. “Safe journey, I hope?” A brief glance thrown towards the airship, with a slight puzzled frown; on the one hand, it looked more than a little askew. On the other hand, she’d never seen one of these up close before that wasn’t outright crashed; perhaps that was simply how they were meant to look? “Do you need to freshen up before dinner? I’ll get someone to draw you a bath, if you would like, there are guest quarters waiting…”

Axle waved an unconcerned hand at the airship, “That model is always a bit shaky on landing,” she explained, and then continued, trying to pretend the idea of freshening up for a meal wasn’t completely alien to her, “ and I can run a bath myself Vermilion, just show me where to go?”

A noticeable ripple passed across the faces of the guards at the Carrion-Queen being addressed by name instead of title; anxious glances flickered between the two Shapers, waiting to see how their Sovereign would respond. There were, after all, only two things that could mean…

Vermilion herself blinked in surprise, and shrugged elegantly. “Of course, yes, you’re in the East wing… how much luggage do you have?”

Ever so slightly, the guards relaxed. There were only two reasons for a Monarch to accept being addressed by name; and it appeared this was the other one, the one less likely to get them killed. Though the ghost-spiders already spinning their ectoplasmic webs about the scene, and enthusiastically colonising the airship, were something of an indication they should not let their guard down too far.

“I don’t have any…. Oh wait, shit no.” Axle flashed Vermilion a grin, and then rushed back to the airship, brushing aside the webs at the cabin door. There was a moment of awkward silence, some loud crashes and muffled swearing, and then Axle reappeared, looking, if possible, even more shabby, a smear of oil across one cheek, and a long parcel in one hand, wrapped rather messily in brown paper.

“I was told bringing a… gift was the um, thing to do?” She gave a wide grin, “I figured you’d appreciate this, I hope it didn’t get knocked about in transit too much.” She tossed the parcel towards the Carrion Queen.

Vermilion’s fingers twitched slightly, eyes narrowed in concentration; the parcel slowed to a halt in midair, slowly rotating before her. “I wasn’t expecting- you didn’t have to-” She smiled, despite herself, reaching cautiously out towards it, gently unwrapping the paper. Her guards stepped cautiously a half-pace backwards, eyeing it warily; between her surprise and their caution, it was easily obvious that she was little accustomed to receiving gifts which did not have some surprise, some hidden barb, attached.

The brown paper fell off easily, to reveal a simple, but well made bow, the strange, shimmering blue material it was made of indicating a clearly Valtarian origin. Axle’s grin widened as it was revealed, recalling the enjoyment of acquiring it. “You’ve probably got better weapons, but I got this one off the corpse of one of Bethany’s knights…” she shrugged, “figured you might appreciate the gesture.”

“Oh, I do.” Vermilion lifted the weapon in both hands, hefting it thoughtfully; raising it level with her face, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if she could still smell the lingering odours of blood and battle on it and found them greatly pleasing. A contented sigh, and she brought the weapon to her lips, planting a soft kiss upon it; her eyes flickered open, fixed on Axle, smouldering with intensity.

“Beloved enemy,” she murmured. “You honour me with the spoils of your kill…” A visible shiver of passion ran through her, before the moment abruptly passed; with a sudden smile, she turned aside and held the bow out to one of the guards. “For display in the Great Hall, I think. Somewhere easily grabbable, it was a hero's’ weapon once, it might yet prove so again… perhaps if the Steadfast ever does come beard me in my lair, she might find it useful to have something familiar close to hand.” A wicked chuckle. “Or infuriating, that would please me greatly too.”

Stepping back, she gestured into the hallway. “Shall we, then?”

Axle, who had been looking almost anywhere but Vermllion, in an attempt to avoid her intense gaze, strode forward, and then stopped almost instantly, unable to hide her awe at the grandeur of the place. “Wow… it’s very…um... Big”

“We dream a new world into being with the powers of Gods,” Vermilion shrugged, smiling happily, clearly pleased her castle was creating a satisfactory impression. “Why dream small?”

Their footsteps echoed through the marble halls; occasional spectres drifted idly by as they passed, giving the Shapers a wide and respectful berth. Pillars of bone hung with banners of red and mounted with flaming torches decorated the hallways they walked through; suits of armour stood waiting in alcoves at the corners, canopied with faintly glowing spiderwebs; here and there a scurrying rat cast a baleful glance at them, perched on armoured shoulders or in one case peeking out from within the helmet’s visor.

“...and if you take the hallway there, second on the left will bring you to the Great Hall. Now, your rooms are through here…” and with a gesture of Vermilion’s hand the doors swung smoothly open, candles within flickering into life as they entered. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to stand on ceremony too much, so this is one of the more modest suites; a sitting room, as you see, the bedroom is just through there, and leading on from that the bathroom.”

The room was warm, a fire blazing in the hearth; the walls hung with tapestries depicting ancient battles and the hunting of beasts. A bearskin rug lay invitingly before the fire, and a range of chairs, couches and tables in rich mahogany filled the room. The panelled door to the bedchamber sat slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of the four-poster bed within, hung about with drapes of Vermilion’s signature red.

“I’ll leave you to freshen up, shall I? Oh - if you need anything, there’s a bell in each of the rooms to summon a servant.” Vermilion gestured absently towards a cord hanging beside the fireplace. Remembering Axle’s indignation at the thought of someone else running her bath, she hesitated, somewhat awkwardly adding, “-you can always ask them to fetch me, if you’re not comfortable with, well,” the whole idea of the feudal system, apparently, “asking them to do anything else.”

Axle looked around slowly, trying not to look too impressed. “Nice,” she said, finally. “I’d reckon it’s almost ten times the size of my own quarters.” She looked back at Vermilion and smirked, raising her eyebrows. “So do all your petitioners live in such luxury then?”

Vermilion blinked in surprise and confusion. “Why would they? They’re not yet proven.” A shrug. “How would they become strong, if they enjoyed the reward before the struggle?”

Axle tilted her head to one side, holding Vermilion’s gaze. “How can they become strong if they are kept weak?” she paused, “I’ll see you at dinner.” She turned to head into the bedroom.

“At dinner, then.” Vermilion frowned at her retreating back, and turned to leave.

Comrade Wings, meanwhile, circled above the castle, conducting aerial surveillance prior to engagement. The airship, seen closer to, seemed relatively undamaged, although it had clearly not made the cleanest of landings; the hoverbike standing next to it suggested a disembarkment of some kind. No sign of crew; no sign of strife. Disturbing.

Confident in his ability to handle the local colour, he nodded to himself as he came to a decision, and abruptly threw himself into a sharp dive, landing neatly beside the downed ship. His nostrils flared, seeking the scent of blood, of cordite; finding nothing. Peering into a ship woefully undersized for his majestic form, he could see no immediate signs of struggle, no wounded, in fact no crew whatsoever.

Snarling in frustration and worry, he turned back towards the castle, tail irritably lashing, and fixed his eyes on one of the guards, who came to attention in a way that suggested he would very much be anywhere else. “WHERE ARE MY COMRADES?”

Axle, who was in the process of putting her grimy, dirty clothes back on, heard the shouting from her rooms, and with a wide grin on her face, grabbed her jacket, and crashed through the palace, slamming open doors, and clattering down staircases, a whirlwind of noise through the gloomy, silent halls. On reaching the main doors, she paused suddenly. They had no opening mechanism she could see, and she frowned, perplexed, and rather annoyed that she’d left the cannon on the ship. She turned around, and bellowed into the cavernous palace, as loud as she could. “Vermilion? I think there’s a dragon here to see us and I can’t open your bloody doors!”

A few moments later, the Carrion Queen arrived at the doors, moving somewhat faster than normal and a little out of breath. She glared at them for a brief moment, then clapped her hands, and they swung open, with the same ominous groan as before. The guards outside cast anxious glances over their shoulders, seemingly relieved to see both their monarch and her visitor.

Outside, Liberator Wings was in fine form, smoke puffing from his nostrils as he continued arguing with a hapless guard. “GUESTS, IS IT? DO YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS? WHAT FOUL DUNGEON HAVE YOU-”

He whirled as the doors opened, tail lashing furiously and claws digging into stone as he sighted Vermilion. “YOU! TYRANT AND VILLAIN! WHAT HAVE YOU-” and then, at the sight of Axle, standing in the doorway, undeniably, unmistakably Combine, alive and unhurt and unchained, his voice broke off abruptly in surprise and relief.

“Comrade.” Axle’s voice nearly broke as she stood, perfectly still in the doorway and stared up at her creation, a rarely seen look of pure joy on her face, and, to Vermilion’s surprise, tears in her eyes. “Um… Hello.”

Vermilion blinked in surprise at the look on Axle’s face, the tears in her eyes; so very different to the fierceness she was used to seeing there. “He is magnificent, isn’t he?” she murmured softly, before stepping forwards. “Liberator Wings, permit me to introduce Volunteer Axle - that’s her ship you’re… admiring. Axle, this is Liberator Wings.” She found herself smiling as their eyes met; cultures aside, some things are universal, and this… certainly felt like the beginnings of a legend of some kind.

“WELL MET, COMRADE,” Wings’ voice boomed. He stepped closer, inspecting her for signs of injury, coercion, distress; seeing none, lowered his head to nuzzle at her jacket, the familiar scent of oil and gunpowder imbued in her clothing reassuring beyond words. “IT HAS… BEEN TOO LONG SINCE I SAW A FRIENDLY FACE.”

Vermilion frowned at him. “Now, Wings, I’ve been perfectly hospitable-”

“FOR A TYRANT.” He snorted, puffing smoke in her general direction without much rancour. “AND YOU KNOW PERFECTLY WELL WHAT I MEANT.” He turned back to Axle, pointedly ignoring the Carrion-Queen. “ARE YOU… ALONE HERE, COMRADE?”

Axle frowned slightly, as she automatically reached out to stroke the dragon, gently scratching behind his ear the way she would one of her rats. “Yes I am…” she spoke softly, “I'm sorry, it was thoughtless of me to shape you without… friends. I promise, I will rectify that as soon as possible.” She smiled at him fondly. “It's so wonderful to see you.”

Behind her, Vermilion found herself caught between frowning and smiling. There was no way she could not be touched by the scene, and yet the prospect of having more Combine creatures in her domain… ugh. Still, she’d thought more ties between the realms sounded like a good idea, hadn’t she? And at least Wings wouldn’t be lonely.

“I AM GLAD TO SEE YOU TOO, COMRADE.” Wings leant into Axle’s touch. “I HAVE BEEN DOING WHAT I CAN TO BRING THE GLORY OF THE COMBINE TO THIS BACKWARDS PLACE AND ITS INFURIATING TYRANT, BUT THE WORK GOES SLOWLY.” A contented hum, almost like the purr of a very large cat or the noise of a cheerful engine, rose from his throat as he visibly relaxed. “I WOULD BE GLAD OF… REINFORCEMENTS.”

