Inexorable Chaos: God Games

When I accepted the Leviathans deal to save her children in exchange for removing the island's decay, it was under the assumption I would need only free her children from captivity and not become their mother.

"Mother, are you well? Your emotions feel odd." The psionic voice asks warily. "Are you not able to communicate?"

Uhh, no, not really. I'm not exactly a Leviathan with psionics.

"You are not a Leviathan?" The voice asks, confused.

"Wait, you can hear me?" I direct my thoughts towards the voice.

"I… can." The voice says uneasily. "Are you not our mother?"

"Not… exactly. Your mother, Tawih, was mortally injured and at the end of her life. Before she died, I was tasked to free her two children, Kawlphe and Tur. I'm guessing you're one of them."

"I am Tur and my brother is Kawlphe." The voice introduces sadly, only to flip with interest. "If mother is dead and you carry her will, then you are our new mother."

"That's not how it works, ugh. Fine, whatever. Let's shift to your current situation. Where are you and how are you captured? Also, why isn't your brother contacting me?"

"I am trapped and chained by humans on one side of the island. Kawlphe is on the other side. He is trapped in a deep underground prison that suppresses his ability to connect from a distance."

"Two sides? Wait, are you on the island known as Brothers Rest?" I ask.

Tur seems to nod psionically. "That is what our captors call it."

"Oh, perfect. That saves me time, then. Do you know which side of the island you are on?"

"I am in Sparkhold in a facility at the center of the city. My brother is in Fumehold in an underground prison."

I nod slowly.

"Good to know. I'll have to scout out the island, your prisons, and then set up a plan for your escape. It will take awhile, so you'll both need to be patient until then."

The psionic being on the other end grows confused. "Are you not able to fly here and break the bonds chaining us, mother? We will join you in the slaughter of all those on this island once we are freed."

"Your mother died from wounds produced by those you wish to slaughter." I think at her. "Risking your life for vengeance is not something she'd want."

"What of the pain we've endured? What of our anger?" The psionic energy courses strongly through my head with enough emotion to overwhelm simpler minds.

"What of it? Do you wish for freedom and safety, or do you wish for vengeance and death? Choose and I will make it happen."

"I will choose vengeance." The Psionic energy flows strongly at me with such force a normal being would fall unconscious.

"You do, do you? Does your brother choose the same?"

And like that, the energy lessens quickly, replacing anger with uncertainty.

"My brother chooses life." She says.

"He does? Is he willing to abandon you to your vengeance or will he stick to fighting alongside you?"

For the next minute, the psionic connection is at its weakest. After a moment, it strengthens to a normal potency.

"Life for us both." She answers grudgingly.

"Good girl. Now, conserve your energy and wait patiently while I get a proper plan together."

"Of course, mother."

________________________________________________________________

Brothers Rest island isn't exactly what I was imagining it to look like. In my thoughts, I was thinking of an oval island where two cities rest on opposite ends. This is somewhat true, except the island is slanted to one side where Fumehold is partially built into the side of the island slanted down, whereas sparkhold is built solely on the top of the island slanted upwards. In between them is a tower partially submerged underground.

Another divergence from my imagination is how incredibly different the two cities look. Sparkhold is smothered with pylons that spark electricity between them, while Fumehold has smokestacks releasing violet fumes into the air. The architecture differs too. Sparkhold is covered in white marble stone that seems to shine from the light, whereas Fumehold has darker, grimier colors of black, gray, and brown.

As we near Sparkhold, we're directed to a port available for a vessel of our class. As we near, both mine and Myers eyes widen in surprise as large metalic rune covered arms open and grasp our ships. As the arms move, sparks of electricity dance from a large pylon on the docks to smaller ones on the arms.

"Impressive." Myers calls out. "I'd thought only Gemma had constructed such mechanisms."

I glance at the old man. "Why would they be the only ones?"

"Power and cost," Myers answers coolly. "A runed ship can absorb mana when it hovers over the sky, but it can't do so if it is on land. Crystals can be used to temporarily power such constructs, but the cost generally far outweighs the benefits."

