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[Harry Baldman]

In the spidery depths where no human eye dare look...

Kevin knows that he is pretty much screwed right about now, and his entrails are probably going to be liquefied and devoured by ravenous creatures that know nothing other than ceaseless violence, killing and crimes against conventional morality. And also seedy flirtation tactics, but Kevin's zoology knowledge is hardly even half of what is required to know about any of that. He is in dire straits, surely, so that leaves but one last resort, one that no man or woman of adventure would choose unless the situation were hopeless indeed.

That last resort is diplomacy. Arachnid diplomacy, conducted purely through what Kevin assumes to be spider noises. He commences this immediately as he regains control of his face, chittering away at the darkness surrounding him.

[Kevin's diplomacy roll: 4]

Chittering does not provide him with much attention or any response, so he stops soon enough. He moves on to buzzing sounds, then smacks his lips in a vain attempt to imitate the graceful movements of chelicerae. This is similarly useless. So the last thing he tries is squeaking - he squeaks loudly and powerfully, and this causes a stir. Immediately something very tiny begins to move toward him, intrigued by the sudden fluctuation of the air. Soundlessly it taps toward the ex-jester, finding him immobile and utterly helpless. It crawls atop his chest, interested in the source of the squeak.


Atop the dreaded Mystery Forge of Castle Fenton...

Niklas cannot, will not accept defeat at the hands of this terrible forge. It must not be allowed to triumph over him, for that would mean submitting to something he hasn't even fought. Not a very Northern thing to do, obviously.

"Unpredictable is my middle name!" he declares before diving back into the Mystery Forge unimpeded and unabated, focusing on the image of a bearsharksquid of some description.

[Mystery roll: ?, ?, ?]

He emerges seemingly moments later, filled with an ineffable sense of wonder, though why that would be, he cannot see. His helmet is still vaguely helmet-shaped, though rather rough to the touch and with a few oddly-placed teeth. Hm, he proclaims! Hm! This science thing he's doing may indeed be paying off, he considers while feeling its texture with one of his furry, toothy facetacles.

In addition, that rather gooey ham in his hands seems to be looking pretty tasty right about now.

"Fair maiden, I dare say you are starting to get it right!" the smith triumphantly says, making Niklas' heart go aflutter for a moment. He's lucky he doesn't seem able to blush anymore, he thinks.

"Indeed you are, Niklas, indeed you are," Helsvar notes, immediately suppressing the urge Niklas has to express his joy with a quivering of the facetacles instead.

"I would implore you to stop, ma'am!" the maid says, looking quite alarmed. "What's happening to you is becoming a mite disturbing!"

"Nonsense! She's about to get properly into it!" the smith laughs.


In the idyllic countryside surrounding the Sea of Death...

Sigmund figures he could probably use magic to make sure he actually is free rather than merely deposited in some other horrifying alternative for death. Not that freedom isn't one of those necessarily, but he's not one to knock being able to choose one's means of attaining oblivion, even in the most uninformed and random of ways.

[Sigmund's magic roll: 2]

Try as he might, though, the porthole he envisions for his magical focus does not seem likely to materialize in the immediate future, not least of all because he can't seem to wrap his head around how exactly he's supposed to impact something with itself. Magic would be the obvious answer, but he's had the terrible misfortune of obtaining the exact sort of magic where not knowing what in gods' names he's doing is a completely untenable state of affairs. So he remains blind, trapped and butchered into very tiny pieces, and perhaps it's better he does not open up an avenue through which this rather safe and comfortable state may be averted.


In the Black Tower of Eckledun...

Morton tries to push on with his agenda in spite of the rather unfortunate bureaucratic reallocation of Mothdale's populace - hope's not lost until he sees them all burn in the great pyres of the Black Circle, as a popular saying around here goes.

"It was too much of me to expect the refugees weren't already squared away. If I may ask, good mage Susanne, could I inquire as to where the refugees are going, and if there will be a potential peace between good group Gub and those around Mothdale? It would sadden me if he were driven out or harmed simply because he lacks understanding and perspective of others. I just fear that those I may bring to help aid Mothdale might be for naught. I'm afraid many were hurt during Mothdale's unfortunate destruction by whoever did such a thing, you can feel it just by being there and seeing the destruction, seeing what was. Until the destruction is repaired, I don't believe the wound will heal. One cannot heal a burn without the proper treatment," he tells Suzanne, hoping for some sympathy for the plight of the common folk unknowing in the ways of mind-controlling creatures from beyond human understanding.

