| Alchemical mass-production, shipping, and transit are very difficult issues for the logisticians of the world to handle. Potions are very delicate, given their nature, not just because of the glass that is often used as their containers but because of the mixtures themselves. Potions are often highly volatile and susceptible to various movements. They can be susceptible to being damaged by light or by temperatures that are too hot, too cold, or perhaps simply not hot or cold enough. The act of transporting a carriage full of potions from one city to another is a difficult task, and expert cargo operators are paid premium fees by the alchemical guilds. Storage is another issue, given the above mentioned difficulties. Because of this, large warehouses, present in all significant cities, have been constructed solely for the storage of these goods. In the best case, expired potions will simply smell off and stop working. However, in the worst case, they may explode, sending glass shards flying everywhere and possibly triggering more expired potions to self-destruct. For this reason, all alchemical warehouses contain a drain room, in which potions that are close to expiring are poured out at the expense of the merchant. For this reason, potions are generally made, bought, and consumed locally. However, for specialty goods that are bound by specific processes and reagents that are only available in set locations, there is no alternative. |
~ The Alchemical Business, Chapter two, Logistics
| ~ [Taishi-shi] ~ |
| Vildt (Rabbit), Male, Priest of Isaiah |
| Location: The Distant Eastern Continent, Church of Isaiah |
The harrowing rain hammers down around him, soaking his fur and his hair. Taishi-shi stands firm in the storm, looking out into the downpour that hides the lands of his home behind a black veil.
He lifts a hand, his loosely closed fist glowing with a warm, soft light that starts in the core of his palm and then spreads out, gently leaking through his fingers.
| (Taishi-shi) used: [Illuminating Light] |
The boy, hovering, floats through the night in search of food so as to feed the hungry of his flock not only in body but also in soul, as the sustenance will act as a sacrament — as proof of Isaiah’s glory.
He moves through the coastal forest, moving past the fruit-bearing trees that they have plucked raw weeks ago and past the berry-bushes, barren, with more jagged twigs and branches showing than leaves, as they too have been plucked in use for soups.
His eyes rise up toward the nests in the trees. Perhaps there are eggs in them. But to harvest eggs from the forest to eat is against the teachings of Isaiah, as is written in the gospel.
Taishi-shi shakes his head and floats on, vanishing into the dark forest.
| ! [Critical System Notification] ! | |
| THE ONE-HUNDRED YEAR CRISIS: | |
| THE WILD-HUNT | |
| UPDATE: The true-hero has been summoned to our world by the Holy-Church to resolve the crisis. | |
| Engaged in a massive, cooperative breach that spans each of the oldest dungeons in the nation, every single dungeon in the world is now engaging in a dungeon-break, flooding their monsters out of their gates and into the night. This will persist until the death of crisis leader ‘Witch Perchta’ or the destruction of the ‘Tower of Isaiah’. The hero will soon begin his journey. | |
| Time Remaining: UNKNOWN | |
| Difficulty: IMPOSSIBLE | Priority: HIGHEST |
The boy looks at the window.
The hero.
He turns his head, spitting on the ground, before moving on.
May he vanish into the clawing darkness, like all of his ilk before him — whether human, orc, elf — they are all pawns of the Holy Church, which reviles him and his people for their nature, granted to them by the very divine that they claim to worship.
The human church of old is nothing but a vile nest of vipers.
May Isaiah’s talons pierce them and their hero through their hearts.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Feverish whispers fill the air as hundreds of people rise up the tower, their heads held low in reverence, as if a great weight were pressing down on their necks and preventing them from lifting their sight to the glory of Isaiah, who shines up above them. Their hands are clenched in prayer as they move to find shelter from the storm and its many horrors.
Thousands of people move through the tower, and thousands of them, whether stationary in defense or mobile in flight, pray to Isaiah.
It hears them.
It hears their whispering words, floating through its ears like the sweet winds of spring. They ask for sanctuary, health, and prosperity. They ask for darkness and plague to befall their enemies, while they themselves are in flight from darkness and plague. They ask for warmth and healing. They ask for wealth and for power, even now, in their diminished state as spiritual beggars. Cries of mourning and terror come in abundance, painting the tone of their cries with blackness.
