#dadeni days

[tyson-ot-nw]

Dev Diary

A productive few days. I think I have settled on a name for the game, but it may need more tweaking. The SRD has expanded by nearly a dozen pages of guidance.

I have expanded the guidance on rolling dice. When to roll them, how to determine the difficulty of the roll, and what perks and complications come from the roll. I settled on success with perk on crit success, success, success with complication, and failure with a complication on a crit failure. Hopefully, that will keep the plot moving forward on a failure and still have consequences for rolling below a target number other than failure.

I ran into an issue trying to implement it in combat. I tried to have a complication of failing a defense you take damage, and on a failure you take damage a second time. It would have the desired effect of taking damage when rolling a defense below the target number and taking double damage on a critical fail. But I couldn't phrase it in a way that made sense. You succeed on the roll but you still take damage? Doesn't make sense. So against my better judgment, I have two systems. One for combat and one for everything else. Hopefully, as it is playtested someone will suggest a better solution.

On to better news. I have added vehicle combat and chase rules. They are pretty standard, envision all participants on a line and they all change position on that line at the end of the round after they all act and declare their movement. But simple is better.

I also included a Theater of the Mind section for handling combat. It needs playtesting for clarity but I think it adds just enough crunch without being overwhelming.

With help from @glimmeroniron I think I have gotten the Warrior into better shape. They now get 3 Features at every level, but I think these will encourage more variation in action than finding a point and standing there swinging their weapon without outpacing their companions.

And finally, I have expanded the Enchanted Items list beyond Tier 1 and added rules for identifying enchantments. I included the Legacy Items that I have been noodling with. It will be good to have them in the base rules so people can add more of them freely. I think about 60 Enchanted Items are a good amount to start with. I included rules for Artifacts, but I didn't include one. I am thinking of adding one based on the Pair Dadeni. But I will have to see.

As always, if you are interested in taking a look or contributing shoot me a message and I will send you a link. Or look in my older dev diaries and you will find links.

[inkyswampbonesart]

Day 5: Pair Dadeni

[sheriff-caitlyn]

The Tour: part 3

Bannerstone is wide fields and open skies and well-maintained roads and bridges, a village laid out in symmetry and straight lines under the perfect blue sky. In the afternoon light, across that perfect blue sky, the Yipsnakes fly a roaring battalion, precise turns and twists in the air as a salute to the woman who helped to further their engines’ power. The trails of vapour left in the sky are like the signatures of everyone who ever served in the Yordle Military.

The sound of the engines helps a little, the roar enough to clear the fog of grief for little moments. Enough for Caitlyn to catch her breath.

She can recognise faces in the crowd, now. Heimerdinger, following close behind the cart, head high and making the journey uncomplaining, untiring. Jayce, too, is there, sombre like few have ever seen. And there are other students of Trisha that Caitlyn knows well enough, too. So many students and coworkers and friends, in the long pillar of folk that walk in steady plodding pace behind the cart. Tens of thousands of them, stretching in a dark mass all the way to the lake. All of Piltover, in one way or another, is here to say goodbye.

Jayce offers a brief sympathetic smile, lost in his own grief. Caitlyn looks away, her face twisting, her eyes stinging. She’s fracturing. She is a dam close to bursting. She just needs to make it to the city.

I just need to make it until sundown. I just need to make it until then.

Across the green, and to the southeast, even the Noxians have lowered their flags in deference, and soldiers on patrol stand in precise still lines. Caitlyn can see them from here, the perfect alignment of men and women in full armour along the border line. Even this foreign occupying force pays their respects. Trisha’s body won’t go to Grimdark - the treaty won’t allow it, the territory isn’t Piltovian anymore - but the cart will pass close as allowed, following the tracks, to Baker’s Hill, and then to the city. Behind the Noxians, the duel-citizens of Grimdark form ranks of their own, or step past the guards at the border to stand in respectful watch along the Green. 

Caitlyn blinks, eyes stinging. She looks towards Piltover, to the towers of the city. Not much longer now. She takes a slow, shuddering inhale, and exhales as the Yipsnakes roar by overhead once more. The bullocks are tired, but they plod on; ahead, by the roadside, fresh beasts wait to take their place, their bridles held by solemn grooms.

