Wake of the Ravager

Learner’s Research notes: day 3

The hooters separate each other, and yet do not consume them, choosing instead to push their still mass into the downspace from which we had emerged. Perhaps there was some kind of territorial dispute? This seems to be the root of the issue, although the specific details elude me.

Requires more study.

The Manifold Predator, or Calvin, as the others call him, seems to have taken a somehow central role in this territorial dispute, as others seem to look at him constantly, approximately 67% more than any other average person.

With the sole exception of Nadia’s lumps, but I don’t think they’re part of the territorial dispute. Something else is going on there.

They are very nice, though. Soft-looking.

Requires more study.

The surface world is different. More divorced from the reality I existed in before. I can feel the potential that hung in the air thinning out, The further away this group of hooters get from the circular downspace in the center of the empty matterspace.

At first I believed this new, confining matterspace was the new reality where the hooters came from and we would spend the rest of time existing in this narrow dome-shape.

Then one of the hooters lead others out some kind …Swingy-flat-wall-thing. I didn’t have a name for it, as it was a concept I’d never encountered before. It reminded me of defences, or perhaps a mating tube.

Are the hooters some kind of sperm of some unknowably larger creature?

Unlikely, but possible.

Requires more study.

Side Note: Not once have I witnessed the Hooters consume other hooters, despite ample opportunity and motivation. They obviously have more readily digestable flesh than the other inhabitants of the place they hooted as ‘the filter’.

This implies an aversion to consuming their own that reinforces the concept that they are a social creature. This leads me to believe I must ‘present’ myself as something that similarly disdains consuming hooters. They enjoy being mirrored.

Hoot meanings are becoming more clear as they are more often repeated. I can say with confidence that I have added ‘I, You, Me, mine, this, up, harder, down, Unqua, carry, and Balls-deep’ to my lexicon.

*Expletives too numerous to list, and are essentially meaningless.

Disguise still uncompromised.

***Calvin***

“How did I do?” Calvin asked, returning to Kala and Nadia, who’d watched without saying anything.

“Eh,” Nadia said, waggling a hand. “You’re learning.”

“For a first attempt at staging a coup and seizing power over a country, it was very good.” Kala said patronizingly, patting him on the shoulder. “You’ll do better next time.”

Calvin frowned, glancing at the people watching him.

“Tell me what I did wrong.”

“First: You should have killed them publicly in some kind of ceremony to cement the transfer of power in the minds of the commoners. People are stupid. They need public events to tell them things have changed, otherwise they’ll mill around and wonder what is going on, leading to panic.” Kala said, sounding a lot like her Ilethan counterpart.

“Second: You didn’t court the village of the Abyss as well as you should have, garnering the loyalty of only a small fraction of them, neither did you eliminate their leader before you left the Abyss, ensuring a fracture in loyalty after making it topside.” Nadia said, stepping in after Kala.

“Third: you killed one too many men, the three stewards you chose are fine, but they’ll have trouble running the city alone for the first few weeks. You should have kept the one in charge of health and sanitation alive. Without him the city runs the risk of a sickness.”

“And last, publicly seeking advice from your friends before and after each decision makes you look weak in the eyes of those watching.” Kala said, nodding at the men behind Calvin.

Calvin’s brows rose at not only the sheer cruelty of their suggested course of actions, but the specificity of them, as though it had resulted from years of training.

“Where in Vashniel’s hoary asshole did you girls learn all this stuff?” Calvin asked, blinking surprise away.

“When you’re royalty, learning how to usurp power is the same as learning how to defend against the usurpation of power.” Kala said, frowning slightly. “You can recognize the signs and prevent them before they happen.”

Oh, right. Calvin resisted the urge to slap his forehead. They’re princesses.

“What? They didn’t teach you how to seize control of a country in that shit-flinging village of yours?” Nadia asked, arms crossed, sass dripping off her words as she cocked an eyebrow at him.

“No, the only two things I learned from my mom were how to fish and how to smack mouthy royalty.” Calvin said, raising his hand threateningly.

“I wish I knew how to fish,” Nadia mumbled under her breath.

Calvin shook his head, resisting the urge to laugh. The sheer strangeness of the situation was getting to him. Talking to Kala helped get his head on straight, but now he had to get back to it.