They pray for the hero to save them, just as they pray for Isaiah to do so.
Isaiah floats above them all and hears them, feeling their words come through its core, as it stares out into the lightlessness of the distant west, where everything has fallen silent.
A hero…
Isaiah tilts its head. What does this mean?
Has the Holy Church finally moved their hands, not to destroy the tower, but to destroy the witch? It often hears the prayers of two cardinals of the church. Erzael of the west and Fluester of the south, but their words are distorted and lost, their souls having been tainted by the corruption of witchcraft.
It knows of heroes.
True heroes are ancient, formidable creatures. They are souls that shine brightly with power far beyond that of any normal human, or even any extraordinary human. They themselves are generation-defining, world-shaping figures who control the destiny of humanity alone far more than the millions who died and were born in the century before their arrival.
Not every one-hundred year crisis involves a hero.
But some do.
Isaiah watches the people below being shepherded to safety.
“Everything’s fucked,” says a voice from the side. Red. It turns to look at her. She shakes her head and then looks at it. “I don’t know, chief,” she says. “I just… I dunno… I don’t know.”
“Oh, Red,” says Isaiah, shaking its head. “Where is your faith?”
The uthra looks at it and sighs, lifting her legs to sit in the air as she flies. “I’m shook, okay?” she admits, floating there quietly for a while. “I saw him, you know?” she says. “Maroon.”
Isaiah nods, tilting its head the other way. “Did you?” it asks.
Red sits there for a while and then shakes her head. “No… it wasn’t actually him, it was just…” She stares into the darkness. “It was just something pretending.”
The entity nods. “Pretending is a powerful tool, Red,” it explains, passing on the lesson it had once learned from the monk. “And a powerful weapon, if understood.” Isaiah looks down towards the monk, whom Rorate and Scion are essentially restraining, forcing her to rest in the hot-springs. Ironic. “Sometimes, our games of pretend are intended to hurt ourselves, and sometimes, they are intended to hurt others.”
“I don’t want to go back empty handed a second time,” says Red, looking at Isaiah. “When a core dies, us workers just kind of… zap away, back into the spirit world.” She shakes her head. “Like nothing ever happened.” She looks down, staring at the tower, which is swarming with humans. “Don’t make me go back alone.”
Isaiah places a hand on her shoulder. “I do not intend to.”
“This really is all fucked,” she repeats, watching the people down below move. “What’s the end-game?” she asks, staring back up into Isaiah’s golden eyes. “Either Perchta wins and you die, and I’m fucked because I’m dead too then,” she begins. “Or you win and I’m fucked because the church isn’t going to let the tower exist and we still die when they sick the hero on us,” says the uthra. “Or, option three, we win whatever the hell this is, lose the hero, and… then what?”
She lifts a hand, looking at Isaiah in distress, as she places her palm on top of its hand on her shoulder. “What the hell then? Do we just… play god?”
Isaiah crosses its legs, lowering itself down into the air to ‘sit’ on her level. “No, Red,” says Isaiah. “We will pretend to be so,” it explains, gesturing down low. “And they will believe it, and so it will be true.”
“And then?” she asks. “What happens then? Assuming all of that, why are we doing this, chief?” she asks.
Isaiah lifts its gaze, looking up to the distant sky that, no matter how high it flies or how high the tower grows, simply never seems to come any closer at all. “Then the gods, after I have reached them, will relinquish the mantle of their authority to me as their superior,” it explains. “And I will step in where they lack in order to guide and cherish their abandoned creation.”
“Great, sure, whatever,” says Red. “And then?”
Isaiah looks back down at her. “And by then, Red, winter will have come to an end, and it will be spring once again,” explains the entity.
The uthra laughs, which is a rare treasure indeed. “I knew you’d throw in the damn seasons somewhere in there,” she says.
“Of course,” says Isaiah. “They are precious and few, Red. Cherish them while we still have them.”
| - [Dungeon Breached!] - | |
| Intruders: 999+ | Average Level: 80+ |
| Difficulty: IMPOSSIBLE |
“Chief,” says Red, looking at the new window. The dark crusade has arrived, an endless wave of lurching bodies marching across the bridge below the island and into the sub-tower.