“Nearly home, ma,” Elliot says softly, choking. He holds the cat in his arms, rocking slightly, youthful for a moment. Lost in tears. “Nearly there.”

Caitlyn blinks, then blinks again, then closes her eyes and takes a noisier, less-stable inhale and exhale. The afternoon won’t last forever. They’re nearly at the city. She can make it.

“Shirra!”

Caitlyn’s head turns, too slow - where are her reflexes? Why is she still in this fog? - to answer the urgent call. It takes her a second to recognise the voice, even with their face approaching the cart. The fog is heavy in her mind. Who? Oh, William. Yes. Wiliam McShaw. He volunteered to be head of security while the funeral took place. A good man. Good officer. His strong Brigham brogue turns ‘sheriff’ into ‘shirra’. He’s calling for her.

His face is tense and his eyes are alight with alarm as he jogs up towards the cart. “Shirra. T ae th’border, there.”

She looks back towards Grimdark, and sees much has changed since last she looked (when was that? Five minutes ago? An hour?), as the neat line of Noxian guards has been broken. Some are holding the line at the border, but others are heading down the hill in the direction of the funeral. They’re running, but why are they --

The fog is burned away, suddenly, as though Caitlyn has been struck by lightning. She stands up on the cart, suddenly alert, watching the approach of a vast brass construct, one that is moving down the road at pace that would rival a racehorse, leaving puffs of superheated steam in its wake. Its broad hands are held close to it, one palm flat below and the other hand raised like a protective shield. It’s Blitzcrank. He’s holding something. Someone. In this moment, in this clarity, Caitlyn sees the gleam of a crystal in a staff held crossways, braced against Blitzcrank’s arm by the shielded passenger. It’s Blitzcrank, and he’s bringing someone with him.

Someone who can’t be here.

People are calling out in alarm now. They see where the sheriff is looking. They see the swiftly-approaching construct, and the staff, and the shadow holding it. They see the way that the officers and fleetfooters are moving into a defensive line, though there aren’t enough batons or rifles between them to defend this funeral, which is nearly a million strong and spread over miles.  The bullocks slow, and then stop, uneasy from the sudden threatened energy in the air around them. The funeral cart is a sitting duck.

“Shirra!” William looks between Caitlyn and the scene to the southeast. “Whit dae we dae? Whit ur yer orders?” This is above his head. Piltover isn’t ready for this. They aren’t prepared for this. The Noxians won’t get here in time. Blitzcrank is very fast, and made of metal, and recently a Piltovian citizen; they cannot open fire. Should they? She needs to give the word.

But she has been struck by lightning. Her eyes are drawn to the shade of blue in the cape that flutters behind Blitzcrank’s hand.

Ten feet from the road, from the cart,  Blitzcrank pulls up to a sudden stop, kicking up gravel. He unfolds his hands, and disengages his passenger. Someone screams. People in the funeral procession start to back away. This is a day Piltover has long feared: the Machine Herald has returned to Piltover. He’s right there, right in front of them.

“Shirra,” William hisses, softly. He’ll deal with it himself, if he has to, but he is afraid. He spares a glance into the crowd, looking towards one man - so many people are looking at him - because if the sheriff can’t give an order, then surely the man who has defended Piltover before... 

But that man is frozen and tense, pinned by the gaze of so many who expect him to do something, expecting him to commit the same sins with the same aplomb, and he can’t do it. He can’t move, and he feels shame. He just stands there.

The Machine Herald is here, in full regalia: staff, third arm, blue cloak billowing in the breeze and sunlight glinting off the prosthetics where flesh should have been.

Caitlyn breathes, and the air feels cold and new in her lungs. She looks at Viktor, letting all the world fade to white behind her. You can’t be here. You can’t see me like this. But he’s here, and the relief to see him is just as choking. Sheriff, Caitlyn, grieving daughter; she’s too many things at once. She has to fight back the grief. It’s all she can bring herself to do.