“All right,” Calvin said, turning back to the dozen or so villagers, Rufe, Ryan, Dara, Murak, Ghuled, and Polluq watching him expectantly.

“Let’s get this show on the road.” Calvin said, walking past the rather large bloodstain in the floor and snatching up the cult’s holy book on the way past, following the path Loren had taken to leave. He grabbed Murak’s shoulder with the other hand and marched the banker along in front of him.

“First stop, Murak’s. Let’s get this all property transfer signed and sealed.” Calvin turned to polluq. “Send people over to the residence and businesses of everyone who died here. keep it quiet, but Murak is going to need their seals.”

“What about the key speaker for the commencement of the Tournament?” Ghuled asked, trailing behind him. “Kurawe was supposed to do it personally.”

Calvin rounded on the farmer/engineer, releasing Murak.

“What. Tournament?”

Oh, crap, he said the T word. Tell me you’re not planning on joining that whole circus.

The farmer frowned.

“Imagine I’ve been living in a hole in the ground for the past two weeks.” Calvin said, ignoring Elliot. “Explain it to me.” He had been living in a hole the last two weeks, so it wasn’t particularly hard for Calvin to imagine.

Ghuled’s eyes drifted toward the bloodstain in the center of the room, where Kurawe had lost his head.

“Kurawe was one of the most powerful glass shapers in the country.” Ghuled said. “He created an arena in a matter of days and was going to use it to host the royal family’s New Year celebration, along with giving the people an outlet. Without him, the plans are in serious jeopardy.”

“The royal family’s new year celebration?” Calvin asked, cocking his head to the side. That’s right, the royal family of Uleis has somewhere around fifty children and more than half are daughters.

Hmmm.

“Will the entire royal family be in attendance?” Calvin asked.

“Well, yes, but without Kurawe, the chances of the tournament happening are…”

“Change of plans,” Calvin said, grabbing Murak by the shoulder again and heading for the door. “We can set aside the paperwork for now. The first order of business is making sure the tournament goes off without a hitch, because we’re going to kidnap the entire royal family.”

“What?” Murak said, frowning.

“You heard me.” Calvin said, shoving the banker ahead of him. “I’m still gonna need that two thirds, though.”

Murak made a noise that sounded like an animal in physical pain.

“Ffffine.” He said, slumping as Calvin pushed him ahead.

“Polluq. Same as before, keep people calm, do damage control, but I also want you to promote whoever worked directly under the Crap Magnate.”

“Gane Bergson, the landlord in charge of the plumbing and sewers for the entire city? The one who tried to throw a knife at you?”

Calvin snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. Get the city’s sewer maps from them while you’re at it. After you get preparations in order, I want all the information for the construction and security of the arena, specifically the security of the royal family. Don’t change any of it, I don’t want them to get spooked, just ask for the report and pass that on to me.”

Rufe shifted his weight nervously for a moment, putting his blade away before he leaned close and spoke quietly into Calvin’s ear.

“Every Uleisan above the age of twelve knows that the royal family is just a figurehead. They don’t have any actual power. Kidnapping them isn’t going to do much…of anything, other than piss us off.”

‘us’ meaning natural born Uleisans.

They may not attribute them any power, but even a figurehead is a symbol, Elliot said. And all symbols come with a certain amount of emotional attachment. Tread carefully there.

“It’s more of a kidnapping hobby than anything,” Calvin replied with a grin as he met the old man’s eyes. Information about his mutations was kept close to the vest. “I can give you my word that no harm will come to them and they’ll be free again in a matter of hours, without fail.”

Rufe’s eyebrows rose as he leaned away.

Calvin felt his smile growing wider as he pictured the extra seventy Body sitting there in the stands, ripe for the taking. “Let’s get to work.” Finally I’ll be able to show up that muscle-bound smug ass.

…

Actually, half of those points are going to go raising the capacity of your Warp Tank so really, you’ll only gain like, thirty, thirty-five points of Body.

Calvin stopped in his tracks, staring into the air as he spoke to Elliot.

What? I thought it was static. You took half my body and were done with it.

No, it grows with Body. On the bright side, a higher capacity makes it much easier to achieve a break.