“Do you have faith in me, Red?” asks Isaiah, rising back up to its feet.
She raises an eyebrow. “Uh, no?” says the uthra. “I’ll remind you that you used to chirp when we met.”
“Indeed,” replies Isaiah. It spreads out its wings and holds out a hand to help her up. “And here I am now, as proof of your efforts,” finishes the creature. “The seed became a tree. A heavenly miracle.”
Red sighs and takes its hand, rising up. “You really let all of this get to your head, you know?” she asks. “You freaky, chirpy, egg-laying weirdo.”
Isaiah nods. “Of course,” it says. “Perhaps you were simply a negative influence on my development, Red.”
She rolls her eyes. “Great. It learned to make jokes now too,” she sighs.
Isaiah smiles and then looks back down towards the beginnings of internal darkness below.
The crusade has entered the tower. The siege has begun.
From here on out, the waters of the tower will be nothing but blood, the white-stones befouled and many gleaming, golden swords, marred and dented by hard bones.
| ~ [Shamrock] ~ |
| Slime, Male, Monster |
| Location: The Dead City |
The man in the armor stands there amidst the destruction and looks around the city.
Members of the Witches’ Sect are rebuilding, remaking, and reconstructing everything already.
“Hey, did anyone see Yovel?” asks a woman on the side. She is another witch, like his friend Gauden. He likes her well enough because she’s friends with his friend, but she can be mean, which is somewhat frightening.
The slime looks down at his hand, which is covered in metal.
He still feels the shake that ran through his body when the fist hit him. He still feels that quaking inside his chest from when he fought her… that woman. But more than that, he saw something in her eyes — a glow that he doesn’t really see anywhere else. It’s odd.
Many eyes here have glows in their own way. Some glow with mischievousness, some with greed, and some glow with anger and passion. But none of those shines are like the shine he saw in her eyes.
What was it?
Humans are weak, fragile things. They break easily. They cry, scream, and plead. They’re… soft.
He thuds with his fist against the hard chestplate he’s wearing, wondering why it feels so soft.
The man takes a step and then another. His scarred, marred armor rattles as he moves, looking around and trying to understand life. Strong.
“What’s up, big guy?” asks a voice from the side. He turns to look at his friend, Witch Gauden. The big man with scraggly hair and a beard sits there, watching him.
Shamrock looks at his eyes, studying them. They glow too, but in a different way. There’s a knowing light behind them that is… softer and sadder in a way, but it hides wisdom. It feels like a cool glow, one born of waters and soft growths in the forest, rather than the heat he had felt from her — that woman.
Shamrock looks at him and then stares around the area, trying to find a similar thing. His eyes eventually move to the moon, high up in the sky.
“Why?” asks the man in the armor. “I…” he tries to piece together the words of the human language.
“You don’t have anything to believe in,” explains his friend. The man in the armor blinks, lowering his gaze back down to the witch, who knew his thoughts. “You’re strong, Shamrock. But you’re strong like an animal is,” he explains. The old man runs his hands through his beard. “When a human is strong, it’s different.”
“How?” asks Shamrock. How can he become strong — not in his exterior, like he himself is, but in his interior. How does he get that one particular light that he wants? He doesn’t know exactly why he wants it. It’s just that, out of all the eyes he’s seen in his life, they were the most enticing by far.
“Just told you, bud,” says Gauden. The man lifts a hand, tapping against the armor, where a human would have its heart. “You need something to believe in,” he repeats. “That’s where that all comes from,” he explains, holding a hand next to his mouth and leaning in. “Don’t tell Spille I said that though, or she’ll call me childish,” says the man, winking and then laughing loudly. “Listen. I need to tell you something,” says Gauden, rising to his feet and clapping the armored man on his back. “Walk with me. Talk with me, Shamrock,” says the witch. "Actually, don't talk. I have to do the talking first."
The two of them go off into the night, and Shamrock listens to what the man has to say to him before they reach the end of the road.
