Story Reader / Festival Event Story / Mercy in All Things / Story
Etha's carriage flies through broad avenues and narrow lanes, carrying two souls bent on "defying the world," leaving behind the stiff crowds, the sinking sun, and the crimson dusk...
At last, under the chill gaze of a pallid moon, it draws to a stop before a modest two-story house, its chimney whispering soft curls of smoke.
Quick, this way! No one ever uses this path after dark. You'll be safe.
It's alright. Etha is a dear friend. She's been keeping an eye on you for a while now. You can trust her discretion.
Etha pushes the back door open first, releasing a peculiar blend of scents—complex spices, potatoes, and the tang of fish—that spills from a simmering pot and envelops all of you at once.
Oh, blast. Looks like Ms. Raheleh's prepared dinner. Maybe you two should duck into the backyard for a bit?
Etha... I count three sets of footsteps. Who else have you dragged into the mess besides Ishmael?
In the high-ceilinged atrium, a tarpaulin drapes over a large, hidden form. The middle-aged woman who spoke is just tucking in the last corner of the cloth before carefully stepping down from her ladder.
Her fingers are impeccably clean, untouched by the "guidance." Her eyes rest briefly on Ishmael's face with a mild smile, then drift over her shoulder to you, following behind.
Profess... Godmother. This is [player name], a good friend I've recently made.
So you're the one... "A friend," is it? Must be quite a friend, to bring this one here in these perilous times. If you say so.
Raheleh flashes a knowing smile—one that says, "I see right through you"—then wipes her hands on a rag, scrubbing away the dark stains that had just marked her skin.
With a sharp eye, you recognize the residue on her hands as machine oil.
Dinner's on the stove, Etha. Be a dear and ladle it out.
Do we have to? That looks like glue. Ishmael, save me... Let's just make some fresh juice like we used to when we were kids. That's a perfectly good dinner.
Raheleh returns a silver wrench from the table to her toolbox, closing the lid with deliberate care.
It is not "glue." It's potato soup with several whole skyfish. A delicacy from Bola, and not something we get every day. This is no time to be fussy.
Skyfish is skyfish! Potato soup is potato soup! Who in their right mind mashes them together?!
It's called fusion cuisine, dear. Blending Thebesian tradition with a bit of innovation. Etha, you should always be open to new ideas, even in cooking.
I'm begging you, stick to inventing your giant metal chunks. Please. My stomach thanks you.
The word "inventing" springs from Etha's lips, and suddenly, all your confusion about this cottage falls into place.
Hahaha... No wonder you've been studying everything since you walked in. I fit the "inventor" label perfectly, don't I? The eccentric tinker, holed up in her cottage, obsessed with gadgets the world has no use for.
Raheleh...
Etha moved back in a few years ago. She's been a godsend, really. A wonderful kid.
Etha pulls a face but acquiesces, resigned to her fate. She grabs a stack of plates and approaches the simmering pot—its eerie, grey-blue glow casting faint shadows—all while pinching her nose tightly.
Your attention drifts toward the center of the room, where a large form lies shrouded beneath a cloth.
Now that's a kind thing to say! Would you like a proper look? Though I've just covered it up, I've been waiting for an excuse to pull the cover off with a proper flourish.
Splendid! Now, prepare yourself...
With a single, swift motion, the tarp is seized by one corner and swept dramatically aside. The smell of the soup swirls through the room, and there, standing amid these most absurd of scents, looms the massive form of—
"Mecha"
The word—a term never before spoken, never even fully formed in your mind—materializes from the air itself and escapes your lips almost without your consent.
"Mecha"? I like that. Far better than Etha's "metal chunks." You hear that, Etha? Our guest has more of a poet's touch than you reporters.
Oww, hot-hot-hot...
The highly cultured Ms. Etha, reporter extraordinaire, is currently waging a losing battle against a grotesquely gooey amalgamation of skyfish and mashed potatoes.
You recognized it immediately. How have you come across something like this before?
"Pilot"... You even know it can be manually operated, and you still say you're not sure?
Raheleh gives the mecha's gleaming shell an affectionate pat, her smile blooming with pride.
If the chance arises, perhaps you'd like to be the first to take it for a spin. Put its functions to the test. How does that sound?