How, exactly?

Okay, so your highest stat is Mind at forty-five, yeah? That times one point three is fifty-eight, rounded down. You need a high enough concentration of Warp that can raise your internal Warp to Fifty-eight to Break again, you follow?

Yeah.

That level of concentration takes tens of thousands of people dying, but if your warp tank were say, forty six, and it were full…

I could dump it out of the tank and into my body at the right time and simulate that level of Warp concentration. As long as the concentration in the air was…twelve? That’s the same amount of warp as a first Break. That seems insanely easy.

Since we’re talking concentration, it’s not actually linear like that, but yes, It’ll be much, much easier. I’ve always been good at breaking the System. Elliot said with a glimmer of self-satisfaction. You kidnap those princesses, we spend a weekend in the Filter, we’re looking at Break nine, easy. Maybe ten.

Do they even have puzzles that difficult? Calvin thought.

Umm…no. I don’t think they do. Agh, my master plan foiled by no one ever getting smart enough to make a puzzle that could challenge someone with hundreds of Mind.

You’re just being facetious now, aren’t you?

We’ll go over the basics of theoretical mathematics and FTL technology. Should tide you over.

***Ryan***

Ryan watched the vicious little bastard stop in his tracks like an idea had occurred to him. Expressions began flowing over his face like he was in the middle of an interesting conversation, shutting out the outside world.

I could end him right now, and it would end her. Ryan thought, glancing over at Nadia, thumb approaching the  hilt of his blade. Two problems, one sword-stroke. Ryan was a little stronger and faster than the two princesses, and the men standing beside Calvin would celebrate if her were to die.

But…that dagger.

Watching the knife stop in midair like it had been caught by an invisible hand gave Ryan second thoughts about trying his luck.

The damnable kid hadn’t even been looking. It was some kind of wizard’s autonomous defence, and if it managed to stop his Ability, then he was dead meat.

Even if I manage to pull it off, getting away is another thing entirely. Damnitall. Why did Dara have to choose to cling to those two bitches? They’re fucking evil incarnate painted with a veneer of gentleness!

With a silent growl of frustration, Ryan took his fingers away from the handle on his waist. He glanced over at Nadia and saw that she was watching him, bemused.

“Does he do that often?” Ryan asked, nodding toward Calvin to cover staring at Nadia.

“Often enough, but don’t overthink it.”

I won’t stay your bitch forever, you damn demon. He thought, scowling, his guts tightening with the stress.

As soon as Ryan had finished the thought, Calvin started moving again, hustling everyone along to get back to work, despite no one being entirely sure what their exact job was.

“So much to do, only two days to do it in,” the cocky shit said on the way out the door.

Gods, I hate him, Ryan thought, idly itching the scar on his side he’d gotten in the fall when the red-robed pricks had tossed him down the hole. Eventually a smile came to him. At least those bastards are dead or suffering.

Ryan wasn’t too petty to admit Calvin had taken most of his revenge for him.

***Ella***

“You heard any word?” She asked, glancing up at Baroke as he returned from the commissary with a stick of lurker meat and a jug of lukewarm water. The water was the far more expensive of the two.

“Nothing.” Baroke said, splitting the skewers between the two of them and passing her the jug. “If there’s going to be an execution, they’re keeping it very hush-hush.”

One moment, Calvin was nowhere and everywhere, a strange sense of directionless to her Guya bond, and the next, the ever-present tug snapped into place, and she knew he was that way.

Ella came to her feet, scouring the stone siding of the fighter’s pen with her gaze. Calvin’s heart hardened, before he began moving under his own power, the sensation gradually shifting.

“Aihuasenaveya,” She muttered, sitting back down.

“What?” Baroke said between mouthfuls of heavily seasoned skewer.

“Calvin is above ground.”

“Oh,” Baroke glanced around the pen, where a couple dozen fighters were drying their palms, bouncing their knees, oiling their sheaths, along with a dozen other signs of stress.

“Should we take off?” He asked. glancing at her.

“No,” Ella said, suppressing the urge to leave. “If he’s fine, he’s fine. If he’s not, leaving now may give away our cover. Stick to the plan. There’s still a good chance they’re moving him to the arena.”