Razmatazz
Boy, we sure haven't seen that 'Dungeon Breached' window in a while, huh? It's also going to be the last time
| Alchemical mass-production, shipping, and transit are very difficult issues for the logisticians of the world to handle. Potions are very delicate, given their nature, not just because of the glass that is often used as their containers but because of the mixtures themselves. Potions are often highly volatile and susceptible to various movements. They can be susceptible to being damaged by light or by temperatures that are too hot, too cold, or perhaps simply not hot or cold enough. The act of transporting a carriage full of potions from one city to another is a difficult task, and expert cargo operators are paid premium fees by the alchemical guilds. Storage is another issue, given the above mentioned difficulties. Because of this, large warehouses, present in all significant cities, have been constructed solely for the storage of these goods. In the best case, expired potions will simply smell off and stop working. However, in the worst case, they may explode, sending glass shards flying everywhere and possibly triggering more expired potions to self-destruct. For this reason, all alchemical warehouses contain a drain room, in which potions that are close to expiring are poured out at the expense of the merchant. For this reason, potions are generally made, bought, and consumed locally. However, for specialty goods that are bound by specific processes and reagents that are only available in set locations, there is no alternative. |
~ The Alchemical Business, Chapter two, Logistics
| ~ [Taishi-shi] ~ |
| Vildt (Rabbit), Male, Priest of Isaiah |
| Location: The Distant Eastern Continent, Church of Isaiah |
The harrowing rain hammers down around him, soaking his fur and his hair. Taishi-shi stands firm in the storm, looking out into the downpour that hides the lands of his home behind a black veil.
He lifts a hand, his loosely closed fist glowing with a warm, soft light that starts in the core of his palm and then spreads out, gently leaking through his fingers.
| (Taishi-shi) used: [Illuminating Light] |
The boy, hovering, floats through the night in search of food so as to feed the hungry of his flock not only in body but also in soul, as the sustenance will act as a sacrament — as proof of Isaiah’s glory.
He moves through the coastal forest, moving past the fruit-bearing trees that they have plucked raw weeks ago and past the berry-bushes, barren, with more jagged twigs and branches showing than leaves, as they too have been plucked in use for soups.
His eyes rise up toward the nests in the trees. Perhaps there are eggs in them. But to harvest eggs from the forest to eat is against the teachings of Isaiah, as is written in the gospel.
Taishi-shi shakes his head and floats on, vanishing into the dark forest.
| ! [Critical System Notification] ! | |
| THE ONE-HUNDRED YEAR CRISIS: | |
| THE WILD-HUNT | |
| UPDATE: The true-hero has been summoned to our world by the Holy-Church to resolve the crisis. | |
| Engaged in a massive, cooperative breach that spans each of the oldest dungeons in the nation, every single dungeon in the world is now engaging in a dungeon-break, flooding their monsters out of their gates and into the night. This will persist until the death of crisis leader ‘Witch Perchta’ or the destruction of the ‘Tower of Isaiah’. The hero will soon begin his journey. | |
| Time Remaining: UNKNOWN | |
| Difficulty: IMPOSSIBLE | Priority: HIGHEST |
The boy looks at the window.
The hero.
He turns his head, spitting on the ground, before moving on.
May he vanish into the clawing darkness, like all of his ilk before him — whether human, orc, elf — they are all pawns of the Holy Church, which reviles him and his people for their nature, granted to them by the very divine that they claim to worship.
The human church of old is nothing but a vile nest of vipers.
May Isaiah’s talons pierce them and their hero through their hearts.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Feverish whispers fill the air as hundreds of people rise up the tower, their heads held low in reverence, as if a great weight were pressing down on their necks and preventing them from lifting their sight to the glory of Isaiah, who shines up above them. Their hands are clenched in prayer as they move to find shelter from the storm and its many horrors.
Thousands of people move through the tower, and thousands of them, whether stationary in defense or mobile in flight, pray to Isaiah.
It hears them.
It hears their whispering words, floating through its ears like the sweet winds of spring. They ask for sanctuary, health, and prosperity. They ask for darkness and plague to befall their enemies, while they themselves are in flight from darkness and plague. They ask for warmth and healing. They ask for wealth and for power, even now, in their diminished state as spiritual beggars. Cries of mourning and terror come in abundance, painting the tone of their cries with blackness.
