4.10.2007
TL; DR 2: WTF?
Tut and Dag (and invisi-Theo):
Okay, the Ambassador regards you for a moment, and refills his wineglass. Swirling it around, he takes a small sip and says quietly: "There may well come the day where you rue those words. And wish instead you'd left, or tried to kill me yourself." He laughs. "In all likelihood, I may end up wishing you'd killed me as well."
"Rather, I will tell you of my more recent activities with the Heirs to the bloody throne of Onze. I will tell you what I know of their sires, although undoubtably there is more to the sordid history and pre-history of the... the things that sit on the thrones."
Sip. Another sip.
"Very well. There came a time when I was sworn to secrecy, using much the same language as I've just used with you. My... mm. My love for Her Highness was a guarded secret, and the King and Queen- or at least, their courtiers and Doctor- considered me a trusting ally."
"My Lovely had become something of a sickly girl. Nothing too serious I thought, but it was clear that Doctor Trebort was less than pleased with her development and constitution. Her brother, a brat of a lad, was on the contrary, healthy, sanguine, full of life. Rather stupid, that, but again, the House of Onze didn't seem to care one whit what the Heirs were or were not being taught."
"I was given a strange mission- to take the Princess to a strange house not far from where the Chums airship just was. Near cursed Gorgos and cursed Mammon's Point. There, she would convalesce until she was better. Or 'ready'. Or 'needed'. And as it turned out, 'convalesce' meant nothing more than 'be placed in stasis' by a strange pair of monks with a bizarre spider-like machine. Yes, she was placed in an amber cocoon, and my time with her was done."
"On the way back, keeping a stiff lip about the whole thing, the good Doctor revealed to me what she would be 'needed' for."
Sip. He looks up and regards each of you with sad, beady, dark eyes.
"As it turns out, my- excuse me- our employers, the Queen and King of Onze, are not... not exactly human. Not human at all really. More like," he laughs, "immortal psychic vampires. I'm not sure where exactly they come from, or what they in fact are. I've rarely seen them and never talked to them, they who flit around the palace like moths around the flame."
"Odd turns of phrase, odd going-ons, and the odd texts and images I found at Mammon's Point all began to fit. An image of the Queen, just the same as the Queen from 500 years ago. Other things, details."
"The Doctor explained that every generation, our good Lord and Lady produce scions, which are then raised into healthy young things before being destroyed and consumed, re-integrated maybe, with their sires. His Little Lordship and Her Beauty were essentially little loaves, little cupcakes placed in the crucible of our twisted world here, to become fat and thick with delicious blood and... And I don't know, really. It sounded insane. He assured me that, regardless of the sanity quotient, it was the truth. It was decided that the Princess, despite her beauty and learning, was only second best, runner-up on the filicidal menu."
"Shortly thereafter, the Prince was rounded up, weighed and measured and determined to be rich enough for their sonovorous appetites, and I offered to escort him to the dinner plate. Mammon's Point, that is. Where his life energy would be extracted into a delicious Prince vintage for the enjoyment and rejuvenation of those royal aberrations squatting on the throne." The vitriol in his voice has been building.
"If the Prince was to be... juiced, as you put it, then in short time, I was sure my Love would be either released from stasis and rendered safe from harm. You all were hired as escorts based on certain... certain pluses and minuses." He looks away and gives one of those thin-lipped George W. Bush smirk/smile/frown things.
He finishes the second glass, and pours a third.
"You were to be killed at the temple. I wish I could say I was glad when you didn't show up for duty, sparing yourselves, but honestly I didn't much care for you. For anyone, save my... my own trusted assistant, whom you..." Pause. "And for Her of course."
"But then everything went wrong. I don't know how. I didn't know it at the time. Some conjunction of the delayed essence juicing, due to your arrival and the fracas it caused; some conjunction of that with Strabo's ill-timed coup de Gorgos. It fucked it all up. The Prince was killed, but the juice was sour. The King and Queen were- they still are- furious. It was time for Plan B."
He tenderly strokes the limp leg of the Princess. "Plan B," he says quietly.
...
He sighs. "After that, there's not much else to say. The King and Queen will learn shortly that I have kidnapped their meal, and the House Guard- er, the real guard, not more ice cream guys- will be after Her. Me. Us. You, regardless, now that you know."
He motions around the airship. "The Chums don't care. They aren't even listening, those empty-headed Abercrombie 5th level Fighters. This is as political as they get, although I'm sure at some point there will be a great best seller about their daring rescue of a beautiful maiden. Ha! Morons."
He toasts you. "Well, now you know. With these words, I have damned you. The House of Onze guards its secret very, very tightly. There is no recourse, no police force to whom to turn. No saviors who would even believe this insane, inane story. The Guard will come. They have ears and eyes throughout space. They will stop at nothing to kill us and return Her Highness to Mammon's Point for essence extraction."
He's quietly ranting now. Wide-eyed.
"My plan is to contact some of the Fairy Paradise detritus and to lose Her and myself within the opium realms they provide. I am almost out of money and resources. I welcome your aid in all I do. I am not hopeful it will amount to much."