Axle grinned. “I can assure you your hard work is appreciated. We may even need to get RevCorp down here for a photoshoot soon, the rest of the Combine are dying to see you in all your glory.” She leant towards him, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper clearly purposefully loud enough for Vermilon to hear. “And she is infuriating, isn't she, but don't worry, she'll be your comrade eventually.”

Vermilion harrumphed in irritation. “Such optimism…”

“OPTIMISM? HAH! WE SPEAK OF THE INEVITABLE.” Wings swished his tail, drawing himself up as he turned to look at her, still not moving away from Axle in the slightest. “EVEN YOU WILL FIND YOUR PLACE AMONGST US IN TIME.” An amused snort, smoke swirling around her as he continued. “ADMITTEDLY, IN YOUR CASE, QUITE SOME TIME INDEED.” He tilted his head slightly, giving Axle a conspiratorial nudge, and let a note of dry humour creep into his voice as he continued. “AND JUST THINK, AT THAT POINT I MIGHT EVEN TAKE YOU FLYING.”

Vermilion reddened ever so slightly and looked away, feigning nonchalant indifference. Badly.

Axle grinned, and felt both a deep pride in her creation, and the slightest twinge of sadness for Vermilion. Imagine having a dragon in your realm who wouldn't even let you fly on him. She looked at Wings. “So, I should probably go and eat some food, but once I have… maybe you can help me get a lay of the land?”

“GLADLY, COMRADE.” Slightly reluctantly, Wings stepped back; then turned to glare at Vermilion. “YOU WILL TAKE GOOD CARE OF MY COMRADE, OR YOU WILL ANSWER TO ME.” The Carrion-Queen held her hands up placatingly, sighing. “She’s here as my guest, Wings, I’ve no intention of harming her. Believe it or not, I like her.”

“AND SINCE WHEN DID THAT STOP YOU HURTING PEOPLE? I KNOW YOUR STORIES, TYRANT.”

“...point taken, but those were Valtarians, they knew the game and chose to play... You have my word, she’s safe with me.” She folded her arms and stared him down. “And if you know my stories, you’ll know I’ve never been shy about declaring my intentions when I meant someone harm. Correct?”

Wings gave a grudging nod, with a sullen puff of smoke from his nostrils, before pointedly turning away from her again. “TILL LATER THEN, COMRADE.”

“Till later. And don't worry about me. I may be small, but I can pack a mean punch when I want to.” Axle turned to her host. “You said something about dinner?”

“Yes, right this way…” Leaving the great doors open, since shutting them in Wings’ face would feel more than a trifle rude, Vermilion led her guest back indoors and to the Great Hall, where the tables had been set for dining beneath the dais that held her throne.

It proved to be an… unusual dining arrangement. The grand table in the centre of the room was almost entirely taken up by the great Cornucopia; food of many kinds flowing from it in bountiful quantities. Beside it stood stacks of gilt-edged plates and bowls, and gilded cutlery; the queue of servants waiting to help themselves scattered out of the way as they approached, reforming behind them, but the Carrion-Queen serving herself from the enchanted horn seemed to occasion no surprise; nor did she comment on their helping themselves to its bounty, or on those of them filling trays and platters to carry from the hall.

“I presume you remember from the tables what the enchantments on the food are?” Her eyes sparkled with a hint of challenge as she turned to Axle. “Not that wanderlust and an adventuresome spirit should be an issue for you - I mean, you’re here already…” Axle paused briefly, then decided it would probably be ok, and made a mental note to mention it to Valve at her next Psych Evaluation, just incase there were any ideologically problematic side effects. Vermilion grinned, and turned to lead the way to the high table, where a central throne-like chair engraved with skulls was placed to afford her a commanding view of the room. Along the table either side sat chairs only slightly less ornate than her own; she motioned Axle to the one at her right hand.

Axle put a plate piled high with food down, and then dragged the chair slightly to make it closer to Vermillion, creating a painful screeching noise as she did so, causing curious glances from the servants. She sat herself down, still grinning from seeing Wings, and started eating enthusiastically, before gesturing to the servants, and just about remembering to swallow her food before she spoke. “See this? This is very Combine, except for this throne buisness. That would have to go.”

“Not how we used to do things.” Vermilion nodded in reluctant agreement. “But the cornucopia wouldn’t fit in the kitchen, and once you’re looking at feeding everyone from the same source… well, it was only practical.” A slight embarrassed smile. “Besides, it was rather empty in here with just me.” She looked away, back to the cornucopia, not that she was avoiding Axle’s gaze at all. “Between that and the forests, I think I’ve at least managed to ensure no-one will starve in my lands. Trying to set them up so they’re not too dependant on me in the long run, you see. The place needs to keep running once the Grand Cycles end and I stop being… well, me.”

She made herself look back to her guest, tilted her head in curiosity. “How are you feeding your territory? Most of us beyond your borders are only familiar with the Combine’s armies - presumably you have farmers of some kind as well?”

Axle, who had been staring at the Valtarian in fascination as she spoke, gave a wry smile. “Not in my territory no. It’s not really… got a lot of space. We have a couple of factories that produce protein bars, and the rats provide us biscuits, and we’ve got underwater tanks to collect rain water, although I think we need to re-distribute those since the last industrioclast insurgence… other than that? Dynamics sometimes sends fresh fruit and vegetables for distribution, but we’re Volunteers, by and large, so the focus is on sustenance, fresh food is an unnecessary waste of resources.”

“That sounds… terribly depressing, frankly.” Vermilion frowned, puzzled. “You’re as much a Shaper as I am, but that sounds like you’re just scraping by. And… insurgents?” She looked confused. “I don’t remember seeing anyone Shaping an attack like that…”

A look of pain flickered across Axle's face, and she looked at Vermilion, wondering how much to say. “I'm…. The other territories in the Combine don't have the same problems, but I'm… I'm not a very good shaper, not really. Things I want to shape don't always come out the way I want. And my territory… I didn't mean for it to be like it is. I'm, not a particularly stable Volunteer, and it's been sort of, reflected a bit. The people are happy though…” she drifted off uncomfortably, and picked at her food, wishing she hadn't said anything at all.

“Well, that’s something…” Vermilion’s frown did not lessen. “Are you happy, Axle?”

Axle smiled. “Of course I am. We'll fix the problems with my territory. My comrades have my back. It's just a slow process, that's all.” She gave Vermilion a cheeky grin, “just like convincing you to join the Combine. Slow, but sure.”

“Oh, I doubt it. There again, I daresay I wouldn’t like you if you were the type to give up easy.” Vermilion raised her glass towards Axle, smiling despite herself. “So, then… tell me more about the endgame. This ‘Society that Must Be’, when all your enemies have been conquered or converted. What kind of a world do you intend to build then?” The look she shot Axle was challenging. “Because from the outside, it looks as if everything feeds back into the war effort. What will you be when all your wars are done?”

This was easier conversational ground. A light glittered in Axle's eyes as she spoke. “The Society that Must Be, will be Utopia. The efforts of our ProCorps will be diverted to medical, and agricultural advances, our RevCorps will focus on social cohesion, on expanding our Culture, on music, and theatre, and our LibCorp, once they've had a well earned rest, will do what they've always done, carrying out the designs of the ProCorp and inspiring their comrades. No one will live in fear, or pain or,” she looked at Vermilion, softness in her eyes, and her voice lost some of its intensity, “loneliness.”

Vermilion shot her a skeptical look. So many questions… but she could not resist the obvious one. “You don’t mention the Volunteers, Axle. What role do you see for yourself, in that world?”

Axle looked thoughtful, and paused for a moment. “Truthfully, when we were back on homeworld, I assumed I would never make it to the Society that Must Be, that I would die helping to create it. Now that we’re here… I don’t really know. But to answer your question more generally - there will be no Volunteers in the society that must be. Those who survive will slowly be vulcanised- that is, fully re-integrated into the Combine.”

Vermilion was not able to hide the flash of recognition that flashed through her eyes. “My ideal world is one that would have no place for me in it,” she murmured, thinking back to some of the conversations she’d had in the Nexus, before shaking herself out of the momentary reverie. “I… was not expecting us to have that much in common.”

She tilted her head, the gaze she directed at Axle somewhere between ‘curious’ and ‘challenging’. “...and, do you think that it will really be that easy? All your warriors will beat their swords into ploughshares, and those looking for hidden ne’erdowells and insurgents will believe there are no more to find, and everyone will live happily ever after?” She smiled, half-sad, half-mockingly. “Valtaria used to think like that, you know. That everything would be paradise, once the last of our monsters were slain and all our victories complete. And then the day came that we had…”

Axle flashed Vermilion a wide smile, “You said it yourself Vermilion, why dream small?” She picked a grape from her plate and ate it with relish, clearly smug at using the Valtarian’s own words against her.

Vermilion raised her glass in acknowledgement of the point, evidently enjoying the debate. “And yet, there are so many of the Combine, even this side of the Breach, who have never known anything but the unceasing war machine. Not just the conflicts in your territory - there are entire realms given over to nothing but producing arms and armaments, aren’t there? If this is the world you want to build for your people, one of science and culture and peace and prosperity - why wait? Why put all your dreams on hold until the war is won? You said you didn’t even want my peas- my people to suffer; why not do what you can for yours now, instead of jam tomorrow and war today?”

Axle smiled, recalling one of Valve’s excellent lectures on the subject. “To live in luxury, whilst others suffer, kept away from the glory and camaraderie of the combine, would be selfish, and disloyal to our future comrades. We are not truly liberated until all of us have been liberated. We cannot afford to waste resources whilst there are still comrades to be sought out, and tyrannous regimes,” here, she lifted her glass to Vermilion in acknowledgment, “to destroy.”

“And yet,” Vermilion countered, frowning, “if this is the world you intend to build in the long term, how can devoting resources to it be a waste? You value inspiration, do you not, would being able to show the shape of your glorious future, some model of the society you wish to create, not have a value in itself?” An appraising look. “How are those unconvinced by the Combine to trust that this will ever come to pass, if they see you take no steps towards it other than wading through the blood of your enemies? Actions speak louder than words. If you want to build a better world, then build one, don’t talk about it. Make it more than some fairytale of a distant future.”

Axle pulled a face that could best be described as sulky. “We don’t entirely neglect culture, you know? We have one world radio, and lots of good music, and art, and creation and stuff. I knit, for instance. Badly, but I do. We are just… focused on the war effort. And you can see the future world we want to build in our friendships, and the way we treat each other. You know, as Equals.”

“And yet, there’s clearly so much more you want to do, if only the war didn’t take priority…” Vermilion shot Axle a thoughtful look. “Why does it, Axle? I mean, you think you can bring me round by persuasion and reasoned debate - the Carrion-Queen, the monarch-in-shadow, the antithesis of what you stand for. Who is there you think is less likely to be persuadable, that fire and the sword become your only option? Or is it simply that conversion by force is more… efficient?” Her smile turned dark. “Which is to say - are people dying just to save you time?”

Axle’s face grew serious. “I don’t think I can bring you round, Vermilion, I know I can, because I am right. And it is always our aim to minimise civilian casualty, believe me.” Her eyes sparkled with anger, “There are those who… are not even willing to listen. And even those we try to save. I have,” she paused, taking a breath to calm herself as she felt the anger rising. “I have nearly died trying to save those would see me dead, more times than I can count.”