I dream that one day, these "mechas" could help with heavy labor. Hauling cargo, clearing land... all of it.
Every time you find someone who can keep up, you just have to rope them into a passionate chat... You two are getting along entirely well, aren't you?
Yes. I call it...
With a sweep of her hand, she directs your attention to its magnificent right arm, where a single line of text is engraved into the metal.
"Ishmary".
Ishmael freezes. The gentle look she had worn just a moment before—the soft amusement of observing this "harmonious meeting"—stiffens on her face.
Then, in a heartbeat, it shatters. Her features shift into an expression of unmistakable melancholy, a raw and fragile emotion rarely, if ever, seen on her face.
...Professor, the more you do, the harder it becomes for me to let you all go.
Oh, listen to you... "Professor." From which god did you even pick up that title? I'm your godmother, not your professor.
Raheleh pats the back of Ishmael's hand. At the touch, Ishmael's gaze flickers downward. Something glimmers at the corner of her eye, then vanishes as quickly as it came.
All that remains is the faint, almost imperceptible sigh that escapes her lips.
Alright, alright, food's getting cold! Has everyone forgotten how long your poor "carriage driver" Etha struggled with this pot of skyfish?
With a practiced sweep of her arm, Etha clears the table, her usual workspace littered with documents and newspapers, to make room for several bowls of stew and spoons.
Rolls of newsprint tumble into a waiting cardboard box on the floor, rustling and colliding as they settle. Your gaze is drawn to several bold headlines, stark and accusing in thick black ink:
"The Pontiff's Specter Looms Over Thebesia"
"Inspectorate General Formally Indicts Former Pontiff Ishmael"
Sit, sit! Don't pay any attention to that trash. It's all nonsense. I've already written a brilliant piece that'll counter all of it. It'll be on the presses by dawn. We'll turn this right around, brilliantly!
What sort of article? The paper actually agreed to run it?
Of course they did! I'm their star reporter, remember? They're begging me for copy. I've systematically dismantled every single rumor about you.
For example, regarding the "corruption" nonsense, I got the manager of the Pontiff's residence to hand over your expense records. Years of them! They show you've lived with absolute austerity. Completely innocent!
But the "colluding with external forces" accusation... that's the serious one. I tried several cardinal bishops, but they wouldn't give me the time of day. I always told you not to trust them. Half of them are in the government's pocket!
So, I went to the embassy instead. Got records showing you refused every visitor from Kerentos. You saw this coming, didn't you? You were being so careful to avoid even the appearance of impropriety... and they still pinned it on you.
I've got it all compiled. Just you wait. Though... there is one point that's a bit tricky to explain...
What about me could possibly be tricky to explain?
You take your seat at the table and begin to eat, listening absently at first. But after a single bite, you set the spoon down, your focus narrowing entirely on her words. They call to mind, with sudden clarity, a certain "Pontiff scandal" that Officer Shorthalt had mentioned.
Huh, it actually is.
...
Ishmael sets her spoon down as well. She lifts a hand to her forehead, then shows a resigned smile.
Suddenly, Etha seems to notice something. Her gaze darts back and forth between Ishmael and you, her "friend," like a squirrel tracking fallen nuts. Then, her eyes widen, alight with the spark of a thrilling realization.
Wait! I just had a genius idea!
I have a feeling you've come up with something... remarkably creative.
Ishmael, you two, go up to the attic later and sit on Ishmael's old bed. Get cozy if you want!
Etha makes a suggestive circular gesture between Ishmael and you, indicating intimacy.
Then I'll take a few photos. Yes, exactly what you're thinking! "Pontiff's Intimate Evening with Mystery Prosecutor!" followed by "Exclusive: Who Is the Pontiff's Secret Lover?!" It'll be front-page news! Every eye in Thebesia will be on that!
First, we leak the "intimate photos," play up the story of a long-time secret devotion...
Then we catch a few celebrities in some juicy scandals, and bam! Public attention shifts completely!
Etha leaps to her feet, slamming both hands on the table with unrestrained excitement. The impact sends a tremor through the bowls, causing the poorly cooked skyfish to quiver indignantly across the tabletop.