The plan was to win the qualifier, then lose early in the tournament proper. As fallen competitors they would be allowed free reign to walk around the arena without anyone questioning their presence wandering the arena’s massive halls.

Ella had never seen a construction by man that was this tremendously large, housing thousands of men and women at any given time, but she was rapidly becoming numb to it as the sound of chanting and stomping feet crowded her senses.

Shortly afterward, a burly Uleisan opened the door and got their attention by rapping his clipboard on the wall.

“Breanne, Schen, Baroke, Gabel, Storm, Kip, Tasker, Hold. You’re up.”

Ella and the other fighters stood, following the man down a long hall and out into the sun. Once they broke into the open air, the heat began beating down onto them, along with the overwhelming noise of thousands of men and women screaming.

The stands aren’t even very full. Ella thought, glancing around as she noticed many people hadn’t bothered coming for the qualifiers. But those who were there still numbered more than she had ever seen in her life.

Well, save for the pile of corpses Calvin lit on fire.

In the center of the massive circle of seats, There was a large platform divided into four equal squares.

“Breanne, you’re against Schen,” the Uleisan man said, scowling against the sudden sun and heat. He pointed at one quadrant.

“Baroke and Gabel.” He pointed at another.

“Storm and Kip.”

“Tasker and Hold.” He didn’t bother to point out the last. “First one to tap out, be removed from the ring, give up, fall unconscious or die is the loser. Deliberately killing your opponent is a disqualification. Get to it. Your ref will be waiting by the stage.”

Schen was the Bolesian Legend with the gaudy orange feathered outfit that looked to be so riddled with sparkling stones that it was practically stiff.

Baroke’s opponent was a lean uleisan man with a long, thin sword, along with several backups on his waist.

“I suppose it’s your lucky day.” Schen said, walking beside Ella. “A beast of burden shaved down and stuffed into an insulting mockery of the dress of my homeland would be butchered where I came from.”

“Oh?” Ella asked, glancing down at the little man.

“Women of my homeland are delicate flowers, not fighters. Give up before you embarrass yourself.”

Ella chuckled as they walked, but didn’t say anything. Words weren’t going to make her feel better.

Crushing his skull would make her feel better.

They arrived in front of the referee, who briefly recapped the rules, set them up on the stage, then gave them the signal to fight, chopping through the air with his hand.

Immediately, Schen’s ostentatious garb caught fire, the massive orange feathers turning into blazing jets of flame. The heat rolling off the contestant was blistering as he began to rise, his feet lifting off the ground, until the Bolesian man was at eye level.

The referee put his hand over his eyes and backed away as Schen floated toward Ella, supported by gouts of flame as thick as her leg.

“You’ve got one chance, woman!” Schen shouted above the roar of flame as the entire arena focused their attention on him. “Trust me when I say you can’t afford the burns on your face.”

The other fighters stopped in the middle of grappling to look at the spectacle in the northwest quadrant.

Schen seemed to revel in the attention, his clothes growing brighter and hotter.

“I am prince Schen of Gin! Son of Schen tzu! Fifth in line for the throne of the Gin dynasty! I have trained my entire life in the art of combat! These clothes were made from the feathers of an Andarian firebird, the symbol of royalty! They are worth more than this arena and everyone in it! Only I have the ability to harness their sheer power. You are looking at the man who will win this tournament! You are looking at the man with the mandate of Soscath, who will unite all of Boles!”

Iron Skin

15/16 Bent remaining.

Ella waded through the heat, muscled past the pain and punched him in the face, iron knuckles driving aside the weak man’s clumsy block and fracturing his nose. Since he was floating in midair, he tumbled twice, spraying blood out of his face before slamming into the ground at an odd angle, knocking himself senseless with another blow to the head.

The flames winked out, leaving the Bolesian lying there, eyes open and rolling in the center of a slowly cooling patch of red-hot stone.

I wonder if any of that boasting was true.

“Winner.” The referee called, pointing at Ella. “No looting the enemy.”

“It’s not allowed?” Ella asked, glancing up as she was halfway through slipping the man’s shoulder out of his valuable clothes. “He said they were worth the entire arena.”

“Nevertheless.” The referee said, pointing to the exit.

Macronomicon