“...you would have made an excellent Valtarian Monarch, you know.” Vermilion’s lips twitched slightly as she spoke; not that she didn’t mean it, her eyes were entirely serious, but somehow she wasn’t expecting this to go down well. “A culture that rejects the idea of heroes rising up above the herd, and you still manage to have a hero’s heart.”

Axle frowned. “We don't reject heroism. But I am not a hero,” a dark shadow passed across her face, before she continued, quiet and serious, “and I would ask, out of any respect you may bear me, that you don't make such an implication again.” She paused, and took a drink. “I am merely one of those people the combine did manage to save, when many might argue I should have died, and I will pay that kindness forward where I can.”

“If risking your life to save even your enemies doesn’t meet your definition of heroism, you have high standards indeed.” Vermilion frowned at her in confusion. “So what do you think of as heroic, if you don’t qualify yourself?” She looked somewhat unconvinced, but thought better of arguing the point; the discussion was proving interesting enough not to force that particular issue while there was still other ground to cover.

“The Liberators are the real Heros. They choose to go into danger, to take risks, to fight for the good of the combine. Volunteers… we do those things because we need to. We aren't looking for glory, or victory, or the chance to be a hero...most of us are just looking for redemption.” Axle smiled as she spoke, the thought of redemption was a comforting one.

“You make it sound as if you don’t have a choice. But if you’re all equals, no-one can make you, can they?” Vermilion looked a little lost. “Is seeking redemption any less noble a goal than seeking glory? It sounds one entirely in line with your philosophy, certainly. If you’re doing the same things, taking the same risks, serving the same cause, and you’re all equal in the Combine - what makes them heroes, and you not?” Her tone was not so much argumentative as simply baffled.

Axle shook her head, smiling at Vermilion. “I guess it’s hard for an outsider to understand. To be honest, a lot of the Liberators themselves don’t understand, but then, they’re hardly the brains of the operation…” She picked at the last of her food, trying to explain herself in a way that might make sense to the Carrion Queen. “We certainly do have a choice, but, at least for me, fighting, redemption, pushing forward, its… it’s a need, like you need to eat food, or sleep. I don’t know who I would be without it. And I am equal to a Liberator, but I am not the same… a RevCorp would probably be able to explain it better than I can.” She frowned, thoughtfully. “You should ask Valve. He does words much better than I do.” She downed the last of her drink, and wiped her mouth inelegantly on the back of her jacket. “So, you coming to see Wings with me then? I’ve come up with a rather good idea…”

Vermilion looked surprised. “If you’re sure you wouldn’t rather have some time alone together? I mean, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, there’ll be time for that too, but on your first evening…”

A mischievous look came into Axle’s eyes. “Ah, but my fantastic idea won’t be half as fun without you, Comrade.”

Vermilion winced slightly, shooting her a pained look. “Must you, Axle? You haven’t converted me yet…” Nonetheless, she pushed her plate away. “Oh, very well then,if you insist.” Her tone was notably less reluctant than her words; despite herself, she found that she was smiling.

“You said yet!” Axle grinned at Vermilion, and walked towards the door, a bounce in her step.

Outside the door, the airship was standing at a slightly less crooked angle than it had been, and Comrade Wings was curled up beside it waiting. At the sound of approaching footsteps he looked up, getting back to his feet and joyously unfurling his wings. “COMRADE!” A suspicious glance towards Vermilion, and he looked back towards Axle, again visibly checking for any signs of mistreatment at the Carrion-Queen’s hands. Finding none, he leaned in again to nuzzle at her happily.

Axle stroked his neck, grinning uncontrollably. “Comrade, I have an important question. How… fast can you fly?”

“UNFORTUNATELY I HAVE NO SPEEDOMETER.” He sounded somewhat embarrassed, then brightened. “YOU SEE THAT MOUNTAIN?” One wing extended, tip pointing towards a distinctive peak across the valley. “THAT IS WHERE I WAS WHEN I SAW YOUR AIRSHIP CR- LANDING. I THINK YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED MY ARRIVAL?”

One of the guards, with a slightly nervous glance at Vermilion and another at the dragon, leaned in towards Axle and provided some sotto voce estimates of time and distance.

“Thank you Comrade.” Axle muttered absentmindedly, as she did some quick maths in her head. She turned back to Wings, unable to hide her excited grin. “We could find out more accurately, if you want…. Do you want to race my hoverbike?”

“A RACE?” Wings grinned, tail lashing excitedly. “A CAPITAL IDEA, COMRADE! WHERE ARE WE RACING TO?” He shot a curious look at the bike. “HOW HIGH DOES IT GO?” A sudden thought striking him, he grinned again, and shot an amused glance towards Vermilion as he continued. “...DID YOU SEE THE BANNER ON YOUR WAY IN? IT MAKES A USEFUL LANDMARK FOR AERIAL NAVIGATION.”

Axle had her assault ground face on, a wild grin, and wilder eyes. “I’ve absolutely no idea how high it goes. I’m hoping above tree level, but I’ve never had to find out before. And I didn’t see the banner but…” she looked at Vermilion, challenge in her eyes, “I was planning on having on board navigation…”

Vermilion looked from Axle, to the bike, back to Axle. “...it flies?” A sudden grin, and she stepped closer, challenge evidently accepted. “It flies! Ah - how does one ride this thing?” A sudden embarrassed look down at her dress. “Not side-saddle, I’m presuming… knife?” She held her hand out without looking; one of the guards silently passed her a dagger, and she began modifying her outfit to suit.

Axle raised her eyebrows slightly, visibly impressed at Vermilion’s willingness to join the adventure. She took off her jacket, revealing her leather vest, and scar covered arms, and hung it off a protrusion on her ship, deciding that the guards would probably make sure it wasn’t stolen. She mounted the bike, and pulled down her ever present goggles, then patted the battered leather seat behind her. “Hop on then, your Majesty,” she said, the title dripping with gentle mockery, to which Vermilion appeared to currently be entirely oblivious.

Somewhat awkwardly, she swung up behind Axle, trying not to be too clumsy around the unfamiliar steed, freshly split skirts fluttering in the evening breeze as she tossed the dagger hilt-first back to its owner. “The banner,” she broke off to shoot a slightly pained look at an entirely unrepentant Wings, “is that way.”

Wings spread his wings eagerly. “SHALL WE, COMRADE?”

Axle held up a single finger, still grinning. “Safety first my friend.” She grabbed a pair of goggles that were hanging on one handlebar, and tossed them to Vermillion, and then craned her head around to speak. “It’s safest, and easiest, if you put your arms around my waist for stability, but if you’re uncomfortable with that, you can hold on by the sides of your seat. Please lean in the direction I lean, even if it feels unintuitive.”

Vermilion fumbled the unfamiliar goggles on over her own eyeglasses, shooting the guards a look that clearly conveyed this was never to be mentioned to anyone. Oddly hesitantly, she scooted forwards on the bike, tentatively reaching to put her arms around Axle. “Like so?”

Axle flicked a switch on the handlebars, and the hum that the engine had been making suddenly became more like a low roar. “You might want to hold on a bit tighter!” She shouted over the din, and then turned to face Wings, who was poised and ready next to her. “Three… Two” The noise of the finished countdown was lost beneath the roar of the accelerating engine, and the flapping wings of the dragon, as the two raced towards the skies.

Vermilion’s grip tightened instinctively as the bike left the ground, accelerating upwards and towards the forest at breakneck pace. “Look out for that-” the bike jinked left, close enough to a branch that a section of her trailing skirts ripped loose, then right, both of them ducking as the next came rather too close to their heads for comfort, “-TREE!” Bracing herself, she tore one hand free from Axle’s waist and hurled a blast of raw sorcery ahead of them, clearing their path through a sudden cloud of whirling leaves and wooden splinters as the one swinging into position to impale them abruptly disintegrated. And then, equally abruptly, they cleared the treeline, boots skimming through the topmost leaves; arm dropping back to clasp Axle’s waist, she found herself laughing breathlessly.

“Shit! That was fucking Awesome!” Axle turned around to grin at Vermilion, accidentally letting the bike veer leftwards as she did so. “Thanks!” She turned back around, and realised that she had gone off course. She jerked the bike sharply right, and saw Wings gliding elegantly ahead. “Oh, for Unity’s sake. Ok, where the fuck are the boosters?” Axle twisted something on the bike, and suddenly it shot forward, jets of fire scorching the leaves as they closed the gap between themselves and Comrade Wings.

Vermilion’s startled squeak as the bike leapt forward turned into a whoop of joy, wild laughter echoing across the night sky. “Oh, this is wonderful…” She broke off, frowning. “We should be able to see the banner by n- oh, there’s an airship in the way…” Ahead of them, Wings beat his wings harder, gaining height, passing above the So Much For Subtlety; from the straining of the bike, it seemed that was not a course they would be able to follow.. “Under or round, do you think?” As they approached, it became obvious that the ship was, as per usual, raining propaganda down into the forest beneath.

“Round would be the sensible option!” Axle shouted, and pointed the bike towards the trees. It zoomed downwards, assisted by gravity, and they were soon being battered on every side by pamphlets. Axle laughed as the familiar figure of Dynamics was slapped across her face, and then swore, as a previously hidden hull came lurching towards her. “Vermillion!” she shouted. “Change of plan, left hand on the seat, right hand on my waist!” As she felt a hand disappear from her midsection, she sharply turned the bike on it’s side and to her relief, missed the hull by inches. Still battling paper, they passed the hull, and Axle brought the bike upwards again, turning to check that her passenger was still all in one piece.

Vermilion’s face was somewhat pale, but she was still grinning; although by this point looking decidedly dishevelled, pieces of tree and scraps of paper clinging to her dress, and a pamphlet hanging lopsidedly from one of the points of her crown. “We’re gaining!” Even the sight of the banner up ahead, blazing its impudent message across her realm’s sky, was not enough to dampen her mood.

Axle smiled to herself, as she turned around and pushed the engine to it’s limit, deciding that now probably wasn’t the time to tell Vermilion how fantastically Combine she looked. Not with her hands so close to Axle’s ribcage, anyway. Her smile widened as they got ever closer to the banner, almost neck and neck with Wings now, who had spotted them, and was visibly straining every muscle in his magnificent wings in an effort to maintain his lead.

A shout of exultation rose up from three throats as dragon and hoverbike crossed the banner neck and neck. Vermilion lifted one hand from Axle’s waist briefly to wave to Wings, who dipped a wingtip in the direction of the bike by way of a salute.

“...AFTERBURNERS, I DEFINITELY NEED AFTERBURNERS.” It was a cheerful muttering, and being the muttering of a dragon, clearly audible. “SHALL WE LAND, COMRADE?”

“Good plan!” Axle made a mental note to talk to Crankshaft about dragon afterburners, and gently lowered the hoverbike into a nearby clearing that could just about fit both bike and dragon. She dismounted, and then offered out a hand to Vermillion. “Need any help?”

