Mars Mara and the Nail Witch

 

Castelle's Revenge
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Title: Aware and Away, Four, Chapter 17 [excerpt st. pg. 222] 

ID: SQLP0093 - 136221

Creator: Sator, Dame Ablehm 

Date: December 16, 2981

Physical Description: Booklet (5'' x 3'' x 2'', dull cyan cover, saturated tan typeface, interior pages of deeper cyan) [contained within Set Four along with chapters 1-201 (AuRet Sys: R1C4D3)]   

Citation: Square Archival, Bunk 001, Cacophony Packet, River Set, #623, A.9.3, C* - "Major Manuals"

Restriction: Dense T. 

Content:

"Mars is a name steeped in myth. It hurtles through story, legend, truth like a great Surpass Ship gone skyward - teetering on a faster-than-light precipice, then tipping, sink-scattered, and after a silent, cacophonous shatter, a million tunnels of winking prismatic waste thrown through the reaches of space and time. It is such - tangent, unknowable, potent in its many settings.

So it was with Starbank. The name Mars meant war [to them] (as it often does). Not war as a vague symbol, a violent spectre, but as the fist of one known and dead. Desdaom Squire. Hers were red banners. High, snapping at the wind howl and gunmark. She concocted a bureaucracy of conflict, a brutal, social machinery built on the corpses of kingdoms conquered. That tradition - that ingrained thought - was carried through Starbank history by spartans and sects, flash empires and institutions eternal, to the modern day. It was called “Mars Mara”, and we (from our modern, genteel perspective) can liken it to the broad social levelers we are familiar with: the desire for children, the sense of shared accomplishment/companionship one finds in contributing to a common cause, national pride, the desire to win a competitive challenge… to the people of Starbank, the Mars Mara was among these things - a path one could take, an experience that could be lived.

I have devoted the rest of this chapter to a lengthy recording of notable groups/works/themes/figures in Starbank history embodied by the Mars Mara. The Desdoam Heirs (a term used by local historians from ~3200 to ~3500) were...  

...

... 

The Mars Coptence

At the time of their popularity in local legend, the Mars Coptence were relicts, remnants of the War, one minuscule fragment of that great beast’s corpse. Now adrift. We can call these creatures what they were - Sparing Square Occupants, one class of the many Triple-Dense artificial intelligences brought to, and eventually built on, Starbank's surface - but to the people of the planet (and in the later era of which we speak), they were creatures like any other.

Tall, humanoid, sentient creatures. Pale and pitch smoke steaming off halocap pores. That sweet smell, of a caged thermal cycle, and perfume packets pumping to compensate. Paneled ceramic, bundlewhim joints, contoured to fit the aesthetic design of some long-forgotten custodial engineer. The Mars Coptence traveled alone and carried several hermetically sealed cases. Within these, a release from disease: Pastel Mastodon, that pathogen of ethanol white. Highly addictive.

They established themselves a mile or two outside the limits of a city. Rumor would spread, petitioners would come. The Mara Coptence offered power, for a price. To take the Mastodon was to know strength - a body immune to disease and age, a heart quickened and a power gained. It was also to take the nail, for the Coptence administered the pathogen by nailing a pure sample straight through the breast. Few survived the initial administering. Those that did enjoyed three years of strength - weapons of Pastel (the archetypal dagger and stone), speed, power - while their body grew more and more dependent. And then, at the end of those three years, another nail. Another three years. Another nail. This cycle... or death. So addled would the body be, that the absence of the Mastodon would mean rampancy and decay.

Those that followed this track were called Nail Witches - horrible, amoral, always chasing the next conflict. Career soldiers. The greatest slight one could commit against a member of this class was to prevent them from renewing their lease, from claiming another nail. Such was the case with Later Castelle, a veteran Nail Witch and enemy of the Southmarch Bastion. So the story goes: one day, a splinter group of Southmarch tradeswomen conspired to slay the Mars Coptence that lingered outside of the city’s borders. They did this just as Castelle was preparing to accept a third nail. At least six months' journey from the next great city and with only a month of power left, Castelle was doomed. Her vengeance was swift and… horrible..." 

 

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The Signal Bearer

I got a little lazy with the coloring and failed to finish rendering her mallet! Hopefully the lineart gets the idea across. 

The Signal Bearer

The Signal Bearer
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Title: Southmarch - Questions and More Questions, Vol. 5

ID: SQLP05933 - 991270

Creator: Maker, Judica O.

Date: October [step] 1, 3101

Physical Description: Magnetically sealed rectangular case (6'' x 2'' x 2'', filleted edges, polished stone (pale) paneling, aquamarine (rich) padded interior) [data received via ingrained-access burst, encoded in a complex knit texture woven into the padding material] 

Citation: Square Archival, Bunk 007, Query Packet, Corner Clive, #8211 - "Starbank, Region Specific (Year Agnostic)"

Restriction: Dense O.T. 