"Eh, they'll be fine," Suzanne waves off his concern. "Most of them will be set up as retainers of five different Black Towers, and maybe a few of the really sickly or injured ones will be turned into ghosts for further work. Nothing too horrible, by and large. A lot of the people hurt are probably either dead or belong to the Gub, in which case all their worries are likely to be in the past," she points out.

"I would welcome any assistance in helping the situation and my task that you may offer. But I'm afraid I must also request another question: what happened in Mothdale? I've seen holes bored into walls, buildings licked by flames, and destroyed structures, and now the city controlled by good group Gub. I admit to knowing little to go upon except that it was a group of some sort," Morton continues, changing the subject a little as he considers the implications of somebody being turned into a ghost before becoming a retainer of the Black Circle.

"I wouldn't be the one to ask, really. You'd be better off asking-" she begins, looking around, but finding nobody. At this moment Morton becomes aware that the whip man's disappeared someplace along with Lindsay and Jay. Strange. "Huh. Where'd they run off to? Quite impolite of them, really."


In a capsule beyond the reach of man and woman alike...

Scott has no regrets. He needs to explode right out of this prison. A little pain is nothing. He's been in so much pain over his unlife that it hardly matters at all anymore. It's more likely that being alone is what'll get him eventually, all things considered.

"So did losing my corporeal body... all things are relative. Let 'er rip."

~Here goes!~

Scott suddenly finds himself at the foot of the Black Tower of Eckledun, this time at the outer steel door. The dog is still here, examining him critically, looking a little bit like a military officer of some sort with the fur across its snout resembling a mustache.


In the depths of the engineer tombs of the City of the Dead...

Darren attempts to keep up the smalltalk with the obviously strange ghost before him.

"Must have been hard. Any advice for a starting ghost?"

The ghost turns toward him rather quickly, the entirety of its being staring into his soul for a second before it suddenly appears to liquefy, its previous image turning into that of a rather regular-looking old man in a tan robe, vaguely transparent and with a faint corona of white light surrounding his body.

"Ventriloquism is more useful than you'd think," he says after a moment of thought. "Also, learn to shapeshift."

A moment passes as he examines Darren.

"What did you want, anyway?"

Spoiler: GM Note (click to show/hide)

And we're back. Wonder if the player base still exists?

This looks fun.  When it comes back, can I join?

It's just your luck that you can... well, join the waitlist, that is. Luckily, it looks bigger than it is, considering that I'm positive that a few of the people listed within aren't likely to respond when I PM them. Not as many as there tend to be in the Forgotten Art, but many nevertheless. You're guaranteed to get in at the final chapter, whenever that arrives, if that's any consolation even if you don't get in at the next chapter break.

[Coolrune206]

I'm still here also. On the waitlist. Waiting on a list, patiently. Oh, well.

[miauw62]

"Squeak?"
Try to see what it is, and squeak imploringly.
((brb, sacrificing my firstborn to the rng))
((also, awesome that this is back.))

[Xantalos]

Tentacles! This can only be a good thing.

First of all, examine myself for whatever alterations got made. The tentacles, obviously, but what else? Take off the helmet and look at it, then put it back on.

[Xanmyral]

[Awesome, this is back. Sort of bad timing for me though, college is kicking me while I'm down at the moment. I'll try to get a post out later today, at the latest tomorrow.]

[Tomcost]

((*Dies out of happiness))

So Sigmund can't make something hit itself, huh? Well, the solution is simple, hit it with something else.

But, first, something else should be done, and that is decreasing the risks inherent to smashing things against each other at who knows how many meters above ground while over a small surface capable of holding them.

Two actions:

1) Make the pillar recede, but not too much.
2) Manipulate (aka, apply magic to) a peeble and smash it against the hinges of the chest Sigmund is currently into.

[Spinal_Taper]

"I was hoping to find the Crown of Flowers."
Tensing up at the gaze of the elder ghost, he responds, leaning back slightly.

[Harry Baldman]

"I was hoping to find the Crown of Flowers."
Tensing up at the gaze of the elder ghost, he responds, leaning back slightly.

"What for?"

[Spinal_Taper]

"It's for my friend. Who, uhh, happens to be a god."

[Xanmyral]

[Technically missed the deadline, but oh well.]