Vermilion took the offered hand, legs trembling slightly on the dismount as the adrenalin of the flight wore off. “That was fun!” She was still grinning, regal dignity entirely forgotten. Absently, she plucked the errant leaflet from her crown; glanced at it, chuckled dryly, and dropped it on the seat of the bike. On the paper, Axle’s face gleamed in the full moon’s light; the pamphlet proudly proclaiming no-one beyond the reach of the Combine. She smiled wryly, catching Axle’s eye and shrugging. “Fortune has a sense of humour, it would seem…”

Axle raised her eyebrows in amusement, partly at Vermilion’s dishevelment, partly at the seeing her own face on the propaganda. She looked towards the pamphlet, and grinned. “It’s not wrong, you know?” She said softly, giving the Carrion-Queen’s hand a gentle squeeze, and then she let go, pushing her goggles up, and turning to face the dragon that had just landed beside them. “That was brilliant!”

Vermilion flushed slightly, hastily removing the goggles she’d almost entirely forgotten she was wearing. “Exhilarating,” she concurred, smile fading only slightly at the knowingly amused look Wings shot her.

“A MOST ENJOYABLE EXERCISE.” Wings grinned, stretching his wings out, gold glimmering in the moonlight, practically glowing. “WE SHOULD DEFINITELY DO THAT AGAIN.” He leaned in to nuzzle at Axle again, relishing the nearness and the scent of someone who felt like home. “SOON?” He sounded hopeful.

Axle felt like her heart might burst as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “How does tomorrow sound? I can't stay for too long here, I have my own people to take care of, but I can spare a few days?”

Wings’ tail lashed happily across the clearing. “I WOULD LIKE THAT, COMRADE. VERY MUCH.”

Vermilion reached out, a little awkwardly, to lay a hand on Axle’s shoulder. “You’re… welcome to visit again, you know. Any time you’re free.” A slight wince, as she looked at the clearly lonely dragon. “Hells, if you were serious about bringing the RevCorp down for a photoshoot, a race like that would be a pretty fine thing to have on film, no?” Damnit Vermilion, what are you saying?

“I’ll talk to Fluidity, see what she thinks.” She turned to grin at Vermilion, mischievously, “and it'll be so much easier to arrange once you've joined the Combine…” She almost sauntered back to the bike, brushing the pamphlet away as she mounted it. “Shall I take you back to your palace, Comrade?” Vermilion winced, following her back to the bike with a chagrined expression. “I’d appreciate the lift, yes - bit of a long walk otherwise. Must you keep calling me that, though? I’m not your comrade-” and this time she caught herself with that ‘yet’ on the tip of her tongue, and bit it back with a rueful shake of the head as she pulled on the goggles, trying not to make eye contact with either of them.

“Just… trying to get you used to the idea” Axle grinned, and started revving the engine, unnecessarily. “Shall we take it a bit slower this time, your royal tyrantship?”

“That would,” Vermilion said dryly, “be the sensible option.” Even without looking at her, the grin was evident in her voice as she put her arms round Axle’s waist again.

Axle did, however, take things a little more gently. Without the pressure of winning a race, she slowly took the bike up vertically, and then, once they had exceeded the tree line, and gotten as far as the bike could take them, she took it into what was for Axle, a fairly elegant, if stomach lurching dive. When they reached the tree line she pulled the bike straight, and slowed down, looking around. The moonlight was casting silvery patterns on the forest roof, making it almost look like a strange, alien sea. She let out a soft whistle. “It looks pretty good from up here, I'll give you that.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Vermilion sounded almost shyly proud of her realm, seeing it like this. “You know, it’s kind of funny - if you’d asked me before I stepped through the Breach what my lands would look like, I’d have described something a lot more like the Dead Heart’s, all fire and skulls. But now that I’ve seen my Wyrdwood - well, from the first moment I stepped into it from the Nexus, I couldn’t imagine anywhere else feeling this much like home. It.... reflects a part of me I never used to know I had.”

The hoverbike had almost slowed to a stop. “Shaping is… funny like that, isn't it? But I think this is much better than fire and skulls. I'd seen the description, on the tables, but it's… not what I expected.” She paused, staring out into the silence. “And certainly very different to what I'm used to.”

“It.... has more of a future, than the fire and skulls, I think.” Vermilion frowns down at the forest. “I wouldn’t like to try and live in that realm once the world stops changing. The Wyrdwood… I like to think it has potential. That once my people step out from under my shadow, they’ll really be able to make something of their lives here, make something of themselves…”

Axle shuffled round in her seat, so she could face her passenger, which proved only slightly tricky. She looked at her with curious concern, the moonlight glinting strangely off goggles that she pushed up out of her eyes. “I don't understand. You.. you care for your people, that much is clear, but you keep them in your shadow, oppressed. Why?”

“Freedom can’t be given as an act of charity, or it means nothing. It needs to be taken. Earned. Seized. If I gave them everything, it would only make them more dependant on me. When they rise up to overthrow me, as they inevitably will… I will be so proud of them. Because they will have reached the point where they don’t need me anymore.” Vermilion smiled, looking off into the distance. “For heroes to rise… sometimes they need a villain to rise against. That’s what I do; who I am. Why I am. The whole reason the Monarchs-in-Shadow exist.”

Axle found herself fighting a strange urge to comfort Vermilion, but instead, she pushed a finger to her brow in concentration. “There is a volunteer, in my territory. Can't shoot for shit, breaks every engine he touches. But he has a wonderful voice. You listen to him sing, the whole world melts away. He'd never be able to overthrow you, if all your people were like him you'd never get your wish. But you can't argue that he doesn't deserve freedom. Someone's worth is not based purely on how well they can fight or plan. Everyone has an inherent worth. Even tyrants with weird ideas…” Axle smiled ruefully at the Valtarian, sadness and confusion in her eyes.

“There are more ways to overthrow someone than fighting,” Vermilion smiled back, sadness touching her own eyes. “What do you think you’re trying to do, for instance? I’d hardly be the first Monarch-in-Shadow brought to their knees by some bright young hero who found a form of beauty that could touch a jaded soul… heroism’s not always about fighting, not in the straightforward swords-and-armour sense or the hurling of fireballs. It’s about having the courage to stand up for what you believe in. Whatever you believe in. However you stand up. The method’s not the part of that which matters.”

An impish smile, suddenly cheerful again; “Who knows, perhaps by the time this is all over, all it will take is one of them walking up to me and asking nicely… point is, it has to come from them. They have to decide that they don’t need me anymore, that they’re better off without me. Does that make any more sense?” She shrugged, frowning a little. “This was so much easier in the old world, though not necessarily better. There, stepping up to be a hero meant they’d become a Shaper. How to make it work when there aren’t going to be any more of us, that’s a challenge. But the world will still need heroes. Legends.” She met Axle’s eyes with a wry smile. “Inspiration.”

“But then what?” Axle countered, “When your people have risen up and overthrown you? They end up with a Monarch Victor,” Axle pulled a disgusted face, “And end up in exactly the same situation, with an oppressor who hides behind smiles and sweetness.” She shook her head, and then suddenly an idea came to her, and she reached to clutch Vermilions arm in enthusiasm. “Come and visit my realm Vermillion,” she said, intensity in her eyes. “Come and see what a population can do when they have been given freedom without having to fight for it.” The intensity dropped off, slightly, “And for the record, I am not trying to overthrow you, I am trying to peacefully integrate you into the Combine, no kneeling involved.”

Vermilion smiled. “That’s how it would have worked in the old world, yes. The Carrion Queen would recede into the shadows, and the Enchantress-Supreme would step into the light, and some bold young hero would take a crown and title and begin a legend of their own. But in this world? With no more Shapers? When I fall, there will be none to replace me but the human heroes who brought me down. Mere men and women - but living with the knowledge they defeated a Shaper, a god, and if they could do that, they can do anything. Imagine the possibilities. Imagine what they might do next.”

She paused, considering the invitation. “I… would be intrigued to see your people. To meet those of the Combine in situations other than battle, or the structured contests of the Nexus. Don’t get your hopes up too highly - but even if I never convert outright, I am at least willing to learn.” She smiled wryly. “It’s amusing on some levels how many decisions of the Crucible have been made by discussion and agreement recently, for instance.”

A slight frown. “But, Axle - you would be overthrowing me, don’t you see that? I could not join the Combine and remain myself - it would undo everything I am, overwrite everything that I was Shaped to be. It would be the unmaking of me. I know you think you’re trying to save me, but you could only do so by destroying so much of what I am that… I’m not sure there would be much of me left.”

Axle shook her head. “You’re not just the Villain of someone else’s story. How can you think that? The person who was racing Wings with me tonight wasn’t… wasn’t a Monarch in Shadow, they were a normal, happy person. Joining the combine wouldn’t change who you are, just who you think you are.” She frowned, silently wondering how far she could push this, and came to a decision, moving her hand from Vermilion’s arm to rest gently on one of her hands. “And you wouldn’t be lonely any more, I can promise you that.”

“Axle…” Vermilion looked away. “I’ve been… groomed for this life, whether as a villain in my own right or a sidekick, since I was eight years old. It’s all I am. All I know. I don’t even remember what my name was, before the Tyrant Sorcerer claimed me for his own and remade me into Vermilion. This is who I am, this is what my story is, and if I step outside it I am nothing.”

Axle frowned at the familiar story, her hand tightening around Vermilion’s without her noticing, and tears coming unbidden to her eyes. She looked at Vermilion for a long time before she spoke, her voice cracking slightly. “Stepping outside of this story would not make you nothing, Vermilion. You asked earlier, what I would consider heroic, and that, that is the most heroic thing a person could do. To have the strength to do what I could not, and walk freely away from a path of hatefulness, into the light. And whatever name you choose, because that would be your choice, you would be my Comrade.”

“I…” Vermilion trembled, a single tear rolling down one cheek. “I almost wish I could believe it possible.” She found herself clinging to Axle’s hand, cursing herself for her weakness, but unable to make herself let go. “But… it isn’t, I can’t… be what you want of me. I have duties, responsibilities, I... “ Reluctantly releasing her grip, she straightened up, suddenly regal in the moonlight. “The Carrion Queen still has a role to play.” Axle gave her a sad smile, and began to turn herself back around. “Best get the Carrion Queen back to her palace then, hadn’t I. Hold tight, your Majesty.”

Vermilion smiled faintly in relief, glared at her hands till they stopped trembling, and took hold. It was a quiet, and smooth ride back to the palace, Axle for once actually focusing on where she was going, trying to keep things gentle for her troubled passenger. She knew that if someone had done a similar thing to her, poking into her past like that, she'd have probably had an incident by now, and so she wanted to get Vermilion onto familiar ground as soon as possible. Before long, she was carefully steering the hoverbike to sit next to her airship. She dismounted, and silently offered Vermilion her hand.

Vermilion took it, and stepped away from the bike, managing a smile as she pulled off the goggles. “That was an enjoyable way to spend an evening. And an… interesting conversation. Thank you.”