While the world is frozen, hands on baton and rifle or clutching a child protectively or clenched in fists by the side, there is movement. A tired man rises from his wife’s side, and climbs down from the cart. Aaron is a big man, a tall man, his beard and hair still showing strands of strawberry blonde between the grey. He’s tall enough to meet the Machine Herald, eye to eye, to face him while all the world watches in fearful expectation. 

“WE ARE HERE FOR THE FUNERAL,” Blitzcrank says. Around him, Piltovian Officers wait for orders to fire; behind him, Noxian warriors are catching up.

Aaron Huxley considers the construct’s words, then looks at Viktor. The former politician stands with his back to Piltover, so his facial expression is hidden from the world, seen only by Blitzcrank and his creator. It’s a moment, a heartbeat, as Viktor stands tall and unmoving, the light behind his mask never wavering as he meets Aaron’s gaze. As they in silence study each other, saying nothing.

A moment. A heartbeat. Then Aaron extends his arm - his right arm, gleaming with bronze and the gleam of hexlight bright from the embedded gem (too bright, his wife’s last goodbye) - and holds it out to shake. 

Viktor hesitates, then switches his staff to his other hand, clasping Aaron’s arm in a tentative acceptance of the greeting. Prosthetic holding prosthetic. The artist meeting the art.

Aaron says something, low and soft, words not meant for anyone but Viktor. “Glad you could come. She always wanted to meet you.”

Caitlyn only hears it because she is wound tight and caught on the edge of a razor. It’s the last straw. Tears escape, and she cannot get them back. Her vision blurs, useless, but her hands find the edge of the cart and she lowers herself over. Crossing the road to make her own greeting, her steps shaky, wavering where she stands.

Aaron catches her with his arm and pulls her close, lending her some strength. But he waits, and watches, as Caitlyn offers her left arm - in the Zaunite style - to Viktor. He reaches his right arm forward, and closes his hand around hers. Squeezing tight. Wordless, for now. There are too many people around, and he is Piltover’s greatest enemy (Piltover said so, and she is it’s Sheriff). 

Aaron offers his hand to Blitzcrank, and the construct respectfully offers a massive finger to accept the gesture. “WE HAVE BROUGHT FLOWERS,” the construct says, turning his hand over and showing a bouquet that had been carefully lodged in his wrist socket. Flowers, yes, but made of metal: pieces of scrap that had been flattened and twisted and shaped into idealised roses, with twisted wire stems and symmetrically-placed metal leaves. Carefully, reverently, the construct plucks this delicate offering out and holds it daintily between two massive fingers.

They made these flowers. They’ll last forever.

Caitlyn suddenly sobs, her head bowed, her knees almost buckling. She tries to nod, to thank Blitzcrank and Viktor, but instead a low animal noise escapes her. The world is staring, and she has not made it to the city yet, and she is weeping openly. He’s here, he came, and it’s the best and worst time at the same time.

Aaron squeezes her shoulder in a hug. Viktor squeezes her hand. Somehow, between them, they guide her back to the cart. Caitlyn is aware of only glimpses of the world around her, of the officers forming a semi-threatening honour-guard, of the cart’s renewed push towards the city, of Vi staying by her side, of Blitzcrank respectfully greeting Trisha before laying the handcrafted bouquet within the cart. And of Viktor, walking with one hand on the cart (close, close to hers, but not quite touching), he and his construct staying by the Huxley family’s side as the funeral tour moves towards its last stop. There’s a strange tense confusion and wonder in the funeral train, who now keep a slightly larger distance between themselves and the cart, as whispers pass back along the line.

The world is awash in salt. A dam is bursting within Caitlyn. She feels cracks in the stonework of her very being. The grief is wild and raw and she cannot see. But she’ll make it to the city before she breaks down entirely. She promised.

[raeynbowboi]

Dating Disney: The Black Cauldron

The Black Cauldron is a 1985 Grimdark fantasy movie based primarily on the first two novels of the Chronicles of Prydain series by Lloyd Alexander written between 1964-1968. A primary reference and inspiration behind the series being the Mabinogion, a collection of early Celtic myths written in Middle Welsh. The character names also follow a Welsh naming conventions as Fflewdder Fflam uses the “Double F” found in the Welsh language, as a single F by itself makes a [v] sound in the Welsh language. The name Taran is also Welsh, meaning Thunder. So the movie is very neatly rooted in Wales, or Welsh-speaking Albion.