Okay, the Ambassador regards you for a moment, and refills his wineglass. Swirling it around, he takes a small sip and says quietly: "There may well come the day where you rue those words. And wish instead you'd left, or tried to kill me yourself." He laughs. "In all likelihood, I may end up wishing you'd killed me as well."
"Rather, I will tell you of my more recent activities with the Heirs to the bloody throne of Onze. I will tell you what I know of their sires, although undoubtably there is more to the sordid history and pre-history of the... the things that sit on the thrones."
Sip. Another sip.
"Very well. There came a time when I was sworn to secrecy, using much the same language as I've just used with you. My... mm. My love for Her Highness was a guarded secret, and the King and Queen- or at least, their courtiers and Doctor- considered me a trusting ally."
"My Lovely had become something of a sickly girl. Nothing too serious I thought, but it was clear that Doctor Trebort was less than pleased with her development and constitution. Her brother, a brat of a lad, was on the contrary, healthy, sanguine, full of life. Rather stupid, that, but again, the House of Onze didn't seem to care one whit what the Heirs were or were not being taught."
"I was given a strange mission- to take the Princess to a strange house not far from where the Chums airship just was. Near cursed Gorgos and cursed Mammon's Point. There, she would convalesce until she was better. Or 'ready'. Or 'needed'. And as it turned out, 'convalesce' meant nothing more than 'be placed in stasis' by a strange pair of monks with a bizarre spider-like machine. Yes, she was placed in an amber cocoon, and my time with her was done."
"On the way back, keeping a stiff lip about the whole thing, the good Doctor revealed to me what she would be 'needed' for."
Sip. He looks up and regards each of you with sad, beady, dark eyes.
"As it turns out, my- excuse me- our employers, the Queen and King of Onze, are not... not exactly human. Not human at all really. More like," he laughs, "immortal psychic vampires. I'm not sure where exactly they come from, or what they in fact are. I've rarely seen them and never talked to them, they who flit around the palace like moths around the flame."
"Odd turns of phrase, odd going-ons, and the odd texts and images I found at Mammon's Point all began to fit. An image of the Queen, just the same as the Queen from 500 years ago. Other things, details."
"The Doctor explained that every generation, our good Lord and Lady produce scions, which are then raised into healthy young things before being destroyed and consumed, re-integrated maybe, with their sires. His Little Lordship and Her Beauty were essentially little loaves, little cupcakes placed in the crucible of our twisted world here, to become fat and thick with delicious blood and... And I don't know, really. It sounded insane. He assured me that, regardless of the sanity quotient, it was the truth. It was decided that the Princess, despite her beauty and learning, was only second best, runner-up on the filicidal menu."
"Shortly thereafter, the Prince was rounded up, weighed and measured and determined to be rich enough for their sonovorous appetites, and I offered to escort him to the dinner plate. Mammon's Point, that is. Where his life energy would be extracted into a delicious Prince vintage for the enjoyment and rejuvenation of those royal aberrations squatting on the throne." The vitriol in his voice has been building.
"If the Prince was to be... juiced, as you put it, then in short time, I was sure my Love would be either released from stasis and rendered safe from harm. You all were hired as escorts based on certain... certain pluses and minuses." He looks away and gives one of those thin-lipped George W. Bush smirk/smile/frown things.
He finishes the second glass, and pours a third.
"You were to be killed at the temple. I wish I could say I was glad when you didn't show up for duty, sparing yourselves, but honestly I didn't much care for you. For anyone, save my... my own trusted assistant, whom you..." Pause. "And for Her of course."
"But then everything went wrong. I don't know how. I didn't know it at the time. Some conjunction of the delayed essence juicing, due to your arrival and the fracas it caused; some conjunction of that with Strabo's ill-timed coup de Gorgos. It fucked it all up. The Prince was killed, but the juice was sour. The King and Queen were- they still are- furious. It was time for Plan B."
He tenderly strokes the limp leg of the Princess. "Plan B," he says quietly.
...
He sighs. "After that, there's not much else to say. The King and Queen will learn shortly that I have kidnapped their meal, and the House Guard- er, the real guard, not more ice cream guys- will be after Her. Me. Us. You, regardless, now that you know."
He motions around the airship. "The Chums don't care. They aren't even listening, those empty-headed Abercrombie 5th level Fighters. This is as political as they get, although I'm sure at some point there will be a great best seller about their daring rescue of a beautiful maiden. Ha! Morons."
He toasts you. "Well, now you know. With these words, I have damned you. The House of Onze guards its secret very, very tightly. There is no recourse, no police force to whom to turn. No saviors who would even believe this insane, inane story. The Guard will come. They have ears and eyes throughout space. They will stop at nothing to kill us and return Her Highness to Mammon's Point for essence extraction."
He's quietly ranting now. Wide-eyed.
"My plan is to contact some of the Fairy Paradise detritus and to lose Her and myself within the opium realms they provide. I am almost out of money and resources. I welcome your aid in all I do. I am not hopeful it will amount to much."