The guards’ eyebrows rose at the state their liege was in - torn and tattered dress, covered in scraps of charred paper and bits of twig, crown ever so slightly askew - but she carried herself with regal dignity despite her condition, and the look she gave them dared them to say anything. They elected, prudently, to keep their silence. Axle grabbed her jacket, still hanging off the ship where she had left it, and brushed the surprising number of webs from it. Anyone observing closely would have noticed a hand darting to one particular pocket, checking something was still there, before she casually threw it on, and walked towards the doors, giving the guards a friendly nod. “Evening Comrades.”

Vermilion twitched sharply at the word, shooting a pained look at her back, but said nothing. She turned to look out at the Wyrdwood for a moment, savouring the forest’s scent on the night breeze, listening to the howling of wolves in the distance; then turned to follow her inside, nodding to the guards as she passed. “Time to bar the doors for the night, Captain.”

Looking somewhat relieved, the guards followed the two Shapers inside the castle; the doors swung shut under their own power, or perhaps Vermilion’s will, but nonetheless they manoeuvred heavy, frankly unnecessary-looking, bars into position across them. Axle looked at this display with mild scepticism, wondering briefly what Vermilion was defending herself against. She watched the guards leave, then turned to Vermilion, awkwardly. “I um… I didn't mean to upset you, tonight. I'm…. I'm sorry.” She finished flatly, looking at Vermilion with an unreadable expression on her face.

Vermilion looked absolutely confused by the apology. “Hey, we managed to discuss philosophy without getting into any blazing arguments or hurling fireballs at each other. We’re doing fine, right?”

Axle grinned at that. “Yeah, that’s true I guess, but still. I meant what I said in my letter. I have no interest in being your enemy, and it wasn’t my intention to…” she flailed her hands awkwardly, unsure of herself. “... to make you sad.” She pressed her lips together, as though trying to stop herself from speaking, and then continued. “I know how… disorienting it can be, to have a past you don’t remember.” What are you doing, Axle? You really think Valve would have approved of that?

“You… do?” Vermilion stared at her, expressions whirling across her face; relief that someone understood; fear at having shown a weakness to an opponent with the eyes to see it for one; sympathy at a shared pain too-well-known; and at last, curiosity, rising like a shark through the waters of her mind. She found herself reaching out towards Axle, automatically, one hand stretching towards the other woman’s face, fingers stopping just short of touching her. “What… happened?” Her voice came out oddly gentle.

Axle shrugged calmly, “It was part of my re-education process,” she said, matter-of-factly. “It’s very common for Volunteers. All I know about who I was is that I was someone who did terrible things, and couldn’t see how wonderful being in the Combine is, and frankly, I’d rather not know anything else. But it can be confusing, on occasion, as I’m sure you know.”

“They remade you in their own image, and you love them for it.” Vermilion’s voice was soft in the echoing hallway. Again, a range of expressions played across her face; something like horror, and something like kinship, and something like respect.... Her eyes were distant, remembering.

The Tyrant-Sorcerer's fingers pressing into her forehead, red flame and pain as her world fell away. The way her heart leapt when he smiled at her.

Lending her tabard and collar to Vector for the montage, the Combine creating a legend to stand for a past, and heavens help her, she’d helped, given enough to the effort that his face in that image was already weaving itself into her memories.

Axle, at the first Grand Cycle, sitting in the courtyard, face utterly lost. Valve standing over her, talking softly, voice gentle and yet unyieldingly firm. Names, spellings. Something to hold on to. She’d kept her distance, shivers running down her spine.

Conversations at the second Grand Cycle, sitting with the Steadfast and a rotating cast of Penitents. “I think I need to take the crown off for this one…” Not knowing who she was, or was becoming, or wanted to. Focussing on the world that they were Shaping, far more idea what she was doing there, what she wanted there.

When her eyes came back into focus, she found herself leaning against the wall, breathing heavily as if she’d just been running. Her eyes, staring at Axle, were wide. “Is that… what would, what would happen to me, if…” There could be no mistaking the look in her eyes, as her voice trailed off, for anything but terror.

Axle’s face was a picture of concern. She knew the signs of Vermilion’s distress all too well. How do you even deal with a non-volunteer incident? She walked towards her, calmly, and slowly, and put her hands on Vermilion’s shoulders, looking firmly into her eyes. “It’s ok, Vermilion. It’s Ok. I need you to take some deep breaths, and focus on my voice. You are not like I was, Vermilion. You listen, you learn. If you were to join the Combine, you would be doing so willingly, and you would not need re-education. I promise, I won’t let anyone do that to you again.” And what if Valve says she needs re-education? What then? Axle smiled gently at Vermilion, and stroked her arm in what she hoped was a comforting manner. She could hear Valve’s voice in her head. Sometimes it’s ok to lie, if it’s for the good of the combine.

Vermilion closed her eyes briefly, focussed on her breathing; found herself absently running through the meditation exercise she’d learned from Soar. In the eyes of the infinite, the finite is nothing… Her hands rose, clutching at Axle’s instinctively, almost without her willing it.

When her eyes reopened, her face was almost calm, though there was still a hint of something fragile about the eyes. “Can we… get out of the corridors?” The only thing worse than showing this weakness to an enemy would, she reflected, be showing it to her people. They still needed her; they still needed her to be strong for them.

Axle gave a slight chuckle at that. “Yeah, probably sensible. Let’s um… find you somewhere to sit down, eh?” She removed her hands from Vermilion’s shoulders, but, after a slight pause, took her hand firmly in her own, and gave it a squeeze.

The corridors remained mercifully empty as they made their way back to Axle’s chambers; Vermilion half-collapsed into one of the armchairs with a sigh of relief as the door clicked shut behind them. Looking up at Axle, she managed a weak smile, and a soft murmur of thanks, still holding on to her hand. Axle smiled back gently, then released her hand, and started wandering around the room, looking mildly confused.

“Do you do, um, tea, in Valtaria? Or spirits?” How does someone have guest quarters that don’t contain a way of making tea? “Oh”, she groaned. “We’d have to call someone up for that, wouldn't’ we…” she pulled a face.

“For tea, yes. Spirits we can do, the globe in the corner there opens…” she gestured vaguely. Axle wandered over to the globe, and flipped it open, eyes widening with curiosity and delight at the unfamiliar bottles within. “Ooooh, better than Engine Room’s Finest….” She selected a bottle of deep red liquid, and made her way back to the armchair, taking a swig as she went, and nodding appreciatively. She offered it to Vermilion. “This is good stuff, consider me mildly impressed.”

Vermilion gave a weak smile, that almost covered the slight flinch as she mastered her horror at drinking from the bottle and followed suit. “...damn, I’d forgotten how strong that was. I almost never drink these days.” Another swig, a little less hesitant, before she passed the bottle back. “Damn if it’s not a night for it, though.”

Axle made a quiet mental note to keep an eye on how much Vermilion had, as she dragged an armchair across the floor to sit next to her, and took another swig. “How are you feeling?”

“Fell off a wyvern once, up on the Shattered Front. Fifty foot drop in freefall before I mustered the magic for a controlled descent, tumbling base-over-apex, while reality flickered in and out of focus and shifted all around me. That’s how I’m feeling.”

“...Fuck”, Axle sounded a little impressed, as she passed the bottle back to Vermilion. “Last proper incident I had… bout a month ago? I thought my lungs were gonna catch fire. If it wasn’t for our intercom system… dunno what would have happened.”

“This… happens to you often?” Vermilion shot her a concerned look. “I haven’t been this bad since before I was a Shaper - oh, every so often someone would hit a nerve in battle, but answering it with violence is so much easier…” She shuddered. “Damn, I hope I’m not going to start making a habit of this. I remember the early days being… rough.” A wry, pained smile and a distant look. “The parts I do remember, anyway. I was just a child, and, well… There’s a lot of that time I’ve managed to block out all by myself.”

Axle smiled, thinking of her personal record, 56 days without incident. “You’ll be fine. I’m a fairly young Volunteer, and I understand I was not...very easy to re-educate. And if you do have problems again, I can really recommend talking to Valve.” She held up her hands, staving off the response she assumed was coming, “no re-education required, he’s just… got a lot of good advice for minimising this sort of thing. Right now, however, honestly you probably just need a good night's sleep.”

Vermilion shot her a skeptical look, conveying clearly that Valve was not going to be on the list of people she wanted to talk to about this anytime soon. “Doubt I could sleep yet…” She reached for the bottle, took another swig. “I’d only wind up dreaming, and I remember what the dreams were like back then.” Lullabies sung in an achingly familiar voice, the half-glimpsed face she was sure must be her mother, the way the details never stayed with her on waking and the loss became a guilty knot of aching wistfulness.

“Axle, I’m confused.” She shot the other woman a worried look. “You said earlier that you were seeking redemption, but if you don’t remember what you’re trying to atone for… how will you ever know you’ve done enough?”

Axle looked down, memories of her own dreams, flickering through her mind. The screaming faces, youthful, innocent, surrounded by flames. The judgement in their eyes. The smoke in her lungs… When she looked up again, gently taking the bottle from Vermilion as she did, she almost looked helpless. “I… I know enough to know that I won’t ever have done enough. But if I didn’t try… that would be worse.”

Vermilion flinched at the look in her eyes. “So much hope for others, and you save none for yourself…” She reached out, laying a gentle hand on Axle’s wrist. “I’ve hurt you, I-” she hadn’t intentionally said I’m sorry since forcing herself to her feet and into a Shaper’s power with the words I shall repent of nothing bursting from her lips to echo through her master’s halls. “I… didn’t mean to.” The words were clearly, woefully, inadequate. “I… don’t want to make you sad.”

Axle brushed the sadness off with a quick shake of the head. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You didn’t mean to.” She looked at Vermillion and sighed. None of the advice she had been given was of any use now. Dynamics had said “shower her with compliments.” Violet had recommended painfully obtuse flirting, and Fluidity had told her to remain alluring and distant. No one had said what to do with a Monarch who was sad, and possibly a little tipsy. Then she had a thought, and brightened. “Hey, do you want me to show you how to ride the bike tomorrow? If you have another dress you can afford to ruin, that is…”

“You really think I could?” Vermilion looked intrigued by the prospect. “I mean, I’ve probably got a hunting outfit somewhere. Or is ruining my dresses half the fun?” Despite herself, she grinned on the last.

Axle took another swig of drink, to hide the fact she’d gone slightly pink, and then grinned widely. “Well, if you run out of Monarch-in-Shadow clothes, I guess you can’t be a Monarch-in-Shadow anymore, can you?”

Vermilion giggled tipsily. “Oh, I assure you, I can be a perfectly terrible tyrant stark naked.” Her head tilted to one side, remembering. “Have been a time or two, as I recall.”

“Aaannd that’s enough alcohol for the both of us, I think.” Axle took the bottle back to the globe, and closed it firmly, hoping that she’d turned away fast enough that Vermilion hadn’t seen exactly how red she had gone.

Vermilion’s knowing smile as she turned back suggested quite strongly that she did see, and indeed appreciated it immensely. Having done enough damage for one night, however, she restrained herself to the teasing accusation of “-though I think you mostly just want to see me in the goggles again, don’t you?”