The Mabinogion

The Mabinogion is comprised of 4 main branches recounting Welsh mythology, compiled in the late 12th-13th centuries based on older oral traditions likely dating back to some time between 1050-1225. However, there are many suggestions as to when the stories might date from. (To hear a story from the Mabinogion, check out Red’s summary of Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed.)

Now, you may be wondering “why is there only 1 book on all Welsh mythology?” and I’m glad you hypothetically asked because it’s time to blame the Christians. Seriously, because Celtic mythology is loaded with god-like figures, Christian interpreters when they came to Albion censored or outright destroyed stories that implied that there was more than their God. Figures such as the Irish Tuatha de Dannan, which were godlike ancestral figures, had to be recontexualized as Faeries, Spirits, or Angels in order to avoid censorship by the Christian monks who transcribed these myths. Brigid, a very important Irish goddess, was Christianized into the figure of Saint Bridgette. This was actually an attempt by Christian missionaries to ease the pagans into Christianity. Essentially the mindset of “yeah, you can worship your holy figures, but uh, cut it out with the holy divine aspect. We can’t have that. They’re clearly not as top tier as our God.” 

You may remember from my Sword in the Stone discussion that I mentioned that Rome occupied Albion before Christianity wormed its way in, and you may be wondering, were the Romans this bad? Haha, clearly you underestimate how awful medieval Christians were. No, the Romans just viewed foreign pantheons as extensions of their pantheon. You have a sun god? So do we. It must be the same god with a different name. This is what’s referred to as Interpretatio Romana. So the Celtic Sun God Belenus would be referred to by the Romans as Apollo Belenus. It’s the same god, but the Roman name always came first. Compared to what is known as Interpretatio Christiana, which boils down to ‘you’re worshiping Satan in the form of a false idol. Stop that.’ So, when I say that our lack of written accounts of Welsh mythology is entirely the fault of the Christians, I’m completely sincere in that statement because the Romans didn’t censor Celtic myths or history, only the Christians did.

The Black Cauldron and Mythological Parallels

Prydain

It might sound like a generic fantasy name, but the name Prydain actually comes from the Welsh name for Great Britain, Prydain Fawr. Unfortunately, the term Great Britain dates to 1707. However, Prydain is also the medieval name for the island, as the Welsh never referred to the Island as Albion.

Henwen

Literally meaning “Old White” in Welsh, Henwen is a sow under the care of Coll, a pigkeeper for Dallwyr Dallben. In the Chronicles of Prydain, Coll is a character, but in the Disney film, Taran seems to have absorbed Coll’s role as pigkeeper. However, the fact that he refers to himself as an assistant pigkeeper could still mean that he is ranked below an off-screen Coll. However, the Henwen of Welsh mythology could not predict the future. It was known that Henwen was to birth something terrible, and so she was chased off a cliff into the sea in Cornwall. She survived however and went on to give birth to many unusual things, including a cat, a wolf, an eagle, and a single grain each of wheat, rye, and barley. And three bees. I really wish I was making this up.

Gurgi

Gurgi’s name might take inspiration from Gwrgi Garwlwyd, whose name literally means man-dog rough-grey. He was a warrior in Welsh Arthurian Legend, and was possibly a werewolf. Gwrgi was a monster that killed a man every day, and two on Saturday so he would not kill on Sunday. The Gurgi in the books is far more monstrous looking with horns, but Gurgi in the Disney film retains the dog-like traits of Gwrgi.

The Black Cauldron

Known in Welsh mythology as Pair Dadeni or “the Cauldron of Rebirth”, it is referenced in the second branch of the Mabinogion. Like in the movie, the cauldron has the power to revive the dead, and is destroyed when a living person is thrown into it, in the mythological case, Efnisien pretends to be a corpse and is thrown into the cauldron for revival, causing the cauldron to be destroyed. There are other similar magical cauldrons in Welsh and Irish mythology, including the cauldrons of Arawn and Diwrnach, which would not boil the food of cowards, and Ceriddwen’s Cauldron of Inspiration, which caused those who drank from it to gain infinite wisdom. There is also The Cauldron of the Dagda in Irish mythology. One of the 4 Treasures of the Tuatha de Dannan, the Cauldron of the Dagda was stored in the mythical city of Muirius, and no man would ever leave the cauldron hungry, for it produced infinite food.

