3486/Mother, Maiden, Crone - Revision history

Binary at 08:51, 7 December 2015

2015-12-07T08:51:45Z

Binary at 07:59, 7 December 2015

2015-12-07T07:59:16Z

Binary: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/12/06 |Location=Land of Steel |Synopsis=Visitors to the Land of Steel meet a couple of its stranger denizens. One is much more frightening tha..."

2015-12-07T07:56:57Z

Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/12/06 |Location=Land of Steel |Synopsis=Visitors to the Land of Steel meet a couple of its stranger denizens. One is much more frightening tha..."

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 :'''{{#var:687|Ark Line (687)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>The crone examines the offering critically, and nods. "They will. Thank you, child." She sounds positively, well, grandmotherly, when she says that. She carefully sweeps the offered herbs... somewhere. They end up with the rest. A number of the gaps have been filled, if only a little.<br /><br />She drinks, and pours. It seems like she is intent on making sure the bottle is emptied over the course of this discussion, even if at least Finna is eager to make that as short as possible. "You owe me no service. Those coming to ask for charms, or knowledge... /they/ will serve. There are always tasks to be done, and failure... well." Her eyes trail to the door. The fence of human bones suddenly comes to mind.<br /><br />The old woman smiles, though, and it is not wicked or ugly for a change. "Your generosity towards an old woman is touching. However." She raps a knuckle against the wooden tabletop. "Rules are rules, eh? They will perhaps change for next time you visit. You /will/ come again, I hope." Oh dear.<br /><br />She becomes serious again. The almost friendly demeanor melts off her features. "Babel's Tale is what they call this newest war of theirs. It is as useless as all wars are." She drinks again, her scowl returning. "An argument between petulant children, cast in blood and fire and the tools of the 'civilized' as they remember what it means to be wild. A fable, writ over the rust and dust of a dead world, that none will ever read."<br /><br />"Mankind -- humanity, as you know it -- is all but gone. They have sequestered their survivors in cradles of iron, sealed against the poisonous outside. They do not leave their precious cradles, yet they work, and toil, and make their false children, the toy soldiers: Liners. The Liners leave the cradle..." She walks two fingers across the surface of the table as she speaks, away from her glass, covered with her other hand. "...and find the other legacy of humanity. A-RAYS. Beast-men. Proud warriors, prouder still of their wars without war. The strong survive, and though the Liners live in this poisonous air, oh, they are not truly /strong/, not like they. They take a stone, and --"<br /><br />She lifts her other hand, and slams it onto the table, rattling the glasses. "-- dash the Liners' brains across the ground with it. They are not strong, you see," Grandmother says, eyeing the three, "but they are the /strongest/. Without them, what is left of the humans will surely curl up and die, like wounded animals must."<br /><br />The old woman snorts. She refills her glass. "Surely. That is what humankind has always done. Simply laid down and died. Surely that will work here." She chuckles, unkindly. "I do not need to tell you that it did not, and will not. They made stronger soldiers. Strengthened the mold. Added more of the poison, to make them swllow it down more readily. 'Take your filthy medicine, child,' the men in the cradle say, 'and it will make you big and strong!'"<br /><br />Her scowl deepens. "It did."<br /><br />"They call them the Ether Liners. They face the A-RAYS with sorcery that has not been seen..." She looks suddenly thoughtful, like she's reminiscing. "...for a very, very long time. Weapons that warp time and space. That govern life, or death. They change the world to their wills. And instead of fixing it, what do they do?" She lifts her glass, saluting mockingly. "Pen another line of the Tale in blood, all across the dust. Well done, 'heroes.'" The crone tosses back the liquid without expression.<br /><br />"They are strong, and they are worthless, so long as they fight for the purpose of fighting. They do not make sacrifices to their gods," she tells Finna, "but to the cold, warped altar of /progress/. The A-RAYS treat them like animals that need be culled, but not an infestation to be exterminated, and every generation is stronger than the last. They underestimate their resolve. Yet none, still, will break this curse that holds this world drowning beneath the surface of a sea of corpse-dust."<br> <br>
-:'''{{#var:687|Ark Line (687)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>With a slow, deliberate motion, she puts the glass back on the tabletop. "The world did not die a good death," the crone says. "A ghost in the shape of a man laid it low with evil power from a contest he did rightly win. And so, it could still be recovered. Clung to, until its proper time. Perhaps. Perhaps..."<br /><br />She sighs. "But I ramble, and carry on. Eat. Drink. Leave when you are finished. Return when you have more questions, and are prepared to work."<br> <br>
+:'''{{#var:687|Ark Line (687)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>With a slow, deliberate motion, she puts the glass back on the tabletop. "The world did not die a good death," the crone says. "A ghost in the shape of a man laid it low with evil power from a contest he did not rightly win. And so, it could still be recovered. Clung to, until its proper time. Perhaps. Perhaps..."<br /><br />She sighs. "But I ramble, and carry on. Eat. Drink. Leave when you are finished. Return when you have more questions, and are prepared to work."<br> <br>
 :'''{{#var:495|Riva Banari (495)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>Riva listens to the information given studiously. Her phone is also listening, of course, but Grandmother doesn't need to know that. Over time, the information is given, food is eatenr, drinks are finished, and then they are dismissed. Next time, they will need to be prepared to work. <br /><br />As they leave the bone fence, Riva pulls out her phone and taps at it. There is a moment as she flicks over the lambent light of her display...<br /><br />And her eyes widen. "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" She yells, suddenly turning and picking up Inga. "Inga, WE ARE LEAVING NOW. FINNA, MOVE KTHANKSBAI." <br /><br />She immediately begins fireman carrying Inga to the gate at top speed, panicked.<br /><br />Sometimes, even Google doesn't give you nice answers.<br> <br>
 }}