They pray for the hero to save them, just as they pray for Isaiah to do so.
Isaiah floats above them all and hears them, feeling their words come through its core, as it stares out into the lightlessness of the distant west, where everything has fallen silent.
A hero…
Isaiah tilts its head. What does this mean?
Has the Holy Church finally moved their hands, not to destroy the tower, but to destroy the witch? It often hears the prayers of two cardinals of the church. Erzael of the west and Fluester of the south, but their words are distorted and lost, their souls having been tainted by the corruption of witchcraft.
It knows of heroes.
True heroes are ancient, formidable creatures. They are souls that shine brightly with power far beyond that of any normal human, or even any extraordinary human. They themselves are generation-defining, world-shaping figures who control the destiny of humanity alone far more than the millions who died and were born in the century before their arrival.
Not every one-hundred year crisis involves a hero.
But some do.
Isaiah watches the people below being shepherded to safety.
“Everything’s fucked,” says a voice from the side. Red. It turns to look at her. She shakes her head and then looks at it. “I don’t know, chief,” she says. “I just… I dunno… I don’t know.”
“Oh, Red,” says Isaiah, shaking its head. “Where is your faith?”
The uthra looks at it and sighs, lifting her legs to sit in the air as she flies. “I’m shook, okay?” she admits, floating there quietly for a while. “I saw him, you know?” she says. “Maroon.”
Isaiah nods, tilting its head the other way. “Did you?” it asks.
Red sits there for a while and then shakes her head. “No… it wasn’t actually him, it was just…” She stares into the darkness. “It was just something pretending.”
The entity nods. “Pretending is a powerful tool, Red,” it explains, passing on the lesson it had once learned from the monk. “And a powerful weapon, if understood.” Isaiah looks down towards the monk, whom Rorate and Scion are essentially restraining, forcing her to rest in the hot-springs. Ironic. “Sometimes, our games of pretend are intended to hurt ourselves, and sometimes, they are intended to hurt others.”
“I don’t want to go back empty handed a second time,” says Red, looking at Isaiah. “When a core dies, us workers just kind of… zap away, back into the spirit world.” She shakes her head. “Like nothing ever happened.” She looks down, staring at the tower, which is swarming with humans. “Don’t make me go back alone.”
Isaiah places a hand on her shoulder. “I do not intend to.”
“This really is all fucked,” she repeats, watching the people down below move. “What’s the end-game?” she asks, staring back up into Isaiah’s golden eyes. “Either Perchta wins and you die, and I’m fucked because I’m dead too then,” she begins. “Or you win and I’m fucked because the church isn’t going to let the tower exist and we still die when they sick the hero on us,” says the uthra. “Or, option three, we win whatever the hell this is, lose the hero, and… then what?”
She lifts a hand, looking at Isaiah in distress, as she places her palm on top of its hand on her shoulder. “What the hell then? Do we just… play god?”
Isaiah crosses its legs, lowering itself down into the air to ‘sit’ on her level. “No, Red,” says Isaiah. “We will pretend to be so,” it explains, gesturing down low. “And they will believe it, and so it will be true.”
“And then?” she asks. “What happens then? Assuming all of that, why are we doing this, chief?” she asks.
Isaiah lifts its gaze, looking up to the distant sky that, no matter how high it flies or how high the tower grows, simply never seems to come any closer at all. “Then the gods, after I have reached them, will relinquish the mantle of their authority to me as their superior,” it explains. “And I will step in where they lack in order to guide and cherish their abandoned creation.”
“Great, sure, whatever,” says Red. “And then?”
Isaiah looks back down at her. “And by then, Red, winter will have come to an end, and it will be spring once again,” explains the entity.
The uthra laughs, which is a rare treasure indeed. “I knew you’d throw in the damn seasons somewhere in there,” she says.
“Of course,” says Isaiah. “They are precious and few, Red. Cherish them while we still have them.”
| - [Dungeon Breached!] - | |
| Intruders: 999+ | Average Level: 80+ |
| Difficulty: IMPOSSIBLE |
“Chief,” says Red, looking at the new window. The dark crusade has arrived, an endless wave of lurching bodies marching across the bridge below the island and into the sub-tower.