Yes, that's it! We let it simmer for a few months, then we explain it all away: "The Pontiff, in her mercy, was merely absolving a troubled follower of afflictions..."
Ishmael appears to be breaking into a sweat.
Etha... Etha, sit down and take a breath. It's alright. Let's think this through. We might not need to go that route...
This is about your life! Shouldn't you be a little more supportive of my brilliant plans?
...Etha, let it go.
Mother! You were on my side a second ago! Talk some sense into her—
...It's no use, Etha. We all know the truth. The public's been "guided." They won't listen. My sins are already nailed to the cross... There's no point in any of this now.
I warned you both. If things went wrong, even this cottage where I was raised wouldn't be safe. We agreed we'd share one last meal, then pack our things and leave the capital of Thebesia. Remember?
Even Ishmael's smile seems strained now.
Raheleh took us in when we needed shelter. The least we can do is bring her somewhere she can pursue her inventions in peace.
...I know. But I... but you... What happens to you is what matters...
Etha leans forward, palms pressed flat against the table as she hangs her head low, locked in a silent standoff with the skyfish on her plate.
It seems everyone at the table already knows the truth: these beautiful, fleeting days of peace are nearing their end.
Raheleh and I... we should have stopped them. We never should have let those lords and ladies take you away.
All that talk about an innate "divine power." Such nonsense! That water you drank turned to wine? The stones you touched yielded gold? Wounds healed with your pardon? And just like that, you were their new Pontiff.
But we know you. We squeezed those vegetable juices with you. We drank them too. So why aren't we divine? Why aren't we immortal?
We watched them take your handkerchief. The candlestick you'd touched. They even cut down the tree you used to climb in the courtyard! I heard they made a new desk out of it for some minister!
So tell me, Ishmael. Do you? Do you really have this "divine power"? Did those people truly receive your "merciful forgiveness"?
Etha's fingers almost dig into the wood. You watch her whitened knuckles, half-terrified that her anguish will manifest into something tangible, that those "tendrils" might erupt from her very fingertips. But nothing happens.
Every choked word she speaks comes from the heart, woven from memories—true and tender—that she, Ishmael, and Raheleh once shared.
If you really have this power... then why is the world like this? Why does everything feel so... confused? Like you're keeping us in the dark on purpose.
I did what you told me to these past few days, keeping my distance and watched. I saw you open your eyes in a coffin. I saw your neck pierced in that elevator... but after all that, you're still alive somehow like it was nothing.
And I've been having these... dreams. The world was completely different, but it felt so real. You were my classmate, my friend. Raheleh was your professor... I wake up and I don't know which one is the real world anymore.
Ishmael, what happened to you? What happened to the world? What do you have to do with all of it?
...I'm sorry. This is my fault.
Then, at just the right moment, Raheleh's hands reach out. She gently strokes the hair of both girls, a quiet anchor in the storm.
Oh, my dear girls... Don't push so hard, Etha. What Ishmael "becomes"... that is her own path. Her truth might be beyond our understanding. And if it is, then we don't need to understand it.
And don't you carry that guilt, Ishmael. "Pontiff" or not, you are still you. Your title never changed how we see you. Etha is just worried.
As for me... my work is done. I finished the final oiling today. "Ishmary" is ready. Even if I had to leave tomorrow, I'd have no regrets.
No... my apology is for more than that. It's for this... "world"...
None of that matters to us.
Ishmael, seeing you like this is what worries me. Do what you want to do. Forget this "divine power." Follow your own desires.
We will always be right behind you. No matter what.
Her fingers brush through Ishmael's soft pink strands. For a moment, Ishmael simply absorbs the touch, silent and still, then finally yields, burying her face deeply into her godmother's embrace.
...Yes. You always have been.
Now, everyone should get some rest. I'll clean up. We leave at first light, just as we planned.
Wherever you are, our journey begins tomorrow. You are free to choose your path. And so are we.
...I see.
At ten o'clock, Ishmael ascends to the attic, her hand gliding silently along the railing.
She finds you leaning in the shadowed corner, talking, your back turned to her, the telephone receiver gripped tightly in your hand.
Hello, the number you are trying to reach is... Very well, connecting you now.
After a brief pause, you decide to use a different name for this call.
