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xp_logsThe Grand Dame takes Namor, with Pixie in tow, on a tour of her kingdom. The highlight is the The Engine.
The faerie woman’s bare feet moved soundlessly beneath the hem of her skirt as they descended. The stair, carved from a pale stone that luminesced in the dim light, spiraled below them like a snake’s spine.
“What I show you now is a thing unseen by even most of My own people,” explained the Grande Dame. “Rare it is that I entertain a guest worthy of the greatest wonders of Our realm.”
"You must methodically veil your own radiance from your people, then," came a low growl from her trailing guest. Namor followed in measured deference behind the Dame, the patter of his own wingbeats adding a gentle staccato behind his words. "For the grand view I have before me is nearly as exquisite as the company."
The man ran a hand delicately along the intertwined webwork of vines and crystal that formed a foundation for the fluted, open fan vaults of the plaza from which they had entered. There are no handrails here, no considerations for safety. A contrast worth noting.
"This wonder must sit at the heart of your nation," Namor continued, using what might have been a moment of appreciative study to exchange a glance behind. His attention returned forward. Appreciative.
Jeweled wings flicked, admonishing his foolishness. "Sit at? No. It is its heart." The Grande Dame glided to a halt and raised her hands towards the towering mass of bronze that dominated the plaza's center.
"Behold: The Engine."
A great machine rose before them. It was not beautiful, but there was an energy about it that fascinated. Like so many sights in Otherworld, its construction aped human design without understanding: jumble of gears and valves of unclear function jutted from every surface, while enormous pipes plunged deep into the ground. It was dark with the tarnish of centuries.
Dark, and utterly still.
"Beautiful." Despite the words that left Namor's mouth, his eyes were cool and flat as he studied the scene carefully, the weight of the Dame's attention momentarily lifted. He said it was beautiful like someone taking notes on what to break. He leaned closer, despite himself, committing details to memory. "In Our kingdom, a corps of engineers was needed for the profound machines that kept Bensaylum upon the waves – our siphon for the magic hidden beneath the ocean floor. This, however . . ."
The Grande Dame's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Such technology is known to you? I am impressed, but then, your society seems far more refined than the Milesians and their crude dependence on what can be stolen from the earth or harnessed from the elements. However, the Engine does more than keep our city aloft. It supports the very land itself."
With a soft whirr of wings the faerie woman took to the air. Even in flight her movements were graceful, almost dreamy, like a butterfly on the wind.
"Ever entwined have our two worlds been," she said as she drifted closer to the Engine. "The gates have their phases, always opening and closing to their own rhythms. During these times the borders thin to allow passage -- of living creatures, aye, but something far more precious as well. Something of Our world flows to yours, and something of yours to Ours." She turned to Namor, her hair floating around her like a cloud of blood.
"On earth it is called magic. Here, it is glamour."
With a kick, Namor was also afloat. Two figures in satellite of the curious machine.
"How wonderful, put the fascinating neanderthal's resources, their glamour, to work for you. You know they can barely harness its potential on their own? When the few who manage do, it is often so needlessly dramatic."
His eyes darted over to a section of the machine, near its bottom-most rim, that did not match the pocked and burnished clockwork cacophony. Wood and wheels formed a crude treadmill apparatus that neither matched the wild genius of the rest, nor its splendor. Namor nearly opened his mouth to comment, but held back with a thin smile.
"On occasion they have their uses. One such built this Engine, in fact. A peculiar man. An artisan among his people, I take it. He saw Our need and bargained a solution for his freedom." The Grande Dame turned to Namor. "Our resources are not infinite. Natural though the flow of glamour to Our realm may be, that alone was not sufficient to sustain both Our population and Our progress. We vied for it as mortals fight for water. Blood was spilled, and the kindred divided. A shameful existence. Then came the Engine to magnify and distribute what glamour came to us in equal measure. It was Our salvation."