@@ Line 78: / Line 78: @@
 :'''{{#var:495|Riva Banari (495)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>As much as Riva wants to Google what's up with this, the collective knowledge of Mankind is not available to her. <br /><br />Not since she can't get signal, because she does. <br /><br />It's because it's /impolite/ to use your cellphone at the table, and it's /very clear/ that impolitness is something that is not appreciated by Grandmother. So Riva keeps her hands on the table, her back straight. Something about this makes her feel like she's 10 years old again, sitting at Grandma's table and being really polite at a house that smelled weird. <br /><br />In fact, it's exactly like that. It's both familiar and disturbing. Riva fidgets a little in her chair, and takes the vodka and slice of bread. "Thank you, Grandmother." Riva says, smiling faintly. She takes a drink, blinking in surprise at the vodka, but she doesn't seem to have too much trouble with it. The bread is chewed slowly, but steadily. She's going to clean her plate just like she's supposed to. <br /><br />She does, however, nod in agreement with Inga. "It's true. What can we do for you, Grandmother? If something can make things better for you, we can give you a hand." Just... not literally.<br> <br>
-:'''{{#var:687|Ark Line (687)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>The crone examines the offering critically, and nods. "They will. Thank you, child." She sounds positively, well, grandmotherly, when she says that. She carefully sweeps the offered herbs... somewhere. They end up with the rest. A number of the gaps have been filled, if only a little.<br /><br />She drinks, and pours. It seems like she is intent on making sure the bottle is emptied over the course of this discussion, even if at least Finna is eager to make that as short as possible. "You owe me no service. Those coming to ask for charms, or knowledge... /they/ will serve. There are always tasks to be done, and failure... well." Her eyes trail to the door. The fence of human bones suddenly comes to mind.<br /><br />The old woman smiles, though, and it is not wicked or ugly for a change. "Your generosity towards an old woman is touching. However." She raps a knuckle against the wooden tabletop. "Rules are rules, eh? They will perhaps change for next time you visit. You /will/ come again, I hope." Oh dear.<br /><br />She becomes serious again. The almost friendly demeanor melts off her features. "Babel's Tale is what they call this newest war of theirs. It is as useless as all wars are." She drinks again, her scowl returning. "An argument between petulant children, cast in blood and fire and the tools of the 'civilized' as they remember what it means to be wild. A fable, writ over the rust and dust of a dead world, that none will ever read."<br /><br />"Mankind -- humanity, as you know it -- is all but gone. They have sequestered their survivors in cradles of iron, sealed against the poisonous outside. They do not leave their precious cradles, yet they work, and toil, and make their false children, the toy soldiers: Liners. The Liners leave the cradle..." She walks two fingers across the surface of the table as she speaks, away from her glass, covered with her other hand. "...and find the other legacy of humanity. A-RAYS. Beast-men. Proud warriors, prouder still of their wars without war. The strong survive, and though the Liners live in this poisonous air, oh, they are not truly /strong/, not like they. They take a stone, and --"<br /><br />She lifts her other hand, and slams it onto the table, rattling the glasses. "-- dash the Liners' brains across the ground with it. They are not strong, you see," Grandmother says, eyeing the three, "but they are the /strongest/. Without them, what is left of the humans will surely curl up and die, like wounded animals must."<br /><br />The old woman snorts. She refills her glass. "Surely. That is what humankind has always done. Simply laid down and died. Surely that will work here." She chuckles, unkindly. "I do not need to tell you that it did not, and will not. They made stronger soldiers. Strengthened the mold. Added more of the poison, to make them swllow it down more readily. 'Take your filthy medicine, child,' the men in the cradle say, 'and it will make you big and strong!'"<br /><br />Her scowl deepens. "It did."<br /><br />"They call them the Ether Liners. They face the A-RAYS with sorcery that has not been seen..." She looks suddenly thoughtful, like she's reminiscing. "...for a very, very long time. Weapons that warp time and space. That govern life, or death. They change the world to their wills. And instead of fixing it, what do they do?" She lifts her glass, saluting mockingly. "Pen another line of the Tale in blood, all across the dust. Well done, 'heroes.'" The crone tosses back the liquid without expression.<br /><br />"They are strong, and they are worthless, so long as they fight for the purpose of fighting. They do not make sacrifices to their gods," she tells Finna, "but to the cold, warped altar of /progress/. The A-RAYS treat them like animals that need be culled, but not an infestation to be exterminated, and every generation is stronger than the last. They underestimate their resolve. Yet none, still, will break this curse that holds this world drowning beneath the surface of a sea of corpse-dust."<br /><br />With a slow, deliberate motion, she puts the glass back on the tabletop. "The world did not die a good death," the crone sa<br> <br>