Morton nodded along with Suzanne's explanation, slightly put off at the brevity with which the topic is handled with, but he supposes she must of been asked such a similar inquiry before. The desk supposes it should only be expected, after all, she appears to be the representative of this tower so she must field many a question. The tea apostle hopes he hasn't bothered her with what might be a frequently asked question, but moves on to address the disappearance of several of the guests.

"I suppose something pressing must of come up, I do quite hope its nothing dreadfully serious." The desk commented about their vanishing trick, remembering that they did mention they didn't have much business there. "Good mage Suzanne, I must thank you again for fielding my questions and taking the time to speak with us. I must inquire further though, who might know more? The man who accompanied you perhaps, Mr..." The desk visibly pauses for a moment, the lights shimmering on the desk as he pondered recent events. "I'm afraid I didn't catch his name, I'm afraid to say, but would he perhaps be the one I should speak to? If so, do you perhaps have any advice? I've met him before but I'm afraid I must of taken a misstep as I believe I've offended him last time. Should I address him as Sir..." The desk let the conversation trail from there, leaving it for her to step in.

Continue to converse, use some social engineering to try and persuade Suzanne to slip Whipman's name!

[Hm. I figured he had something to do with it. God of death shows up, kills demon. He's there. He assaults people who have been brought back from death, which angers god of death. Only time he was shown as peaceable, someone was burying the dead. Priest of god of death has mind barrier from Gub, as does he... Still got my money on him being an avatar or perhaps some important figure of this god.]

[Innsmothe]

[Sorry for the delay. Connection iffy]
Scott nods to the dog
I shall now make my long-awaited entry and bid you a good day!
...Nice 'mustache'.
-Zoom-!

[Harry Baldman]

In the clutches of nefarious arachnids deep beneath the aquifer...

Kevin tries to see what exactly could it be that has chosen to take up residence on his chest, and it takes him only a moment to realize that he is paralyzed and that this may, in fact, be an area into which light has never made its way in the entire course of human history. Possibly arachnid history, even.

"Squeak?" he implores, and the thing on his chest squeaks back disharmonically. This form of diplomacy does not appear to be working as well as it should. However, it does seem to attract a few more squeaking things to him - Kevin thinks that these must be arachnids of some kind as well, but far more tiny than the other ones living here. Of course, they're still the size of a splayed hand and nearly five times as hairy, but still. It's all relative, you know?


At the precipice of the Mystery Forge...

Niklas thinks he should probably take stock of the bodily alterations visited upon him - examining the helmet in his hands, and finding it just as mildly inspiring as before, he then feels up his face.

"Tentacles! This can only be a good thing," he says out loud, running his fingers over his head. The general shape appears to remain the same - the skull isn't particularly altered apart from the mouth region, where the jaws seem to have split up into five radial parts that form a circular mouth that he seems to be able to stretch wider and purse together without much problem - and to a much greater degree than before with a human mouth, no less. Score!

Also, his mouth cavity seems to be lined with very sharp teeth arranged in many rows. And he has eight furry grasping tentacles around his mouth with hooks worked in beneath the thick hairs running over them. The tentacles seem rather sensitive, and it feels like there may be some sensitive whiskers on it, particularly near the tips. The fur continues across the rest of Niklas' head, largely obscuring all of his human features. It's thicker on where he used to have hair, too, though but it's a little uncomfortable and tight around the mouthparts.


On the surface without a single care in the world...

Sigmund is not quite ready to admit that his entombment in a chest of body parts is entirely inescapable, and thus resumes his magical ministrations.

[Sigmund's magic roll: 5]

He carefully adjusts the height of his pillar, pushing the stone responsibly back down to a point with his presence, making sure to stabilize the foundation when he's done. Feels like he's close to the surface when he's done. So that's step one done - now to find a pebble to shoot himself with. He scours the ground with his presence until finding an appropriate stone, then grabs it with his magic. Step two is done, now for step three -freedom!

[Sigmund's magic roll: 1]

The pebble, compressed to a bullet with Sigmund's presence almost to the point where it would shatter, is aimed at the chest rather crudely - removing a small avenue of presence, Sigmund lets the stone fly his way, only to feel a whole lot of dust impact his magical prison. Huh. Maybe he overdid that a little.


In the chamber of the Crown of Flowers...

Darren supposes this ought to be uncomplicated to explain. The problem is, at its root, uncomplicated as far as he can tell. The trouble is really how this fellow will take it.

"It's for my friend. Who, uhh, happens to be a god."

The ghost's expression turns sour, his facial features wobbling asymmetrically, tiny bumps forming in places, then subsiding as he considers this new information.