Axle, still a little pink, shrugged, and grinned, a little mischief in her eyes. “Goggles suit you.” She returned to the chair, and tilted her head to one side, looking at Vermilion, “you should wear them all the time.”

Vermilion snorted. “No bloody fear. They can’t look much less ridiculous on me than they did on Her Exalted Beneficience Serennia when she took to parading around in them for Fluidity. Besides, they’re a little awkward with the glasses.” Another laugh, a wry smile. “Still, if I’m going to embarrass myself falling off your bike, looking a little more ridiculous won’t hurt, I suppose.”

“Honestly, no word of a lie, they look good on you! Certainly they suit you more than they suit… whatever her name is now. You ought to get used to them anyway, for when you join us.” Axle’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

Vermilion laughed again, though she was blushing herself by now. “Optimism, still. You, my dear Axle, are an incorrigible optimist.” She shook her head in amusement. “But I think we’re both too drunk and tired to resume that argument tonight, yes?”

Axle smiled, and nodded, “Probably yes.” She looked at the tipsy monarch with an amused expression. “... Am I going to have to help you back to your rooms Vermilion?”

“No, I-” Vermilion hauled herself out of the chair, took two steps towards the door and nearly tripped over her own feet. “Um, maybe?”

Axle tried very, very hard to keep the grin off her face as she stood up and gently looped an arm around Vermilions waist, supporting her weight as the two of them moved towards the door. “Come on, your majesty, which way are we going?”

“Onwards and upwards,” she waved vaguely down the corridor towards a broad staircase. “Tallest of the towers. I’d say it seemed like a good idea at the time, but it was already here when I arrived and fairly obviously mine, clearly my subconscious has a lot to answer for…”

“Typical…” Axle shook her head, and started towards the stairs. As they rose, she frowned to herself. “Vermilion, I don't want you to get the wrong idea but… you mentioned bad dreams... back on the RATA, when Volunteers had nightmares, we always used to make sure someone was with them, in the night. Not for romance, or sex,” she added hurriedly, “but just, to be comforting.” She paused, and scrunched up her face, really hoping Vermilion understood. “If you wanted, I would…do that for you.” she trailed off awkwardly.

“You… would?” Vermilion stumbled to a halt, looking at her. “We… were never allowed to do that kind of thing, back when… He didn’t like us showing weakness. We’d help each other where we could, only way we could survive, but we could never be that… blatant about it. To not be alone when-” her voice trembled. “I, I’d like that. Thank you.” And suddenly she pulled Axle into an awkward hug; equally suddenly released it, looking anywhere else, cheeks flushed scarlet.

Axle smiled to herself, and restarted the climb, wondering if anyone in the Combine would believe her about this. Or if she was going to tell them. Eventually they got to yet another door without handles, and Axle looked expectantly at the Carrion Queen.

Vermilion drew herself up and frowned at it in concentration, waving a hand in its general direction. The door flew open, moving rather faster than expected, and bounced back from the wall with a loud thunk before the creak of its opening had faded. “...oops.”

The room revealed was a two-storey library, arcane tomes and scrolls lining the walls, a ritual circle inlaid in gold in the centre of the marble floor. Magelights kindled in the hands of the statues around the room as they entered, and sprung into twinkling life across a hanging chandelier sculpted to resemble twisting branches. Vermilion smiled, looking around fondly. “Welcome to my parlour.” She gestured at an archway across the room, where another staircase continued upwards. “Living quarters are above, there’s one hell of a view from the balcony.”

“As good as the view from the hoverbike? That I've got to see” Axle gently moved Vermilion towards, and up the stairs, looking around at the library as she did so, wondering what Valve would do to get his hands on all this data.

Vermilion paid enough attention to ensure they went around the circle rather than through it, smiling absently. “We’re pretty high up here, you can see most of the Wyrdwood on a clear day. And it catches the moonlight wonderfully.”

They reached the balcony, and Axle stopped, and drew a breath as she saw the view. “Damn that's beautiful. I wonder what my territory looks like from this height… maybe I'll take the airship over it on my way back- find out.”

“Maybe when I come visit you can show me.” Vermilion took a moment to lean on the railing, breathing in the night air. “I like to come out here, take in the view, remind myself that somehow I managed to make something beautiful.” She smiled, then made herself turn away. “We should probably go inside…” The door swung open at her approach, the same sinister creaking in spite of a smooth movement.

Inside, there could be no doubting to whom the room belonged. A fire blazed in a fireplace whose mantle bore a frieze of marching skeletons, inlaid in ivory with their armour picked out in gold; the room was dominated by a four-poster bed almost large enough to be a room in itself; heavy red draperies swinging about it, ruby-eyed gold skulls surmounting the posts, a matching chaise longue at its foot. Vermilion flopped onto it, too tired for dignity, sighing with relief.

Trying not to laugh at Vermilion, Axle pulled off her boots and jacket, and leather waistcoat, revealing a worn black tank top, and even more unsightly scars. She joined the Monarch on the bed and gently wound an arm around her waist, pulling her into a slightly awkward hug. “Is this Ok?” She asked, her voice soft.

Vermilion flushed slightly, stiffening despite herself, clearly unused to being hugged. Slowly, slowly, she relaxed into the contact, a soft smile forming on her lips. “...yes.” Her voice came out as a whisper, tinged with amazement. Gently she rested her hand over Axle’s, holding her close. “Very much yes.”

Axle shuffled herself closer, feeling her own tiredness kick in, and rested her head on Vermilions shoulder. “Earlier,” she began, sleepily, “you said you wished you could believe that… changing was possible.” A smile flickered across her face as her eyes closed. “Why dream small, Comrade?”

Vermilion chuckled sleepily. “Never give up, do you?” Her own smile, as her eyes drifted closed, was tinged with sadness.

You want to save others, and don’t believe you’ll ever find the redemption that you’re seeking.

I Shaped an entire realm about the process of alchemical transformation, and don’t believe that I can change myself.

I didn’t think we’d have this much in common...

Principles of Offensive Architecture

Authors: Carrion-Queen Vermilion and “Ten Count” Markowitz

“BE FREE OR BE FREED!”

When he’d first heard the monstrous song of the famed Comrade Wings, “Ten Count” Markowitz had found it really rather amusing. Propaganda was a completely legitimate weapon of warfare and one the People’s Combine had worked hard to make their own, so he could respect the efforts to Shape something that would spread the quote-unquote good word of the Liberators of the Combine. Why exactly they’d chosen to place that burden on a gigantic golden dragon - something so undeniably cool that Ten Count had already started considering how to make one for himself - was a secret already lost to the ages.

By the twentieth time Wings had soared overhead and bellowed out another convenient soundbite, the novelty had long since fizzled out and died. It was no more than a wild stab in the dark - time being the mutable and mostly-irrelevant concept it had evolved into - but Ten Count guessed he’d been hauling the extremely heavy cases through the Wyrdwood for at least a solid hour and this was all feeling far, far too much like hard work for his liking.

He’d set off from Opportunity accompanied by two of his trainees, figuring that while neither Loomis nor Dager had shown themselves to be especially capable, they were convenient muscle and looked up to Ten Count with enough reverence that they’d obey orders unquestioningly. It seemed like a perfect plan - they carried the munitions, they saw a little more of the world outside Opportunity and if anything looked to be going south, he could use them as meat shields. Sensible, considered and with absolutely no consideration for anybody but himself; if that wasn’t the Margin Driver brief in a nutshell, he didn’t know what was.

And then the little shits had gone.

One moment, they’d been dragging the metal case through the cloying mist at the edge of the forest; the next, gone. Disappeared, vanished, evaporated into thin air and abandoning thousands upon thousands of credits worth of valuable tools where they stood. A normal mortal or some of the weaker-willed Shapers may have retreated, taking it as a sign there were eldritch forces at work that clearly had no time for intrusions, but in the immortal words of the mythical Jimmy “Two Fists” Morris - fuck that, there’s money to be made.

And so it was that a sweaty and aching Ten Count dragged his payload over yet another gnarled tree root and into a blessed clearing, letting the case fall to the floor and sitting down on it. High above the treetops, Comrade Wings breathed a white-hot stream of flame and roared wordlessly. “Fuck off, you tacky lizard,” muttered the extremely grumpy Shaper, patting his many pockets. “Gold was so three seasons ago.”

“Are you in need of assistance, traveller?” boomed a voice that already sounded far too pleased for the distraction for his liking. Ten Count had registered the clearing and the ugly stone walls already but, in his head, there were more pressing matters to attend to than working out where they were. Rummaging through his vest, he emerged with a single, electric blue pill, the last of his recent efforts to distil Vitamin Glee down to something a little easier to carry.

The voice attached itself to the figure who’d detached themselves from the shadows inside the castle gates and only then, as he necked the pill dry, did the gears in Ten Count’s mind start clunking together. “The only assistance I want you are not biologically capable of giving me, sunshine. This Vermilion’s place?”

“Indeed.” In time-honoured tradition, the pair sauntering in his direction mixed the unwarranted confidence in their abilities only the truly incompetent have with the genial boredom of career guards. “You have the honour of standing in the Wyrdwood, dominion and demesne of the Chimerical Reagant, Her Inesteemable Majesty the Carrion-Queen Vermilion, the Unrepentant Fury of Nature…” the taller of the guards trailed off, looking uncertainly towards his counterpart, “...have I missed any?”

“The Lady Incarmine?” the other asked with a shrug. “Broodmother? Queen of Flame and Darkness? I don’t know, I can’t keep track for you.”

The taller one would have spoken up again had Ten Count not intervened, pain adding extra fuel to his fire. That was the problem with the Glee pills, you sacrificed speed of impact for ease of transport. “Pardon me muchly, I thought I was coming to visit the Monarch of the Kingdoms, not watching a fucking atrocious double act. Do I look like a fucking Valtarian to you?” This time, it was the stout one’s turn to be rudely interrupted, with Ten Count warming to his theme. “Look closely, look really closely, note how I’m not wearing armour with sculpted abs on it, see how nothing has any brocade or lace or fancy fucking silver cloth on it, take a close look at how painfully non fucking Valtarian I seem and go tell Mumsy that there’s a nice man at the door who wants to do business with her.” Cracking his neck sickeningly, both for effect and because it was genuinely cramping to hell, the deeply aggravated Shaper produced a cigarette from somewhere. “I’ll wait.”

It has been said that people who spend a larger-than-average amount of time in one another’s company develop a sixth sense for what their partner is thinking, feeling or about to do. These two guards, sadly, had yet to reach that level, which is why the taller one wasn’t quite able to restrain his stouter colleague before he could make one of the worse mistakes of his thus-far uneventful life: putting his finger into Ten Count’s face. “Do not think you ca-aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH,” was as far through the threat as he managed before the increasingly furious Shaper bent his finger back on itself and effortlessly broke it.