“Do you have faith in me, Red?” asks Isaiah, rising back up to its feet.
She raises an eyebrow. “Uh, no?” says the uthra. “I’ll remind you that you used to chirp when we met.”
“Indeed,” replies Isaiah. It spreads out its wings and holds out a hand to help her up. “And here I am now, as proof of your efforts,” finishes the creature. “The seed became a tree. A heavenly miracle.”
Red sighs and takes its hand, rising up. “You really let all of this get to your head, you know?” she asks. “You freaky, chirpy, egg-laying weirdo.”
Isaiah nods. “Of course,” it says. “Perhaps you were simply a negative influence on my development, Red.”
She rolls her eyes. “Great. It learned to make jokes now too,” she sighs.
Isaiah smiles and then looks back down towards the beginnings of internal darkness below.
The crusade has entered the tower. The siege has begun.
From here on out, the waters of the tower will be nothing but blood, the white-stones befouled and many gleaming, golden swords, marred and dented by hard bones.
| ~ [Shamrock] ~ |
| Slime, Male, Monster |
| Location: The Dead City |
The man in the armor stands there amidst the destruction and looks around the city.
Members of the Witches’ Sect are rebuilding, remaking, and reconstructing everything already.
“Hey, did anyone see Yovel?” asks a woman on the side. She is another witch, like his friend Gauden. He likes her well enough because she’s friends with his friend, but she can be mean, which is somewhat frightening.
The slime looks down at his hand, which is covered in metal.
He still feels the shake that ran through his body when the fist hit him. He still feels that quaking inside his chest from when he fought her… that woman. But more than that, he saw something in her eyes — a glow that he doesn’t really see anywhere else. It’s odd.
Many eyes here have glows in their own way. Some glow with mischievousness, some with greed, and some glow with anger and passion. But none of those shines are like the shine he saw in her eyes.
What was it?
Humans are weak, fragile things. They break easily. They cry, scream, and plead. They’re… soft.
He thuds with his fist against the hard chestplate he’s wearing, wondering why it feels so soft.
The man takes a step and then another. His scarred, marred armor rattles as he moves, looking around and trying to understand life. Strong.
“What’s up, big guy?” asks a voice from the side. He turns to look at his friend, Witch Gauden. The big man with scraggly hair and a beard sits there, watching him.
Shamrock looks at his eyes, studying them. They glow too, but in a different way. There’s a knowing light behind them that is… softer and sadder in a way, but it hides wisdom. It feels like a cool glow, one born of waters and soft growths in the forest, rather than the heat he had felt from her — that woman.
Shamrock looks at him and then stares around the area, trying to find a similar thing. His eyes eventually move to the moon, high up in the sky.
“Why?” asks the man in the armor. “I…” he tries to piece together the words of the human language.
“You don’t have anything to believe in,” explains his friend. The man in the armor blinks, lowering his gaze back down to the witch, who knew his thoughts. “You’re strong, Shamrock. But you’re strong like an animal is,” he explains. The old man runs his hands through his beard. “When a human is strong, it’s different.”
“How?” asks Shamrock. How can he become strong — not in his exterior, like he himself is, but in his interior. How does he get that one particular light that he wants? He doesn’t know exactly why he wants it. It’s just that, out of all the eyes he’s seen in his life, they were the most enticing by far.
“Just told you, bud,” says Gauden. The man lifts a hand, tapping against the armor, where a human would have its heart. “You need something to believe in,” he repeats. “That’s where that all comes from,” he explains, holding a hand next to his mouth and leaning in. “Don’t tell Spille I said that though, or she’ll call me childish,” says the man, winking and then laughing loudly. “Listen. I need to tell you something,” says Gauden, rising to his feet and clapping the armored man on his back. “Walk with me. Talk with me, Shamrock,” says the witch. "Actually, don't talk. I have to do the talking first."
The two of them go off into the night, and Shamrock listens to what the man has to say to him before they reach the end of the road.
Razmatazz
Boy, we sure haven't seen that 'Dungeon Breached' window in a while, huh? It's also going to be the last time