+:'''{{#var:687|Ark Line (687)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>The crone examines the offering critically, and nods. "They will. Thank you, child." She sounds positively, well, grandmotherly, when she says that. She carefully sweeps the offered herbs... somewhere. They end up with the rest. A number of the gaps have been filled, if only a little.<br /><br />She drinks, and pours. It seems like she is intent on making sure the bottle is emptied over the course of this discussion, even if at least Finna is eager to make that as short as possible. "You owe me no service. Those coming to ask for charms, or knowledge... /they/ will serve. There are always tasks to be done, and failure... well." Her eyes trail to the door. The fence of human bones suddenly comes to mind.<br /><br />The old woman smiles, though, and it is not wicked or ugly for a change. "Your generosity towards an old woman is touching. However." She raps a knuckle against the wooden tabletop. "Rules are rules, eh? They will perhaps change for next time you visit. You /will/ come again, I hope." Oh dear.<br /><br />She becomes serious again. The almost friendly demeanor melts off her features. "Babel's Tale is what they call this newest war of theirs. It is as useless as all wars are." She drinks again, her scowl returning. "An argument between petulant children, cast in blood and fire and the tools of the 'civilized' as they remember what it means to be wild. A fable, writ over the rust and dust of a dead world, that none will ever read."<br /><br />"Mankind -- humanity, as you know it -- is all but gone. They have sequestered their survivors in cradles of iron, sealed against the poisonous outside. They do not leave their precious cradles, yet they work, and toil, and make their false children, the toy soldiers: Liners. The Liners leave the cradle..." She walks two fingers across the surface of the table as she speaks, away from her glass, covered with her other hand. "...and find the other legacy of humanity. A-RAYS. Beast-men. Proud warriors, prouder still of their wars without war. The strong survive, and though the Liners live in this poisonous air, oh, they are not truly /strong/, not like they. They take a stone, and --"<br /><br />She lifts her other hand, and slams it onto the table, rattling the glasses. "-- dash the Liners' brains across the ground with it. They are not strong, you see," Grandmother says, eyeing the three, "but they are the /strongest/. Without them, what is left of the humans will surely curl up and die, like wounded animals must."<br /><br />The old woman snorts. She refills her glass. "Surely. That is what humankind has always done. Simply laid down and died. Surely that will work here." She chuckles, unkindly. "I do not need to tell you that it did not, and will not. They made stronger soldiers. Strengthened the mold. Added more of the poison, to make them swllow it down more readily. 'Take your filthy medicine, child,' the men in the cradle say, 'and it will make you big and strong!'"<br /><br />Her scowl deepens. "It did."<br /><br />"They call them the Ether Liners. They face the A-RAYS with sorcery that has not been seen..." She looks suddenly thoughtful, like she's reminiscing. "...for a very, very long time. Weapons that warp time and space. That govern life, or death. They change the world to their wills. And instead of fixing it, what do they do?" She lifts her glass, saluting mockingly. "Pen another line of the Tale in blood, all across the dust. Well done, 'heroes.'" The crone tosses back the liquid without expression.<br /><br />"They are strong, and they are worthless, so long as they fight for the purpose of fighting. They do not make sacrifices to their gods," she tells Finna, "but to the cold, warped altar of /progress/. The A-RAYS treat them like animals that need be culled, but not an infestation to be exterminated, and every generation is stronger than the last. They underestimate their resolve. Yet none, still, will break this curse that holds this world drowning beneath the surface of a sea of corpse-dust."<br> <br>
 :'''{{#var:687|Ark Line (687)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>With a slow, deliberate motion, she puts the glass back on the tabletop. "The world did not die a good death," the crone says. "A ghost in the shape of a man laid it low with evil power from a contest he did rightly win. And so, it could still be recovered. Clung to, until its proper time. Perhaps. Perhaps..."<br /><br />She sighs. "But I ramble, and carry on. Eat. Drink. Leave when you are finished. Return when you have more questions, and are prepared to work."<br> <br>
 :'''{{#var:495|Riva Banari (495)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>Riva listens to the information given studiously. Her phone is also listening, of course, but Grandmother doesn't need to know that. Over time, the information is given, food is eatenr, drinks are finished, and then they are dismissed. Next time, they will need to be prepared to work. <br /><br />As they leave the bone fence, Riva pulls out her phone and taps at it. There is a moment as she flicks over the lambent light of her display...<br /><br />And her eyes widen. "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" She yells, suddenly turning and picking up Inga. "Inga, WE ARE LEAVING NOW. FINNA, MOVE KTHANKSBAI." <br /><br />She immediately begins fireman carrying Inga to the gate at top speed, panicked.<br /><br />Sometimes, even Google doesn't give you nice answers.<br> <br>
 }}