"Except Gemma have found a way."

Myers nods slowly.

More arms move from the pier and latch onto the Peregrine, positioning and shifting it close enough to allow for departure.

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Once the ship is secured, more arms release from the pier, grasping the Timbergrove and positioning it right next to the Peregrine.

One both ships are secured, I depart from the vessel aboard Myers shoulder to meet with the port authority awaiting us.

When we depart, my eyes lock on the awaiting man. Human, average height, but oddly enough his right shoulder is uncovered. From the shoulder, a thick tail-like silver hair is sticking a foot upwards and waves slightly to the wind.

As the man's eyes land on Myers, they glow for a moment, accompanied by a swerve of electricity from the growth.

"[Navigator], is your [Captain] or [First Mate] available?"

[Naviga- oh, right. The band!

"I'm the [Captain]." I announce.

The man glances at me, his eyes glow again and another burst of electricity sparks from the growth.

The man nods slowly, confused but accepting. He opens a notebook and writes down my name. Then he looks up. "What is the reason for your visit?"

Huh. Most ports didn't really care. Odd. I wonder if he has a skill to detect lies. I better word my reply correctly.

"Lots of trade. Selling, obtaining, modifying ships. Visiting the central tower if I can. Probably a bit of sightseeing too."

The man writes my answer down.

"Are you a [Spy] for Fumehold or are you at all hired in some way by them?"

Yup, the guy obviously has a skill to sense lies.

"I'm not a [Spy] nor am I hired by them. I've never even visited the city."

He nods, writes my answer down, then closes his book. "You're cleared for entry. No entry fee is required, but cost will accrue for each day your ship is at port. Departure fee is waived for a year if the [Captain] undergoes any Quillgraft."

"What's Quillgraft?" I ask.

The man raises a thumb and points at the silver spike on his shoulder. "It is a specialty of Sparkhold. A [Fleshbinder] can graft a silver Quill into your body that will grant you a skill."

"Any skill?" Myers asks before I could.

The man shrugs. "There are limitations, but most can obtain simpler ones." He raises a hand and points deeper into the city. "Browse the stores. There are many quills offering a diverse assortment of skills."

He lowers his arms and tucks his book into a pouch at his side. "Now, I do have a job to do, so I must leave you. If you do obtain a Quillgraft, keep the receipt so that your departure fee can be waived."

With one last goodbye, the man turns and leaves, leaving me standing with Myers. Not a moment later and Cillian rushes down looking miserable. "Tavern!" He growls and rushes past. Irmgard arrives a moment later, annoyed as she watches the drunkard move faster than he'd ever had. She then glances at me. "Are we cleared for entry?"

"We are." I answer.

"Good. What are your plans going forward?"

"Information first- so I'll probably meet up with Cillian at whatever tavern he finds. Then I'll head out with Yuto to get my new ship. After that, I'll either head to Fumehold or rush directly to the tower. I've yet to decide."

"And what of the rest of your crew?"

"They're free to depart." I pause. "Actually, I'll see if they want to come with me. It will be nice to eat somewhere other than the ship. You're free to come along too."

"I refuse." She says immediately. "There is far too much work and preparations to be completed. Once cillian is properly intoxicated, inform him to return to me. His presence will be required if I am to restock supplies for a reasonable price."

I pout, but nod in understanding. Irmgard is a stickler for efficiency. If she's taking a break, it's only because everything else is done to her standard. "Sounds like a plan. I'll head to the Timbergrove now. If you're returning to the Peregrine, tell Auranta she's free to leave if she wants."

"She likely won't, but I will inform her regardless."

With the plan made, I retrieve a majority of my crew and then follow the scent of alcohol and scotsman.

_____________________________________________________________

The crew gathers beneath a grey sky. The tavern stands before them-plain, stout, worn by years. The clouds are dark, nearing a drizzle, the wooden floorboards creak with each step. Boriss, still as a stone, raises one foot before the door. And then…

Quasi clears his throat, tail curling around his front paws. He looks at his awaiting crew, his tail raised like a banner for war.