One moment, please. The line is still ringing. We'll have your connection shortly.
After a long series of rings that seem to stretch into the void, the line finally connects. But it is only the operator's voice that answers: rehearsed, smooth, and faintly apologetic.
I'm sorry, there's no answer from that extension.
I apologize, the other party... Oh! He's picked up. Mr. Shorthalt? I have a legal prosecutor from the capital on the line for you.
Save the introduction. Who else calls at this hour? Alright, [player name], where are you holed up? The whole city's turning over every rock looking for you.
You bet. Look out any attic window or peek from sewer grate, and you'll see blinding searchlights and police dogs swarming every alley.
Capturing the Pontiff and her so-called "lover" has become the operation of the century. You've been gone one day, and the rumors have already spiraled out of control. Even folks at the station are starting to buy into it. I don't know if I'm losing my mind or if the whole world has.
Yeah, I'd rather believe that too.
...Ever since our little trip to the central tower, things started making sense. Everything clicked. I'm turning in my badge tomorrow, done with being a cop for good.
I'm heading back to my hometown to confess to that shrew I've loved for years... I'll get down on my knees if I have to, even if she challenges me to a duel. After that, I'll become an artist. Or her personal bodyguard, if she'll have me.
Tell me what you want to know first.
Well, there is one... In seven days, there's an inauguration ceremony for the new Pontiff, nominated by the College of Cardinals and chosen by the faithful. It's hastily arranged, so I doubt the scale will be too big.
What are you planning? Blow up the venue and turn that illegitimate Pontiff into human fireworks?
...You'd make a better artist than me.
But take some advice: Thebesia is losing its mind, on the verge of going completely mad. Better to lie low than charge straight into that chaos.
I bought tickets to Kerentos under my name. Two of them. We both know why there are two. It's the last ship out, so I suggest you take this chance.
Next time you call the station, I won't be here to answer.
You're welcome.
He promptly hangs up, without the slightest hint of hesitation.
Hello, will there be anyone else you'd like to speak with today?
After a few seconds of silence with the receiver in hand, you hesitantly voice your thought.
Where to? Be advised, wartime rates are considerably higher.
I'm sorry. All lines to Kerentos are currently under government control. Perhaps you could contact a special liaison office for authorization...
Trouble?
Ishmael, who had been listening in silence all this while, gently lowers the edge of the curtain, blocking the faint, ominous glow of the gas lamps from the alley. Just as Shorthalt had warned, they are hunting for the two of you.
Yes. The "world" has known we were here all along. It's only because of me that it hasn't reached in and crushed this little house.
Long enough for you to get a few nights of peaceful sleep.
You're thinking of converging the "guidance" at the Pontiff's ceremony seven days from now? The Cardinals would prefer to hold that behind closed doors. And the "world" already anticipates our intention. It will do everything to keep the people from gathering.
Unless something explosive happens... like "disgraced former Pontiff is captured at last." Something that would drive the public into a frenzy and flood the streets. Otherwise, converging the threads of "guidance" on such a scale will be nearly impossible.
Ishmael glances at you as you rack your brain for solutions, then after a moment's consideration, steps away from the window and approaches.
...Alright. Rest now. You've been running for days. You deserve to breathe. I doubt you slept much in that cell, either. Here. Drink this.
Ishmael offers you a cup of warm milk, the same pot she'd been tending to downstairs.
It is sickeningly, overwhelmingly sweet. The cloying liquid coats your throat and attacks your taste buds. You barely manage to swallow, fighting the visceral urge to spray it across the room.
...Oh, did I add too many sugar cubes?
Still reeling from the sugary assault, you set the cup down on the bedside stand and finally take a proper look around the small attic bedroom.
The furnishings are dated, yet everything is impeccably kept. The bedding is fresh, and not a single speck of dust or strand of cobweb dares to linger. Clearly, this room is tended to with care.
On the desk rests an array of delicate trinkets fit to charm any young girl: an elegantly carved box of wax seals, a row of hardbound classics... Noticing your curious gaze, Ishmael offers a soft smile before gently pulling open the desk drawer.
Raheleh took Etha and me in. I had slept in this little attic since I was a child, and everything in the drawer belongs to me.
Inside lies a leather roll of carving knives and fine tools, nestled among a collection of wooden carvings.