"Don't tell me, it's the god of death and magic, right? About to get his harvest of tormented, long-suffering, at best half-mad souls, replete with experiences from countless centuries of haunting the ruins of their own destroyed lives."

He huffs indignantly.

"Well, you can turn around and leave, then. I'm this close to getting a solution here," he explains, showing a very tiny distance between his thumb and index finger. "Can't allow anyone to meddle, least of all the infernal tosser who got us into this mess in the first place."


In Eckledun's Black Tower...

Morton, not minding the departure of the menace to society that the fellow with the whip doubtlessly poses, continues the conversation nonchalantly.

"I suppose something pressing must of come up, I do quite hope its nothing dreadfully serious. Good mage Suzanne, I must thank you again for fielding my questions and taking the time to speak with us. I must inquire further though, who might know more? The man who accompanied you perhaps, Mr... I'm afraid I didn't catch his name, I'm afraid to say, but would he perhaps be the one I should speak to? If so, do you perhaps have any advice? I've met him before but I'm afraid I must of taken a misstep as I believe I've offended him last time. Should I address him as Sir..."

Suzanne thinks a moment.

"To be perfectly honest, I'm sure he doesn't care at all. Strikes me as the type to not worry much about names or facts. Or to even engage much in polite conversation. Can't even keep the man confined in a waiting room for fifteen minutes, let alone engaged in much more than a short exchange of words. Like now, for instance. So I'd advise you not to speak with him at all. Rather, try and get one of his underlings, like one of the Fensters or perhaps Jay. You already saw Lindsay and Jay, yes? I'm sure his other companions are around here someplace, or perhaps back at the City of Gub. They'd be your best bet," she explains. "Although I've heard that they have a certain Mr. Duchamp in their number - you'd best steer clear of that one as well, just to be sure."

"In any case, you would probably not be missing much even if you were to not converse with any of them. Their tales would likely involve lots of flames and death and wouldn't befit polite society were they to go in any detail. The Grand Master's task forces tend to accrue such narratives and reputations as a general rule, I've heard, with a few exceptions, of course. Like my wonderful aunt, for instance. Have you heard of her, perhaps? You wouldn't have, I bet."

Suzanne appears to be about to open some form of conversational floodgate.


Outside Eckledun's Black Tower...

Scott nods at the dog in acknowledgment. Perhaps he needs a hat for tipping purposes.

In fact, he might absolutely need a hat without regard for any sort of kinetic function, if only to give him some kind of human feature and prevent him from looking like some kind of melted floating kidney. Perhaps he can grow an ectoplasmic one through willpower alone. Or get Morton to enchant a regular hat and hand it to him, though there'd probably be a bit of a flammability issue there.

In any case, he zooms up, up and through the wall, the dog's barking seeing him off on his path. Through the wall he goes and into the internals of the tower.

The first thing he notices is a crystal - a rather large one at that, staring at him with its glowiness and wonder in the middle of an otherwise empty room.

"Hey, Scott!" the voice of Francine emanates from it. "You sure got here fast."

[Innsmothe]

Why hello, It is so nice to meet again in so short a time! I must remark that I am impressed about your size and that you seem to have a healthy glow about you!
...so when are you due?

There is a definite hint of true earnestness in his voice.

[Tomcost]

Well, that could have been better. So, if his own force is not to be trusted, then there must be another force to trust. Like gravity! Yeah, that would do the trick.

Grab a far bigger peeble. Lift it high enough above the hinges, then let it fall.

[Xanmyral]

Morton must admit he was surprised to hear that the whip-armed fellow was the leader of a group, much less those two polite individuals. Such a sharp contrast, the desk mused. Curious. But a thought formed at the back of his mind. With the way she worded it, did she imply they were the cause? But... They seemed so nice, surely they couldn't of...

"I most certainly will give that an attempt, should I find them again. Hopefully they wouldn't mind divulging some insight, if they have the time." Morton nodded, happy to be given a path for more information. He owes it to good lady Melville.

Ever one for good ole fashion polite discussion and interesting conversations, Morton most certainly couldn't deny Susanne her opportunity to unleash the floodgate. "I must admit you have quite peaked my interest about your aunt though, good mage Susanne. I might have well heard of her, in a prior life I was a purveyor and pursuer of many a story and account, you see. While such a profession is now sadly behind me, I still feel its call to investigate that which intrigues. If you don't mind sharing, I'd love to hear."

Contemplate Whipman And Co., Open Flood Gates.