Midnight's Appetites
The party was in full swing when they arrived in Nightside Blue.‡ Presiding from a divan was the Lord of Languor themself, Nimragul. The smoke from their pipe mingled with the smoke that their head seemed to be evaporating into, and they stroked a squat, multi-eyed pet, occasionally plucking an eye and feeding it to the second mouth on their stomach. Nimragul observed the newcomers and waved them over.
“I see you’re here to join the party! The price is participation, as you each succumb to desires unspoken or unconscious. Partake, imbibe, and relish in your libertinage.”
Rhea’s curiosity got the better of her, and she went off alone to explore. Marweg started to call after her and got interrupted by a whack in his leg from Donkey’s snout. He turned to admonish the hexacrix and discovered that Ward and Winstead had wandered off, too. He stood in the middle of the open room, gaping at the hedonistic and fantastical displays, and set out to mingle himself.
He orbited the outskirts of the party, poking his head into the corners and greeting each occupant amiably. A feeling of kinship rose up when he saw an armadillo rolled up next to an unoccupied couch. Kneeling down beside it, he asked, “Are you alright? Is something threatening you?”
“This room is too big, but when I curl up I make it smaller,” it said before retreating back into its armor. It didn’t answer when Marweg asked it its name, and a moment later tiny snores emanated from the ball.
Marweg gave up and continued his circuit. He had just realized he’d lost Donkey when he heard a clacking voice behind him say, “You look most promising! So plump! So, so well-kept!”
Marweg turned around to see the long legs, engorged thorax, and clicking mandibles of a massive spider. It was easily as big as a pony, black-haired and bulbous, and its dark eyes viewed him with curiosity.
Trying to remember his manners, Marweg bowed as he sorted out an appropriate response. “Good evening … madam?” he began.
“I have such a need for companionship,” the spider clicked to him. “It’s been so long.” It eagerly shifted its weight forward. “Come with me, let us couple. You look delightful, delectable.”
How cheeky! Marweg thought. He had caught the implicit threat but could not prevent a deep blush and stumbling over his words. “I certainly appreciate the offer, and your taste is impeccable, but I’m afraid I must decline; I need to meet some friends.”
When it became clear that there was no changing his mind, the spider turned and scuttled away with a brief pause and look of longing.
Once it was safely out of sight, Marweg set off resolutely to find Donkey. This is why people never bring a beast of burden to a party, he thought.
“Mind if I join?” Ward asked. The four seated at the table looked up from their tiles.‡
“Sure,” said a stout fellow with muttonchops. “We’ll deal you in after this round. Fourteen crystal orbs to enter. You played suntiles before?”
“Not once,” he said, settling into a chair to watch.
A sallow-faced woman sniffed. “Newb.”
Ward tried to pick up on the rules as the round played out, but it seemed like no one was interested in explaining. All he could see was that after each player drew a tile, they upped the bid. Then one called out “Path” and laid out all nine of his tiles with a smug grin, and the others grumbled as he took his winnings. Then they dealt a new round to include Ward.
Ward looked at his opening set of seven. He knew he needed nine, but everyone else had seven too. The player before him bid to discard and drew two additional tiles. He quickly did the same and tried to focus, but his attention wandered to a conversation happening in the dark behind him.
“...but doesn’t carving the soul harm it?”
“Not particularly, and the results are fantastic.”
“You’ve done it?”
“I’ve seen it done. I intend to have a go at my first opportunity. Excellent for power sources or for granting facilities to the soul itself.”¶
The stout fellow nudged Ward’s elbow. “Your bid,” he said tersely.
“Right, sorry.” Ward glanced at his tiles and bid to discard an extra red. He drew his tiles and tried to catch the voices again.
“...not for everyone.”
“Why? Sacrilege?”
“Perhaps. Personally, I consider it an art form. True art polarizes.”
Ward kept an eye out for his turn and had his play ready when it came to him. He discarded a silver, drew another silver and a gold, and broke into a smile.
“I think I have a pathway,” he said, laying his tiles out. Muttonchops took one look and swore under his breath. The others took it better, and Ward collected his winnings.
“Another round?” Muttonchops asked. He looked grumpy.
Ward shook his head and gathered his winnings. “I’m afraid I’m distractable at the moment.”‡
“Cheapskate,” the dealer muttered, but without skipping a beat dealt a new round to the others.
The conversationalists had disappeared, so Ward went looking for the others. A moment’s walk instead found him waist-to-face with Donkey, who looked up at him reproachfully.
“Where’s Marweg, Donkey?” he asked. The hexacrix stared cryptically.
“Never mind, we’ll find him.” Leading the hexacrix, Ward opened a door and promptly fell through the empty space on the other side.