Content:

    “... It became necessary in Southmarch’s early years to develop a countermeasure for these massive storms. The sight of its pallid girth roiling over the peaks, down the midbanks, of the Part-Said Range was enough to cause rioting in the streets. Before the establishment of the Signal Bearers, such an event would mean the deaths of some 97% of the non-Bastion populace. The frigid winds, their crystalline grip, fell into the valley - the streets - mere moments after cresting the ring of mountainous structure encasing the city. No time to escape. 

    Some important points about the Signal Bearers: 

• It is not by some Outer Magic that the Signal Bearers detect the presence of an approaching storm. It is, rather, that they are able to see over the lip of the border peaks from their towers, which stand some 1,500 feet tall and are said to be among the tallest buildings in all of Starbank. From this vantage, they are able to note a storm’s advance well before it makes crestfall with the city.  

• The great, booming note of the Signal Bearer’s flat-drum does not travel to the ear as other sound does (through the curious quivering of unseen air). Rather, it gathers about the tower’s upper levels like some windswept burst held still, then falling as a clumping, dewy mist that wets the earlobe and brow.  

• The Signal Bearers do not, like the typical Southmarch citizen, shelter inside to protect themselves from the storm’s icy bite. The height of their towers makes this impossible - when the winds envelop the upper chambers, those resting within sit scant few feet removed from the very heart of wintry madness. To avoid certain death, the Signals Bearers shunt their Inner and Outer selves into the three-tunneled redwrit inscribed on their vestments. This text is clip-anchored (or fall-deadened) by the twin bands of pure roseway wrapped about the Signal Bearer’s right and left arm. The severity of the resulting Handshake Collapse is enough to send their mortal forms into a deep, protective slumber.  

• There are three towers - Clarion, Met, and Leo.

              Clarion 

• Clarion, so named for the Signal Bearer’s booming drum note, is the tallest and oldest of the towers. With its base rooted in the Lake of the Lower City, it stands as a monument to an older, more brutal Southmarch. Clarion houses most of the Signal Bearers - they have, in the echoing halls of this place, built a nest of shadow politics and ritual competition. Only the strongest among them are permitted to sound massive flat-drum at the tower’s terminus. 

• Clarion is home to a number of uninvited but uninhibited tenants. Notable among these is the exiled Princess Hail of Silkensleep and her plentiful, jubilant court. 

              Met 

• Met, the second largest, is rooted in the Lake of the Middle City. Colloquially known as “The Palace,” it is the most welcoming of the towers. The ground level houses a licensed (and quite popular) port officiated by a legion of lay-persons and a solitary, infallibly tyrannical, Signal Bearer overseer. Career sailors, away-imperial clades, simple fisherwomen - you will find these and more doing business on the wharf’s sheer ramparts and narrow docks.  

• For those of the Winefever, Met is a mandatory stop on the pilgrimage to the Grave of Saint Isabel.

              Leo 

• Leo is the youngest and smallest of the towers. Its pillarwork rests deep in the bedrock below the Lake of the Upper City. This is the only tower funded by a private individual - the Second Heiress and Arm of the Robintree Gate, Mopen Durnot - in honor of her brother’s (Leo Durnot) great sacrifice. Leo is also the only tower with upper levels open to the public. A mysterious evil lurks in that place - alabaster and scuttling. The city issued an open contract some years ago - kill the thing. None have succeeded, though many have tried. Records indicate that only two Signal Bearers lived in the tower at the time of its infection. Leo’s high drum still sounds at the coming of a storm, even after all these years. Many (including the author) wonder: what has become of those two stranded souls? 

 

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Sail Witch

Sail Witch
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Title: Pentabon Lecture Series - L1, December 22, 4222

ID: SQLP42012 - 007801

Creator: Qualas, Bonetta A.

Date: December 22, 4222

Physical Description: Scram Record (Cobalt casing) [ladder iconography sketched on the bottom left of the upper surface, beige stencil ink.]

Citation: Square Archival, Bunk 302, Albrim Packet, #201, Set 9 - "Starbank Analysis (Removed)"

Restriction: Mid O.T. 

Content:

    “The Pentabon Network was alive. When we talk about the prevailing winds of Starbank, it is important to remember that we are not discussing natural phenomena, but a collection of living, sentient organisms. Like all sentients, they desired communication with others. The Pentabon were too big to engage in a verbal dialogue with… anything, really. To call their presence in a region something other than cataclysmic would be a massive understatement. These were Template 2F hurricanes (Square-ADSI), about 1,200 miles in diameter, traveling at Mach 2 (relative to Starbank ISO). Try to imagine that. They were going to run into difficulties - that didn’t stop them from trying. Enter the Sail Witch. Sail Witches acted as the voices of the Pentabons - agents of their will. By all accounts, they were very much individual actors, freelancers, and wildcards. A motley crew. The Pentabon recruited them the only way it could - inaction. By stopping at just the right moment. (Note: our records here mostly come from the Mother Cultures.)