“If you don’t mind me quoting for a moment,” said Ten Count, suddenly much calmer now he’d found somebody to be violent towards, “in the words of Delilah DeLuxe, come again?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

The quiet whimpering of the guard reduced to three working fingers couldn’t disguise the uncomfortable pause. “You don-ah, for fuck’s sake. Of COURSE you don’t fucking know, what WOULD you people know about NBTV?” Purely out of frustration’s sake, Ten Count grabbed a second finger and snapped that as well. “Delilah DeLuxe, used to be an adult entertainer, now has a huge line of marital aids. It’s a pun, or play on words. You’re fucking clueless, aren’t you? Go tell Vermilion that ‘Ten Count’ Markowitz wants to bend her ear a little bit and I won’t keep breaking this one.”

The sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor was merely the latest in the series of irritations that was comprising the Carrion-Queen’s day. She was entirely out of outstanding correspondence, the rats had gotten into her library, which of course she couldn’t deal with in her usual preferred manner due to the obvious issues of ‘fireballs’ and ‘library’, and she was evidently more out of practice with the old throwing knives than she’d thought. She was, therefore, restless, irritable, and dangerously bored.

The hapless guard entering her quarters, however, clearly had no idea of the mood his monarch was in. Otherwise, the knife that narrowly missed his nose would have come as far less of a surprise.

“Damn and blast it, you fouled my shot!” She glared at the interloper, the knife (quivering slightly in the doorframe) and the rat (eyeing her defiantly from just inside the hole in the wall beside the door which it had prudently retreated to) with equal degrees of frustrated malice.

“I, uh… sorry, ma’am? I mean, uh, Majesty?” He shuffled awkwardly, clearly flustered in a manner that went somewhat beyond a near-miss with a knife. She frowned at him in puzzlement.

“You don’t appear to be the Royal Ratcatcher,” she observed. The obvious thought of 'we have one of those?' drifted clearly across his face; her lips twitched ever so slightly, knowing full well that in point of fact she didn’t, and somewhere in the castle her seneschal was scrambling to rectify the omission. “I presume therefore you have an excellent reason to be disturbing me.”

“I, uh, well…” Belatedly realising the danger of an irritated Monarch fidgeting with her last throwing knife, he jerked abruptly into some semblance of attention. “Intruder at the gate, Majesty. Or, uh, possibly a visitor. It’s a bit… confusing.”

Vermilion’s eyebrows rose. “Confusing.”

“Yes, Majesty.” He nodded desperately. “He said he’s not Valtarian, but apparently he’s a Count? Marked of a witch? But I’ve never heard tell of any Count with colours like that in their heraldry, and, well… he’s very…”

“Confusing.” Vermilion’s voice was dry. “I see.” She shrugged, shot one last baleful glance at the rat, and tucked her knife away. “Well, this should be… diverting, at the least. Do let us see who this Count is...” She stared at the Guard until he got the hint, an instant later than was prudent, and backed out of the doorway, turning to escort his Queen to meet her guest.

A short while later, she paused in the gateway of the Citadel of Bone, looked from her visitor to the guard at her side and back again, and sighed. Turning to the guard, she raised her eyebrows. “Tell me, lad. What is your name?”

“...Agravaine, Majesty.” He eyed her nervously; she was not, after all, known for taking an interest.

“Hmm. You see, Gawain, the thing is-”

“Uh, it’s Ag-”

Her knife was suddenly in her hand and laid across his lips. “Interrupt me again, Gawain, and you’ll be answering to worse. You see, Gawain, the thing is, names have power. The names of Shapers more than most. For instance. Our visitor here is not ‘a count’.” Enjoying the scene intensely, Ten Count tucked his cigarette neatly behind his ear and flashed both palms at the recently-renamed Gawain. “When someone tells you their name, Gawain, you should, therefore, damn well pay attention.”

Calming herself somewhat, she stepped backwards, knife vanishing into her clothing again. “So. Consider this a learning experience. Once your shift ends, you will seek out my Seneschal for a full list of Shapers currently active in the Outworld. You will memorise that list, complete with notes on faction, aesthetic of attire you should be expecting to see should they arrive here, and what if any you believe my current relationship with them is. In a week’s time, you will present yourself to me for examination. If I am suitably impressed with your performance, I might even be persuaded to give you your name back. Possibly.”

She smiled, bright and cold as snow. “Of course, if you prove… disappointing… Well, my former liege had some very complete theories on the uses of pain as both memory aid and motivational tool. And, unsurprisingly, I remember them remarkably well.” As Gawain paled and took a step back, she turned away, clearly already having dismissed him from her consciousness. Her smile widened, taking on at least a hint of genuine warmth.

“Ten Count. This is an unexpected pleasure. Please, do come in.”

“Your Majesty,” Ten Count sketched a bow, for once not intending to be insulting with the gesture. “I do enjoy it when I meet somebody who has an appreciation for a spot of tutelary dentistry. Oi, you,” he added, leaning past the Carrion-Queen for a moment and acknowledging Gawain’s existence again, “be a sweetheart and if you bring my shit, I’ll give you a couple of answers. In the meantime…” for reasons even he wasn’t quite aware of, Ten Count offered her his arm to take, “I believe we have much to discuss.”

Eyeing him with some skepticism, Vermilion’s desire for a decent distraction overrode her fairly reasonable misgivings and she threaded her arm through his. “Such as?” Absently guiding their steps towards the Great Hall, she ran a thoughtful glance over her visitor’s attire, taking in the full depth of the difference from how he’d dressed last time she saw him. “...Interesting new look, by the way. Very… bold.”

“You’re too kind, too kind.” Ten Count adjusted his collar, today lurid and disgracefully pink. “I’m a big believer in cultural cross-pollination, see, and Opportunity’s ripe for that. Protean Dynamics are taking pointers from us on stakeholder engagement, Joy Effect are stealing their lingo and being the only Margin Driver this side of the breach, I thought I’d try to bring some colour in all of our lives.”

“You succeeded. Avoid that flagstone,” Vermilion gently guided Ten Count to the left. “I understand dismemberment often offends. So, the new heraldry has nothing whatsoever to do with you being repeatedly mistaken for a member of the Penitent Order.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you could possibly be referring to, your Majesty,” the words oozing sarcasm. “I like the Order well enough, some of them seem to have their heads screwed on straight, but you can only threaten to pistol-whip another Shaper so many times before it gets tiresome.”

“So, is the colour scheme an exercise in fashion, or psychological warfare?” Her tone was light. “I mean, you clash with the decor, with my outfit… in places that outfit even manages to clash with itself. All in all, it’s an exquisite exercise in subtle torture of the senses. I thoroughly approve.” Another subtle side-step. Behind them, Gawain steered an equally well-practiced, if less precise, waving course along the corridor.

“My understanding is that it works in the opposite way to camouflage. With practise, you can craft a colour palette so appallingly garish that the eye just slides off it for its own protection. Besides, I thought Valtarians rather enjoyed a bit of excess in their attire. Not,” Ten Count hastened to add, “that you don’t look rather striking, that is.”

“Thank you; I try.” She smiled and nodded. “With us, of course, the colours tend to owe a lot to the old rules of heraldry; all about what the average peasant can clearly recognise on a shield across the battlefield. Requires a degree of simplicity, though as you say, we do rather enjoy taking those basic colours and symbols and seeing just how far we can take them…”

As if on cue, the doors of the Great Hall came into view; carved from bone, inlaid with gilded skulls, with blazing red banners hanging to either side. She raised one hand, and the doors swing open at their approach with a satisfyingly ominous groan.

Within, the same theme to the decor continued; red drapes, pillars clad in bone and walls of black marble; and a truly ostentatious golden throne, ruby-eyed skulls glaring balefully out across the room. One great table was almost entirely taken up by the great Cornucopia, and the steaming food brought forth from it. And on a less ornate (but considerably more comfortable-looking) chair to one side of the great throne, a harassed looking woman, currently glaring at a younger girl who looked if anything even more stressed than she did.

“Look, I don’t care if we’ve never had a Royal Ratcatcher before, her majesty says we do, so we do. Get some damn livery on, would you?” Belatedly registering the sound of the doors, she looked up, rose hastily, and bowed, trying not to look like a woman wondering how much of that her queen had heard.

“Oh good, you found them. Good work, Seneschal. You - the blasted creatures have gotten into my library, get to work before they eat any more of the books. Vivienne - we have a guest, have one of the suites made ready, and de-activate the security measures in the public areas.” Looking relieved for an excuse to be elsewhere, the two women hastily made themselves scarce.”

“Deactivate? Shame. I was looking forward to seeing what this place had to offer.” Ten Count sauntered around the table, looking curiously at the gigantic horn of plenty and swiping an orange. “Full credit to you, Valtaria does do a great line in opulence. This is fucking class,” he said, sitting down in one chair and resting his feet on the arms of the second. “Don’t mind me, my fucking feet are agony.”

Vermilion laughed. “If you’re that curious, I can open up some of the other sections. Forgive me for not wanting all my front-line intruder defences giving away their secrets on a first visit…” She settled into the throne, tossing her own legs over one of the armrests. “Now, then… not that it isn’t good to see you, but what brings you to my Wyrdwood?”

Behind them, the sweating Gawain finally yanked Ten Count’s cases through the door. “Perfect timing, boyo, down here,” he said, snapping his fingers at the unfortunate guardsman. “I know we had a chat last time the Nexus was open but like I said, I’m a big believer in cultural exchange. Diversification is a fucking cornerstone of sensible risk management and I want to ensure that Opportunity never has the chance to get stagnant. You need a wide portfolio to be sure you can weather any market shocks that come along, and Axle’s bunch of morons are a flying supply shock.”

Vermilion shot him a sharp glance at the mention of Axle’s name - most people would have said Maximum’s, or Valve’s if they were paying attention, what does he know - before recalling her focus to the discussion at hand. “If you keep talking like Glimmers, I’m going to need to work up a translation spell,” she muttered. “A flying what now?”

Ten Count waved a hand in dismissal. “Technical term. In this case, used to refer to the grinning imbeciles who thought it’d be funny to have an affront over the Apparitions and might have seriously fucked the world engines, but that’s another story for another day. Point is, you deal with people who have godlike powers and often don’t have the common sense or self-control to use them properly, and what I’m eager to do is establish better links both on the macro and micro levels.” Catching Vermilion’s blank look, he added, “Between both nations as a whole and individual Shapers, what with us all being sovereign nations unto ourselves.”

“Oh, so that would be how the Affront Apparition acquired his stylish new face?” She shrugged absently, before swinging her legs back round and leaning forwards, suddenly intently interested. “I’ve been having… similar thoughts myself. The Concord were planning on building this place solo, after all. And instead, we’ve wound up with multiple factions building our realms in, well, pretty different directions. I have this uneasy feeling running down the back of my spine. Like, maybe there’s a risk of the whole thing coming apart at the seams when the scaffolding comes off, if we don’t take precautions to avoid it…”

She smiled blithely, apparently completely at ease with discussing the possible disintegration of the world they were standing on. “I’ve been working with the Walkers already, of course - the Crucible and the Chromatic Expanse could probably merge into each other fairly well at this point, and if all goes to plan we should have a while to refine it further. Trying to get the rest of the pieces of the puzzle to fit together, that’s going to be more of a challenge. The Combine especially; they’re… not exactly big on compromise. Still, one step at a time.” She tilted her head to one side, looking at him curiously. “I take it you have something specific in mind?”