Winstead pressed herself against a garden hedge to make room for the duel that seemed to be unfolding. Two beings were glaring daggers and improvising poetry with a reciprocal ferocity she’d never seen. A small group of onlookers had gathered, intrigued by the spectacle. They put their fingers to their lips and beckoned her to their side.‡
Winstead scuttled over to them. A perverse and ill-considered triolet burst in a spurt of vitriol from one duelist, and his opponent swiftly threw a vicious limerick back in his face. The first man’s head rocked back as though he’d been struck, and he wiped his hand across his suddenly bleeding nose. He thrust his hand forward and spat a bloody couplet at his opponent, who slipped sideways as though dodging a spearhead. His opponent’s eyes glittered with malice as he replied in haiku,
See, the Pale awaits
Final step’s tranquility
Go, and join their dance
The bloody face of the first man went red with fury, and Winstead could see him thinking, trying desperately to find something to say. But the moment dragged on too long. A pallor overtook him, and he fell to the ground, eyes blank, face slack, mouth still trying to move. Then even it stilled, and the garden erupted into thunderous applause.
The victor bowed, acknowledging the praise, and the cheering group escorted him off, leaving the corpse lying on the brick pathway near the grass. Winstead approached it and placed a hand on the neck. She felt no pulse at all.
“Death by poetry. Damn.” She stood up and found her way back to the mansion. Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the intrusion until it was too late. By the time she stepped inside, Stuart Portman had already thought of a lovely joke.¶He rummaged through her satchel and chuckled as he pulled out the jar of invisibility paint. He walked Winstead’s body into an empty side room and stripped her down before thoroughly coating her body in the paint. His mind set on Rhea, he stalked back into the party while Winstead railed at him impotently from within.
Rhea had gotten hopelessly lost in the mansion some time ago, so when she saw Marweg moving with purpose she followed him.
And fell down with him.
The fall was long and gave her time to get oriented. The well was furnished, and small falling groups were drinking and gossiping at the peripheries as Rhea passed. It seemed that she could decelerate by moving toward the circumference. Looking down, Rhea could see that Marweg had found Donkey and Ward; they had caught seats and were conversing with fellow slowly falling partygoers. Drifting back toward the center, she caught up with them and then edged outward to keep from passing them altogether.
A breath of focused wind swept past her arms.‡ She shuddered, then felt it again. She turned but saw no one. A hand grasped her wrist, and she slapped it away as she spun sharply to face the assailant. A strange androgynous laugh snorted and was cut short, but she still couldn’t see whoever it was. Then she heard swearing in what was unmistakably Winstead’s voice.
“Winstead? Where are you?” Rhea called out, seeing only the passing wall decorated with faceless portraits.
“Right here beside you,” came the disembodied voice. “I’m sorry about grabbing at you. I wasn’t myself. And I need to get my damn clothes back on.”
Rhea raised her eyebrows. “Do tell.”
“It wasn’t anything like… forget it.”
They drifted a long time, past remnants of history and knickknacks and wooden bookshelves and cushy furniture. They drifted so long, it seemed like they weren’t really going anywhere. At last the well twisted and gently eased them onto the shoreline of a beautiful seascape.
Rhea had never seen the like. The horizon stretched away, the light of the Blue sun subdued and diffuse. A large castle stood a little way off, an island to itself. But it was the waves lapping the shore that captured her attention. They whispered in a susurrous of liminal speech. Half-formed shapes and partially defined scenes interwove themselves over and through, the surf breaking with emotions bursting into vapor that dissipated into the air, saturating it with feelings of all kinds.
The beach was sand, and nearby was an abandoned rowboat. It comfortably fit all four and Donkey, and they began to row toward the castle.‡
The castle seemed empty of answers or direction, so they continued through seascapes that shifted in strange ways and eventually deposited them at a small-town square seemingly sketched in chalk. They followed the example of the stick figures they saw and entered one of the shops.
“Have you come to sell your memories and regrets?” asked the leporine proprietor while they tried to make sense of the bare shelves.‡
Marweg stepped forward. “I don’t know about regrets, and I have a hard time with memories myself, but I’ve heard rumors of a menagerie of dreams. Could you direct us to it?”
“This is the realm of the subconscious. Let your intuitions and intentions guide. They know more than you realize.”
“Might I speak with you privately?” Winstead had stepped forward, and the rabbitfolk spoke with her in hushed whispers. As the others watched, she wiped the paint off to reveal her body, now clothed in a different outfit than she had left in.
“Well, that was unhelpful,” Rhea commented as they left the shop. Her face wore a curious expression. “Winstead? What’s going on?”
Winstead shook her head. “It’s a funny thing,” she said, “but I don’t remember.” Turning to Marweg, she pointed at the horizon. “The Dreamt Menagerie is that way, I can feel it.”
‡ Invisible Sun, Inevitable Cataclysm; Silver Sun, Mysterious Rune
‡ Green Sun, Jackal
¶ Beginning of character arc, soul carving: dark desire to learn instead.
‡ Blue Sun, Monarch: Authority judges in his favor
‡ Indigo Sun, Doctor
¶ Result of failing a resist roll in response to the curse from A Friend in Shadow.
‡ Grey Sun, Savage Sword
‡ Pale Sun, Golden Ship
‡ Red Sun, Incriminating Skull ; Gold Sun, Hunter; Invisible Sun, Alchemist; Silver Sun, Elusive Sleep. We don’t recall how these draws fit into the latter part of the narrative. We lost the notes for the latter half of the session, so this is a much abbreviated version of the session.