"A bargain, you say?" That this had hooked Namor's attention was clearly evident, and he drifted closer through the air to the Dame like a fish on a line. "With lungbreathers? Your need must have been great indeed. My people never gained much from them but strife. Only trade, bouts of service, or sport in conquest." He waved a hand, dismissive. "If this singular human's solution was so great, then . . . why does it sit idle?"
At his observation something sharp flashed in the Dame's eyes, like the hint of a knife in a silken sleeve, but the expression quickly passed. Her lips settled into a delicate moue of distaste.
"Its construction was long ago. In the time since it has deteriorated." She flitted closer and lay a hand to the machine like a rider soothing a foundering horse. "Its maker was curious for a mortal. Some power lay within him that allowed him to shape materials to his imagination, something beyond magic. I have seen this betimes -- we term such humans witchbreed. The design, the craftsmanship, the very act of creation was the spark which powered it. I do not understand the mechanism, but I suppose all fires must be fed. Over time it faltered, then stopped." Sighing, the Grande Dame withdrew her hand and drifted back. "We must now resort to cruder means. Human hands built it, aye, and only human hands may drive it. An inelegant solution, but elegance must bow to expedience."
"Ah. So, your harvests." There was a note of understanding in Namor's tone. He hung steady in the air, eyes locked on the Dame with the scrutiny reserved for those stepping onto thin ice. "I must inquire of mine taken, again, Your Grace. One human woman. Possibly more. Sadly, they would make terrible laborers."
The Dame laughed. "Such persistence, my prince, but no -- thus far you are the sole prize Our tithe has yielded. Rest assured should I receive news of any of your equal I shall– yes?"
This was addressed to a small, winged faerie that had flown into the chamber. With its butterfly wings and miniscule stature it was the closest thing they'd yet seen to Tinkerbell, although this one had accessorized itself with what seemed to be rat skulls.
"Lady, news from the far hunters –"
A snap of the Grande Dame's wings silenced the tiny being. She turned back to Namor, all smiles.
"A moment," she said to the Atlantean. "It appears my attention is required for something which cannot wait," here the fairy quailed at her sickly-sweet tone, "but I shall return shortly."
Her prince – Namor had had visibly restrained from biting back a correction there – swept a hand out in a flourish, bending into a shallow bow, and with another shuffle of iridescent wingbeats, he sat alone before the Engine. Or, at least, alone in the estimation of their hostess.
"I must commend this Dame for her continued spite toward your existence," Namor stated to no one, "even if she is prone to monologuing. That is commitment."
A soft rustle of wings and Pixie appeared, landing lightly near Namor. "Fine with me. It means I am free to casually observe instead of pretending to hang on to her every word." She glanced back toward the corridor where the Grand Dame had disappeared with the small faerie. "Which are lies, by the way. That nervous laugh? She's hiding something about our party members. And news from the far hunters? That doesn't bode well."
She turned her attention to the towering machine before them. "She said human hands built this, and I believe that. They can't power it themselves, only humans can. That's kind of a wild story, isn't it? And here, stories set precedence. They outline the rules."
"Not so different from our world, then," Namor said. "Society is ordered by all number of imaginary forces and lies." His eyes studied not the machine, but where their hosts had disappeared from. "Honor? Hmph. Justice, mercy, fairness. Not while a world exists where humanity's storytelling has a more literal value. Instead consider how we leverage that as a weapon."
He crossed his arms over his chest, one finger tapping a thoughtful staccato across a bicep. "Politics is a performance of polite lies. We have learned she will bargain, can return those taken, and that this machine is what she holds dear. See the additions at the base? They have had to try to repair the thing. Any trouble will give us a chance to negotiate. Let it not bode well. I welcome it."
Pixie tilted her head as she studied the tarnished, intricate structure of the machine. "So, this thing is broken, barely patched together, and the only way it works is through the power of the human spirit. I guess Prometheus forgot to share the fire of creativity with the fae. Which means, if we can figure out how to repair it, it could give us real bargaining power. We could get all our people back." She paused. "It wouldn't be a mistake to repair it, right?"