"Before the boot flies… a word."

He stands tall on Boriss's shoulder, his voice steady, practiced-the voice of a [Captain] who knows when to command silence and when to let it fill a room. A cat with experience unrivaled by those subject to mortality.

"This might seem simple to you. A bit of theater. A habit. Boriss kicks the door, we all pour in like rain off a thatched roof, and maybe we get a drink or a scuffle or a story out of it. But if that's all you see-if you think this is just noise-then you've missed the point."

He gestures with one paw to the tavern door, solemn.

"That door, right there… That's everything. It's the line between the world we came from and the one we're about to step into. A door is more than wood and hinges. It's a statement. A question. Sometimes, a warning."

He begins pacing slowly along Boriss's shoulder, balancing expertly between the man's shoulderblades.

"I've spent half my life perched at eye level watching others enter places — and I'll tell you this: how a mortal crosses a threshold says more about him than any words he might spill after. But what's more interesting is the door itself. Because it always speaks first."

He nods toward the door again.

"Doors are honest. More honest than signs, more honest than [Barkeeps]. A place might paint itself welcoming, smile as you walk in, but a door never pretends. It was built to keep something out. Or in. You want to know what kind of place you're walking into? You don't ask the man at the bar. You ask the door."

He stops pacing now, voice dropping to a quieter, more thoughtful tone.

"You see the grain? Worn low near the bottom. That means traffic. Workers. Locals. See the scuff marks, deep and uneven? Someone's been dragging something heavy in and out. Could be kegs. Could be bodies. And the hinges-old but kept. Cleaned, oiled just enough. Not for show. That tells me whoever runs this place cares. Not about appearances. About function. That's a good sign."

He narrows his eyes slightly.

"A weak door tells you what kind of people sit inside. If it's too light, too new, too quiet-it means no one's tested it. Which means no one inside has ever needed it tested. You walk into a tavern like that, don't expect strong ale, fair dice, or honest company."

He raises his voice again, not with madness-but with the force of someone who's preached this gospel many times.

"But if it holds… if Boriss puts his boot to it and it fights back, just a little, and then swings open slow with weight and purpose-that's a good tavern. That's a place that's earned its foundation. A place where a persons name might be remembered if he speaks it loud enough. A place where a story begins, or ends, with someone shouting your name across the table."

He glances toward the crew now, slowly scanning their faces.

"I know some of you think we kick the door because Boriss likes the sound. Or because we're just loud bastards who can't enter a place like civil folk. That's not it. We kick the door to test it. To test them. And to test us. We do it because we want to see who turns when the hinges groan. Who stands. Who flinches."

He nods, slowly, deliberately.

"It sets the tone. If they can't handle a door being kicked in, they're not going to handle us ordering drinks. Or playing cards. Or speaking our minds. And if they can? Then maybe we've found a place worth our coin. Maybe even worth returning to."

A beat. He turns back to the door, tail flickering like a pendulum.

"You don't knock on a door like that. Not when you're men like us. You demand an answer. You say, with boot and bone: we're here, and we want to know what kind of house you are."

A small smirk touches his furry face now-not of madness, but pride laced with it.

"So go on, my Russian comrade. You know what to do. Give it the measure. Let the door speak. If it cracks too easy, we grab Cillian and drink somewhere else. If it doesn't move at all, maybe we oil the hinges with the barkeep's blood. But if it groans just right…"

His voice drops to a whisper, full of reverence.

"…then we know we've come to the right place."

A pause. The crew watches. Boriss breathes in through his nose. One boot arcs back.

"Make it honest."

CRACK. The door shudders. Dust spills from the frame. Inside: gasps, a stool scraping. Laughter. One man shouts something in surprise as a glass shatters in the distance.

Quasi closes his eye, smiles. Then chuckles.

"Good. Very good. Now, let's see if the cream is as thick as the frame."