Sparks cascaded like falling meteors onto the floating pathfinder crystal. Rysse gritted her teeth and hissed a barbed curse. The tiefling pulled herself up from under the command console to inspect the damage. A long shard of heated metal lay embedded in the oscillating containment field. Nothing too serious if solved quickly. Rysse wiped her oil-stained hands on her dark leather jerkin. Everything was slippery. She had been busy maintaining the joints of the planar sextant fitted to the pathfinder crystal and the last thing she needed was a fire inside the navigation room.
Inspired by Skypti's githyanki lexicon and the additional work of the Planewalker community, the Author humbly dedicates this to the players of Blades of Git'riban.
“Eee-kith. Rhishee-chawl. Riaw-kohl—” a breathy, soft voice whispered in the shadowy corner of Madgery's Orphanage Asylum, drawing out the syllables in a reverent manner. The matrons had not bothered to check the root cellar, nor was there any need to do so.
Extracts from the memetic diary of Bryseis, known as “Rysse”, tiefling machinist – published in “Voices from the Hive” Issue 2, Revolution 12, Cycle 4.
Grey Sigil morning. The rain hits the panes like a Stygian drum. I have to start stocking up on food on my day off. The larder is sad and lonely and empty. A sodding void – so I finish off a half-bottle of Dispater-label firewater and pretend it's breakfast.
If I finally decide to buy food, I might as well remember to find a new tint of horn polish.
I hope you and Ademtus are doing well. Please find enclosed my payment from the Baatezu. It should be enough to keep the room in the Hive you two are staying in. I know there is nothing Good inside these devils, but I have to admit being paid on time has its own virtue. And we are killing demons, just like the ones that killed my father. But I'm not writing to argue about this. In fact I wanted to say again how sorry I am for the way I left. I hope seeing the gold coins helps you understand that I did this for us and for Ademtus.
He stretched his over-sized limbs in preparation for the coming battle. His dark blood seemed to boil within him as he prepared himself for the bloodlust that was to come shortly. The sky was a dark overcast pall that cast its shadow over the assembled horde. He looked as if he was but a shadow, his skin glistened in places as the ruddy dank light from unknown sources drifted over him.
Gerg'klanwas sitting, knees folded atop the husk of the Dead God. He watched the astral current with a sad expression, the winds of the silver void whirling madly nearby.
The githyanki pushed open a flask of Ny'yrv. Remembering the old times, he gulped the strong spiced juice. He and his spirit-brother used to spend long moments on this desert and forgotten husk, watching the winds, drinking the juice brewed by the m'lar.
A single fly screeching cannot be heard. But billions of billions of them, each a traitor born of the same betrayal, is a cacophony. Memories are harmless so long as the feeling of the past is barred.
The ecstasy nearly throws him off his mount. A beautifully scented twist in the spacial folds, a delicious contradiction within the orders of infinity. Why had he not felt this before? He is always smiling, but this time there is truth to it. He turned his bronze mount with a tap of his scythe. He must, after so long, speak with his sister.