"Royals never make mistakes. What is your people's saying? To err is human." Namor gave Pixie a long, studying look, and his next words were soured by something deeper than mere criticism. "Although between the two of us, there may be enough humanity to count. Regardless, it is an option. Pray to the depths that we receive so many others we can afford prudence. Until then . . ."
There was a swell of voices; the Grande Dame had not been most pleased by the news brought by the faerie. There was enough distance between the pairs that little could be understood, but phrases like "unacceptable harvest," "labor shortage," and "terminal consequences" bobbed up like the remains of a shipwreck in a roiling sea. That sharp, pitiless edge that had thus far only been seen at angles was fully unsheathed against her own courtier.
The diminutive faerie, flailing to divert the Dame's abuse, raised its voice enough for one intelligible statement:
The travelers would arrive at the palace tonight.
The Atlantean arched a single, pointed eyebrow and mouthed "politics" to his pinker companion. It didn't help that his expression somehow grew much smugger – like the most insufferable man one knew getting both a gift and learning he was right at the same time.
"Travellers," he openly speculated. "So not just Meggan. Jay and Jono would not have been far when we were taken."
Pixie's black eyes narrowed. "Jay and Jono... this just got even messier. You did point out that any trouble will give us a chance to negotiate, though. Let's just hope this whole bargaining chip idea works, because I don't think we'll get a second chance if the Grande Dame decides they're more trouble than they're-"
"You have my deepest apologies for that interruption."
The faerie woman glided back to Namor's side. Not a hint of displeasure remained on her face, but the terrified messenger was gone. Perhaps terminally.
"Do you not find," she continued, "that dominion over the lives of others requires One to surrender much of One’s own? Such is the paradox of power. The needs of Our subjects are endless. In meeting them, too often are Our own neglected. Even this small scrap of time was taken from Us."
The woman slid a hand around Namor's arm. Pixie might as well not have existed.
"Come," said the Dame, "we must prepare for the Entertainment."
The faerie woman’s bare feet moved soundlessly beneath the hem of her skirt as they descended. The stair, carved from a pale stone that luminesced in the dim light, spiraled below them like a snake’s spine.
“What I show you now is a thing unseen by even most of My own people,” explained the Grande Dame. “Rare it is that I entertain a guest worthy of the greatest wonders of Our realm.”
"You must methodically veil your own radiance from your people, then," came a low growl from her trailing guest. Namor followed in measured deference behind the Dame, the patter of his own wingbeats adding a gentle staccato behind his words. "For the grand view I have before me is nearly as exquisite as the company."
The man ran a hand delicately along the intertwined webwork of vines and crystal that formed a foundation for the fluted, open fan vaults of the plaza from which they had entered. There are no handrails here, no considerations for safety. A contrast worth noting.
"This wonder must sit at the heart of your nation," Namor continued, using what might have been a moment of appreciative study to exchange a glance behind. His attention returned forward. Appreciative.
Jeweled wings flicked, admonishing his foolishness. "Sit at? No. It is its heart." The Grande Dame glided to a halt and raised her hands towards the towering mass of bronze that dominated the plaza's center.
"Behold: The Engine."
A great machine rose before them. It was not beautiful, but there was an energy about it that fascinated. Like so many sights in Otherworld, its construction aped human design without understanding: jumble of gears and valves of unclear function jutted from every surface, while enormous pipes plunged deep into the ground. It was dark with the tarnish of centuries.
Dark, and utterly still.
"Beautiful." Despite the words that left Namor's mouth, his eyes were cool and flat as he studied the scene carefully, the weight of the Dame's attention momentarily lifted. He said it was beautiful like someone taking notes on what to break. He leaned closer, despite himself, committing details to memory. "In Our kingdom, a corps of engineers was needed for the profound machines that kept Bensaylum upon the waves – our siphon for the magic hidden beneath the ocean floor. This, however . . ."