“I do, I do,” replied Ten Count, filing that all away for future use. “Quite aside from the obvious ideological differences, the Combine being so dogmatic is deeply worrying and I have good reason to believe it’s going to lead to open warfare at some point. I’m not the only one who’s concerned about the Nexus’ structural integrity. And that leads right to my doorstep.” A combination of the mist in the forest and being jolted around had made the latches on his cases a pain to get undone, and he took a knee while he futzed with them. “You tend to gravitate towards fire as your offensive weapon of choice, yes?”

“Outside the Affronts, yes.” Vermilion grinned sharply. “Funny thing, those. I’ve spent pretty much my entire career trying to avoid getting into that kind of fight. Close quarters, two dimensions only, even numbers?” She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s entertaining enough, but it’s not warfare, is it now?”

Ten Count groaned, mostly for theatrics. “Don’t talk to me about the Affronts. Last time out, Opportunity decided I was going to be their fire support for the realm-on-realm fights. It made sense on paper, there’s nobody who could hold a candle to me for marksmanship, but then Chain Dog and Trojan Force decided the best tactics were to leave me completely undefended and let that big lug Abanox run in unopposed and batter me. Don’t know why I wasn’t charging them for my time. A-ha!” The final latch gave way and he triumphantly flipped upon the case. “What’s your Affinity again, Bastion?”

She shot him an odd look. “You’re not confusing me with the Steadfast, are you?...Used to be Tempest. Refocussing to Edge for the next time. If I’m going to have to get up close and personal, I may as well enjoy it.”

Ten Count stopped shifting kit for a moment to fire a look at the Carrion-Queen. “Bethany? You don’t have a Penitent draped over you and I haven’t had to threaten to scalp you yet.” The cornucopia shook as he clunked six feet of heavy ordnance on the tabletop. “I’ve got something for Edges, give me a minute,” he said, tossing a brutally oversized revolver up to join it.

“‘Yet?’” Vermilion sounded amused. “Well, I shall file that under ‘things to look forward to’, then…”

“Try not to get excited, it’s not good for you.” His voice was muffled, as well one would expect from somebody whose head was jammed inside a crate full of foam and metal. “I just want to ensure that she does right by Soar and comports herself like the hero he thinks she can be, and if the best way to accomplish that is with three barrels in the solar plexus then so be it.” He emerged briefly to dump one of the aforementioned triple-barrelled shotguns next to the growing pile. “That’s how your Monarchs-in-Shadow like to do things, ain’t it?”

“Prove yourself worthy or face the consequences? Sounds about right, yes.” She shrugged absently, watching the pile of weaponry grow with abstract curiosity. “Not often things escalate into lethal violence, well, lethal for anyone who matters, at least… Scalping, though? There’s been at least one Monarch-in-Shadow who collected them. And as threats go, it’s nicely colourful. Always helps to focus the mind.”

Ten Count wrenched a rogue sub-machine gun from a deep recess and looked at it curiously. “How did you get in there?” Hurling it carelessly over his shoulder - where it landed with a squishy noise in a pile of ripe fruit - he shouted in triumph. “Fucking knew it! If I ever actually have to scalp her with all the principles, this is what I’d use.”

Considering how nasty and full of malign promise everything else appeared to have, the blade Ten Count unsheathed was almost disappointing; the edge on the blade looked suitably sharp, but the dull, flat blue colour and the strange hilt, a pistol grip with knuckleduster-style holes to thread one’s fingers through, just paled in comparison to some of the monstrous weapons Vermilion had seen and fought against.

Vermilion shot the knife a skeptical look. “Really? With that? For something you’d count worthy of tasting Shaper’s blood, it seems a little, well… modest.”

“You’d think that.” First things first; Ten Count emptied the tiny bag of revoltingly green powder into his mouth and pointed at the chair he’d been resting his feet on. “Are you particularly attached to that?”

She laughed lightly. “Hardly.”

“Excellent.” The sudden violence shouldn’t have been shocking but, even with the strength and power the Shaper’s gift granted, there was no way the blade should have cleaved through it nearly that easily...and it definitely should not have ignited the bisected chair as it did so. With a casual flick, Ten Count ran his fingers along the flat of the blade. “This thing will go through bone like butter. Torgue presents the Provocative Stance.” With a smirk made uglier by the growing flames, he laid the knife back down. “Isn’t technology wonderful?”

“Oh, my.” With a delighted smile, Vermilion rose from her throne and came to inspect the damage. “Now that’s quite something.” Not that she hadn’t seen enchanted weapons do similar - the Soulchainer tended to be carrying that flaming sword of his around, for a start - but most of them tended to provide rather more in the way of advanced warning. Which had a value all its own, but one didn’t survive too long as a Monarch-in-Shadow without learning to appreciate the value of a well-timed unpleasant surprise.

“...of course, while I’m passing fond of both her and indeed Soar, I’m now almost hoping the Steadfast does give you reason,” she muttered thoughtfully. “I rather imagine that would prove quite the show.”

It took him a few moments to find something suitable in the mass of food. “Ah, but I’m very definitively not Edge-aligned. I did try to convince Chain Dog to give it a try, but all he had to say was ‘the Chain Dawg’s got merchandise to move, awooooo’. The Asset Stripper next, I think.” Hefting the revolver in one hand, he offered a watermelon in the other. “Would you mind throwing this in the air? There may be splatter.”

Vermilion hesitated briefly, mindful of her dignity, before shrugging, clearly deciding she was sufficiently intrigued to go along with it. Stepping back, she bounced the watermelon experimentally in her hand a few times, getting a feel for the weight, before launching it towards the ceiling. The pistol blurred as Ten Count swept his hand up and fired, perforating the melon neatly in the centre. There was just enough time for Vermilion to raise an eyebrow and wonder what there was to be impressed about before the fruit erupted, a localised explosion that blasted it to hundreds of tiny, soggy pieces.

Twirling the pistol around his finger, the smug Shaper laid it beside the blade. “Nice throw. Torgue’s Asset Stripper: for when you need to paint the walls with brain matter.”

“And fruit,” said Vermilion acidly, wiping juice from her forehead, the faintest hint of an amused smile visible despite her clear annoyance. “Was that entirely necessary?”

“I did say there would be splatter,” replied Ten Count, trying to shrug carelessly and filing away the mental image of the occasionally high but extremely mighty Carrion-Queen spattered with bright red watermelon juice. “Now, what else...what’s your policy on explosions?” He patted the rocket launcher with the closest thing to affection he could manage sober. “I’ve never tried to kill something that’s been Shaped into being, but I’m pretty sure this beauty could bring that fucking dragon down a few pegs…”

“You leave Wings alone!” Vermilion glared at him, hands on hips, the suggestion clearly enough to distract her both from the watermelon (rapidly disappearing into her clothing’s enchantments, designed for blood but coping well enough) and from the rather more welcome prospect of explosions. “He might be a misguided idiot of a dragon, but he’s my idiot of a dragon.” A deep breath, visibly trying to restore her equilibrium. “Besides, if I’m going to try nailing the world together through geomancy in the long run, I’m going to need to keep something Combine-flavoured around. And I’d far rather keep the dragon than the propaganda machine.”

“Shame,” Ten Count said, still affectionately stroking the missile launcher. “Well, if you ever need something reduced to its component atoms, you know where to come.”

“I’d hardly object to your taking potshots at the airship. Or the banner.” Mollified, she relaxed her stance, smile returning to her face. “Still can’t believe they gave me a dragon, head full of daft ideas or not.”

Hefting it up onto his shoulder, Ten Count smiled back. “I’m jealous. All I got was a computer virus from the Walkers. So, think we can make a deal? A little technology for you, a little magic for us and everybody goes home feeling a little bit friendlier.”

“I’m listening.” A fleeting frown passed over her face as she briefly wondered why the Walkers were fucking with him, and how one of these ‘computer’ things her seneschal had tried to explain to her could get sick. Filing both questions away for later, she shrugged. “I suspect for that kind of cultural exchange to be anything more than a minor novelty we’d be looking at pointing geomancy at the problem to integrate the additions into the local paradigm, yes? What exactly did you have in mind?”

Integrate the additions into the local paradigm, fuck me. That is a good sentence. “I have always wanted to add arms dealing to my list of achievements, the old CV hasn’t changed much lately. I’m thinking...gargoyles whose eyes fire lasers, to make sure any intruders have decent reaction times? Fragmentation mines rigged for sound or movement, so to encourage stealth and caution? If you like that jumped-up lizard up there, how would you like a couple of statues that spit liquid fire? Really, your Majesty, the world is your oyster. If it falls under munitions, I can craft it.”

Vermilion’s smile broadened; her voice was practically a purr. “Oh, you are definitely talking my language. I like all of those ideas.” Curiously, she tilted her head to one side, looking at him levelly. “And what magics would you be looking for in exchange?”

It was a fair question that he had absolutely no intention of giving a fair answer. “Well, you know me, you know my vices, you must know what I do and you know your magic much better than I. What do you think is worth offering?”

She raised skeptical eyebrows. “I think you overestimate my knowledge of your vices, Ten Count... “ A brief pause, thinking, and then she smiled. “On the other hand, you walked to my gate carrying your own luggage? I know what you need - undead minions. Reliable, obedient, thoroughly deleterious to enemy morale, being slaughtered only slows them down till they can pull themselves together. And not being people, you can take them travelling much easier under the current state of play - you should have seen the faces of the first few Combine who saw me riding in with a pair of skeletal horses.” She shrugged, still smiling. “Probably a rather predictable answer, coming from the Carrion-Queen - there again, there’s something to be said for playing to your strengths. Your people would call it ‘branding’, yes?”

“I think I’ve fallen in love.” Ten Count let the barrels of the rocket launcher dip to the ground in only half-mocking awe. “I have always wondered what the manpower in Opportunity’s like for those working on infrastructure, if you can form us up a service industry of the undead then hallelujah and praise the Unrepentant, more time for everybody else to enjoy themselves.”

“There are limitations to what they’re capable of, of course.” She smiled, shrugging. “They have a certain brute cunning for warfare, but outside of that they’re a bit limited for intelligence - need a bit of supervision to get useful results, or you get the classic old tales where they keep digging out the cellar till they hit a river... In general, though - the more boring a job is for actual people, the better suited undead are for the task at hand. Hazardous working conditions no object, obviously. We can figure out the details later - type of undead for the task at hand, that kind of thing… but this sounds like we can come to an arrangement?”

“I’ll have a contract drawn up, a straightforward quid-pro-quo agreement to be executed at the geomancy tables. Now,” he said, enjoying the feeling of a job well done and gesturing to the door, “shall we see if we can bring down that eyesore of an airship?”

“By all means.” Vermilion grinned a predatory grin. “Probably won’t work, of course, geomancy being what it is; but no reason we can’t have ourselves some fun trying…”