    Imagine a sailor caught in a sea storm. The boat is keeled on its side, groaning - a dying ox. She will surely drown after this next swell. Here it comes! But… then it stops. Calm water and clear skies. Nine times out of ten this fortunate soul will walk away spooked, thankful, and eager to forget. But that one, the one who doesn’t forget - that’s the Sail Witch. That sailor is going to spend the next 7 years of her life chasing down the thing that saved her. And if she finds it? The Pentabon will reward that commitment, that loyalty, with power and further purpose.

    To the public, Sail Witches were messengers and madwomen. Half the year they were sending and receiving communique for the whole region, green message placards whipping over hills and through forests on a highway of air currents they called the Wickway. For the other half of the year, they were building a boat, or running to get this and that, or hiring the kids to collect dust mites from flower fields. We know that during these months the sail witch would be starving, eschewing sleep, pushing herself to complete a task given to her by the Pentabon. At these times, they could seem inhuman - wild, obsessed - but still kind to a fault. The inner strategy of any single Pentabon remains, to this day, inscrutable, but we know that they repeatedly fell back on that baseline - kindness and courtesy - to maintain a stable relationship with the humans of Starbank. Hence the establishment of the mail service, the earnestness and honesty of their agents, etc. All the usual social accouterments eventually accompanied this relationship: names, regalia, festivals, custom. (See attached emblem of Pentabon 11 from local year 3001.)

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Knight of Capetix-Ober

Life Update: I've been practicing drawing/digital art on a regular basis for the past few months and have been really enjoying it! There was a lot of frustration at first, but now I feel my skills improving every day. I am happy to say that I can now supplement my worldbuilding/rpg design work with my own visuals. Enjoy! 

The Knight of Capetix-Ober

Knight of Capetix-Ober
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Title: Melissa 6. Escosem Letter, May [step] 9, 3052

ID: SQLP12956 - 002879

Creator: Escosem 6., Melissa

Date: May [step] 9, 3052

Physical Description: Paper (1, 4.5'' x 6'', Mauve) [handwritten text in black ink, both sides.]

Citation: Square Archival, Bunk 25, St. Service Packet, #9907, Set 6 - "Starbank Correspondence, 3050-3075"

Restriction: Dense N.O.T. 

Content:

Clementine,

It has been exactly six months and 3 days since we last spoke and I am distraught. I fell when your letter was handed to me (and gave the dockwomen a good laugh!) Your absence is a cavity in my chest. Every day I wake to find my heart shoved to the side by a gripping, spectral hand. It is made to shrink under strain, inch by inch until it resembles a sherry tome kernel. My mood is lowered, wits dulled… oh what we would do if you sat beside me now…

I digress. No doubt you wish to hear of my progress. Slow… but improving. Our venture began apace (I expressed as much in an earlier letter, did you receive it?) but ran aground - or at least snagged the bluffs - at the start of the second month. I realize now the issue was not caused by the language barrier, but by the cultural barrier. The folk here are more than our match in arms and intellect, but even our scientific exchanges are marred by a sort… malaise? We talk past each other, and we do this at a frustratingly sluggish pace. The pieces do not fit. After months of next to no profit and expansion to just the very edge of the capital’s outskirts, I was ready to despair. It was then that my savior arrived.

He was a man - I found that odd (even though by now I have realized there are many men here.) I saw him lurking at the very edge of the docks. He had the face of a weasel - nose smashed, teeth too-long - and a shifting manner. The guards brought him to me after his fourth attempt to get past the perimeter (this was after he was denied entry at the gate on two consecutive occasions during the previous week). You may sense that I disliked - continue to dislike - the man. This is true!

You will be surprised to know that he was a broker of Capetix-Ober. To find that their reach extends even here, and that they have taken an interest in me!  You know my mother to be alive and well - why would they not approach her, head of the family, instead? Perhaps they sensed my need. The broker offered me the balm for our venture’s frustrating misfortune, a Knight unlike any I have met. She is strong and obedient of course, but too she is - or was, before her misfortune - a native of this continent. Their culture is her culture. Their manner is her manner. With her help, we have arranged meetings with two of the Quiet Governors and have plans to contact the other nine. How refreshing it is to speak with these authorities not as an incompetent foreigner, but as a woman of means. Not as a princess, mind (the yolk of that privilege weighs far too heavy on me, you know this). To them, I am now a trade partner and business bringer - the little joys this status affords are just barely enough to sustain me in your absence.

Am I embarrassed to say that the success of this venture now rests on the shoulders of a stranger? Not at all. I believe myself now to be a pragmatist – this world is too fickle to turn away from a tow line, even if we cannot see its end. The Knight is the strong arm and sounding voice that we required; I am content to know this and little else. My one worry now is the matter of Capetix-Ober’s payment… yet this is only a minor concern. Soon we will be established here – the coin will flow.

That is all I have, my love. As I sit here penning the last of this letter, a ray of gold breaks over the Notyk Range. It is our bright future, rushing to meet us.  

 

Always yours,

Melissa

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