The Grande Dame's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Such technology is known to you? I am impressed, but then, your society seems far more refined than the Milesians and their crude dependence on what can be stolen from the earth or harnessed from the elements. However, the Engine does more than keep our city aloft. It supports the very land itself."
With a soft whirr of wings the faerie woman took to the air. Even in flight her movements were graceful, almost dreamy, like a butterfly on the wind.
"Ever entwined have our two worlds been," she said as she drifted closer to the Engine. "The gates have their phases, always opening and closing to their own rhythms. During these times the borders thin to allow passage -- of living creatures, aye, but something far more precious as well. Something of Our world flows to yours, and something of yours to Ours." She turned to Namor, her hair floating around her like a cloud of blood.
"On earth it is called magic. Here, it is glamour."
With a kick, Namor was also afloat. Two figures in satellite of the curious machine.
"How wonderful, put the fascinating neanderthal's resources, their glamour, to work for you. You know they can barely harness its potential on their own? When the few who manage do, it is often so needlessly dramatic."
His eyes darted over to a section of the machine, near its bottom-most rim, that did not match the pocked and burnished clockwork cacophony. Wood and wheels formed a crude treadmill apparatus that neither matched the wild genius of the rest, nor its splendor. Namor nearly opened his mouth to comment, but held back with a thin smile.
"On occasion they have their uses. One such built this Engine, in fact. A peculiar man. An artisan among his people, I take it. He saw Our need and bargained a solution for his freedom." The Grande Dame turned to Namor. "Our resources are not infinite. Natural though the flow of glamour to Our realm may be, that alone was not sufficient to sustain both Our population and Our progress. We vied for it as mortals fight for water. Blood was spilled, and the kindred divided. A shameful existence. Then came the Engine to magnify and distribute what glamour came to us in equal measure. It was Our salvation."
"A bargain, you say?" That this had hooked Namor's attention was clearly evident, and he drifted closer through the air to the Dame like a fish on a line. "With lungbreathers? Your need must have been great indeed. My people never gained much from them but strife. Only trade, bouts of service, or sport in conquest." He waved a hand, dismissive. "If this singular human's solution was so great, then . . . why does it sit idle?"
At his observation something sharp flashed in the Dame's eyes, like the hint of a knife in a silken sleeve, but the expression quickly passed. Her lips settled into a delicate moue of distaste.
"Its construction was long ago. In the time since it has deteriorated." She flitted closer and lay a hand to the machine like a rider soothing a foundering horse. "Its maker was curious for a mortal. Some power lay within him that allowed him to shape materials to his imagination, something beyond magic. I have seen this betimes -- we term such humans witchbreed. The design, the craftsmanship, the very act of creation was the spark which powered it. I do not understand the mechanism, but I suppose all fires must be fed. Over time it faltered, then stopped." Sighing, the Grande Dame withdrew her hand and drifted back. "We must now resort to cruder means. Human hands built it, aye, and only human hands may drive it. An inelegant solution, but elegance must bow to expedience."
"Ah. So, your harvests." There was a note of understanding in Namor's tone. He hung steady in the air, eyes locked on the Dame with the scrutiny reserved for those stepping onto thin ice. "I must inquire of mine taken, again, Your Grace. One human woman. Possibly more. Sadly, they would make terrible laborers."
The Dame laughed. "Such persistence, my prince, but no -- thus far you are the sole prize Our tithe has yielded. Rest assured should I receive news of any of your equal I shall– yes?"
This was addressed to a small, winged faerie that had flown into the chamber. With its butterfly wings and miniscule stature it was the closest thing they'd yet seen to Tinkerbell, although this one had accessorized itself with what seemed to be rat skulls.
"Lady, news from the far hunters –"
A snap of the Grande Dame's wings silenced the tiny being. She turned back to Namor, all smiles.
"A moment," she said to the Atlantean. "It appears my attention is required for something which cannot wait," here the fairy quailed at her sickly-sweet tone, "but I shall return shortly."