Without exception, they are dice. Some are minimalist, bearing only stark numerals; others are lavishly adorned with intricate patterns and painted in vivid color. A few even feature delicate openwork, carved into fragile shells.
Carving is a wonderful way to clear the mind... Someone once carved a die for me by hand, and that's how I learned.
You pick up one of the openwork dice and raise it to your eye, peering through its intricate patterns. From just two steps away, Ishmael's gaze meets yours through the tiny apertures.
In that moment, through the delicate web of wood, you catch glimpses of another life: a girlish pastime, a lingering tenderness for the person who carved her first die.
Through the tiny openings of the die, Ishmael smiles at "that person."
A memory trembles at the edge of your mind, then breaks through.
...Yes, "Gray Raven".
For an instant, as you look at one another through the die, you touch something true. Something real.
But fate has little mercy for the one dragged unwillingly into this "world." The moment of clarity shatters as quickly as it formed, vanishing like smoke.
Ishmael gently takes the die from your hand, returns it to the drawer, and locks it away. Then she turns and blows out the candle by the bed.
Rest now. The bed is made. It should suit your liking.
Either way, try to get some real sleep. Whatever tomorrow brings, you'll need your strength.
On the eve of the coming storm, the two of you share a single bed, falling asleep facing one another.
But less than fifteen minutes later, your eyes open again, and you realize at once yours aren't the only ones gleaming in the dim light.
Ishmael is also awake, watching you. There's a trace of something unspoken in her gaze... something like sorrow.
I'm here. Those eyes of yours are brimming with unspoken thoughts again... I won't stop you. Go ahead.
You measure your words carefully, unsure whether what you're about to offer will be enough.
You begin to describe it: a hidden refuge, far from the city's grasp, nestled with mountains at its back and a clear stream running beside it.
The yard holds shelters for livestock, rows of vegetable gardens, and beyond, vast farmlands stretch out like a promise of peace.
Thebesia will eventually rewrite those textbooks. And if war breaks out, that money may not be worth the paper it's printed on.
...
I've heard many tales of "escape": young lords and ladies, princes and princesses. But never one about a pontiff "eloping" like some romantic fugitive.
Still... it's a far more appealing story than Etha's.
...Your affection, offered so openly... it does bring me joy.
Ishmael suddenly smiles, as if brushing aside an impossible dream.
Hah... But you wouldn't choose this path.
You've never been one for small solutions. Your choices have always shaped the world. That is who you are. Who you always were.
Even if time, law, or guidance rewrite everything else... they cannot change that.
Because I am one with the "world." The power of "guidance" it wields... originally came from me.
That power, the "guidance" I scattered into this "world," began to spiral out of control. It dragged you... and those three from Gray Raven into this.
So I chose to become the Pontiff. To reclaim that power, reprogram it, and disperse it more evenly.
...Do you understand? In your current state, you might not fully grasp this. Perhaps it would be clearer if I showed you... through feeling.
The power of choice has always been in your hands as you are the "outsider." It's just that I want to ease you into it slowly. You never would have accepted it otherwise.
I can show you now... There won't be another chance, after all.
Ishmael lies on her side, extending her right hand to intertwine her fingers with yours.
It's alright... Just relax, and imagine. If the collective power of "guidance" were placed in your hands, what would you do?
Would you kill the "guidance," scattering its influence evenly? Or would you wield it, reshaping the world as you see fit?
A divine power seems to flow from Ishmael's palm, quickly lulling you into drowsiness.
So many have tried to take this power from me... They treat objects I've touched like holy relics, coveting what they can't possess. Even after my "death," they'd fight over my crown, my staff...
Or perhaps... you would find a way to master it completely...?
Something ineffable stirs within Ishmael's gentle gaze, a presence that seems to reach across the space between you and "brush" softly against you.
Golden blueprints gradually unfold before your eyes, spinning and interlocking in a silent, dazzling dance. They call to you in a language beyond words, giving you no choice but to slowly, helplessly, close your eyes.
It's alright... show me your choice. Hold nothing back. I will always respect your decision... and forgive your sins.
The symphony of gears and dice echoes once more within your mind—this time, guiding you to the very summit of that tower.