Her prince – Namor had had visibly restrained from biting back a correction there – swept a hand out in a flourish, bending into a shallow bow, and with another shuffle of iridescent wingbeats, he sat alone before the Engine. Or, at least, alone in the estimation of their hostess.
"I must commend this Dame for her continued spite toward your existence," Namor stated to no one, "even if she is prone to monologuing. That is commitment."
A soft rustle of wings and Pixie appeared, landing lightly near Namor. "Fine with me. It means I am free to casually observe instead of pretending to hang on to her every word." She glanced back toward the corridor where the Grand Dame had disappeared with the small faerie. "Which are lies, by the way. That nervous laugh? She's hiding something about our party members. And news from the far hunters? That doesn't bode well."
She turned her attention to the towering machine before them. "She said human hands built this, and I believe that. They can't power it themselves, only humans can. That's kind of a wild story, isn't it? And here, stories set precedence. They outline the rules."
"Not so different from our world, then," Namor said. "Society is ordered by all number of imaginary forces and lies." His eyes studied not the machine, but where their hosts had disappeared from. "Honor? Hmph. Justice, mercy, fairness. Not while a world exists where humanity's storytelling has a more literal value. Instead consider how we leverage that as a weapon."
He crossed his arms over his chest, one finger tapping a thoughtful staccato across a bicep. "Politics is a performance of polite lies. We have learned she will bargain, can return those taken, and that this machine is what she holds dear. See the additions at the base? They have had to try to repair the thing. Any trouble will give us a chance to negotiate. Let it not bode well. I welcome it."
Pixie tilted her head as she studied the tarnished, intricate structure of the machine. "So, this thing is broken, barely patched together, and the only way it works is through the power of the human spirit. I guess Prometheus forgot to share the fire of creativity with the fae. Which means, if we can figure out how to repair it, it could give us real bargaining power. We could get all our people back." She paused. "It wouldn't be a mistake to repair it, right?"
"Royals never make mistakes. What is your people's saying? To err is human." Namor gave Pixie a long, studying look, and his next words were soured by something deeper than mere criticism. "Although between the two of us, there may be enough humanity to count. Regardless, it is an option. Pray to the depths that we receive so many others we can afford prudence. Until then . . ."
There was a swell of voices; the Grande Dame had not been most pleased by the news brought by the faerie. There was enough distance between the pairs that little could be understood, but phrases like "unacceptable harvest," "labor shortage," and "terminal consequences" bobbed up like the remains of a shipwreck in a roiling sea. That sharp, pitiless edge that had thus far only been seen at angles was fully unsheathed against her own courtier.
The diminutive faerie, flailing to divert the Dame's abuse, raised its voice enough for one intelligible statement:
The travelers would arrive at the palace tonight.
The Atlantean arched a single, pointed eyebrow and mouthed "politics" to his pinker companion. It didn't help that his expression somehow grew much smugger – like the most insufferable man one knew getting both a gift and learning he was right at the same time.
"Travellers," he openly speculated. "So not just Meggan. Jay and Jono would not have been far when we were taken."
Pixie's black eyes narrowed. "Jay and Jono... this just got even messier. You did point out that any trouble will give us a chance to negotiate, though. Let's just hope this whole bargaining chip idea works, because I don't think we'll get a second chance if the Grande Dame decides they're more trouble than they're-"
"You have my deepest apologies for that interruption."
The faerie woman glided back to Namor's side. Not a hint of displeasure remained on her face, but the terrified messenger was gone. Perhaps terminally.
"Do you not find," she continued, "that dominion over the lives of others requires One to surrender much of One’s own? Such is the paradox of power. The needs of Our subjects are endless. In meeting them, too often are Our own neglected. Even this small scrap of time was taken from Us."
The woman slid a hand around Namor's arm. Pixie might as well not have existed.
"Come," said the Dame, "we must prepare for the Entertainment."