The Horned King

In the novels, the Horned King is a minor villain, subjugated to Arawn, God of Death. However, in Welsh mythology, Arawn is not a death god. Rather, Arawn is king of Annwn, the Welsh Otherworld. Aka, the Faerieworld. See, this is another example of Christians mucking up translations and trying to force other religions to reflect Christianity, so Annwn is often treated as the Underworld of Celtic mythology, but considering Pwyll wanders into Annwn completely by accident, I don’t think that’s how it was interpreted in traditional texts. The Horned King may also draw inspiration from the Horned God, Cernunnos. Little is known about Cernunnos due to being a very ancient god, but his role as a horned god of the wilderness has historians guessing that he’s one of the oldest gods or divine archetypes in human history, as ancient horned gods pop up with surprising regularity in older religions: namely Baphomet and Pan. Cernunnos is also sometimes but not always folded in with the figure of the All-Father as a sort of father to all creation in Gallo-Celtic paganism. Cernunnos is often regarded as a god of nature and the wilds, but is also a psychopomp god that guides the dead to the afterlife, and maybe is also a god of death and rebirth as a part of life. Again, this is kind of very uncertain because of just how ancient Cernunnos is, so don’t take this interpretation as law. But despite how uncertain we are about what all this figure represents, he’s a very interesting deity none-the-less, and very likely contributed to the Christian idea of the devil as a horned figure with goat legs. As a seemingly undead creature, the Horned King may draw parallels to a creature known as a Revenant. A creature found in Celtic folklore, a Revenant is a vengeful undead that seeks to torment all life until it has found the person who wronged it while it was alive and exacts its revenge. However, it should be noted that in the books, the Horned King is a living man wearing a horned skull mask, whereas the movie version is very clearly a corpse.

Taran’s Sword

In Welsh mythology, the sword Dyrnwyn belonged to the great king Rhydderch Hael, and when held by a worthy man would glow with fire. In the books, Taran’s sword is indeed referred to as Dyrnwyn. Similarly, alongside the Cauldron of the Dagda, another treasure of the Tuatha de Dannan is the Claiomh Solais or the Sword of Light, housed in the mythical city of Findias. This may also be the mythical origin of Excalibur, though scholars have not made a direct, perfect connection.

Conclusion

With so much of the story pulling from the single source of the Mabinogion, we can boil down the likely setting to around when the stories were written as our general setting. Luckily, we can roughly guestimate to about when the Mabinogion might originate from, and the general look of the movie seems to match with this time setting. So, we’re looking at about 1050-1225, around the time that the stories in the Mabinogion might have started to be told, thus inspiring the events in the film.

Setting: Prydain (Wales/Isle of Britain) Kingdom: Kingdom of Prydain Era: High Middle Ages (1000-1250) Year: 1050-1225 AD Language: Middle Welsh

[auntwendy23]

The Cauldron 🧙‍♀️

The Witches cauldron is the stuff of legend and indeed cauldrons feature in folklore from many cultures. While cauldrons haven’t always been associated with witches (everyone had a cauldron back in the day) they have long been associated with abundance. Every good housewife throughout history was expected to be prepared to feed a guest or a hungry child or hard working husband on a moment’s notice and the cauldron resting on the hearth was a potent symbol of this. The cauldron contains the stuff of life and symbolizes abundance, the womb, birth and rebirth.

Many modern witches keep a tiny cauldron on their altar. This cauldron may be used as an incense burner, or as a container for water used in ritual. If it is used for liquid, it represents the element of water and the feminine principal and may be used to represent the Goddess in the symbolic Great Rite. If used to hold fire, it may instead represent the element of fire and the male principal and represent the God. It may more aptly be called a “fire bowl” instead of a cauldron in this case. A fire bowl cauldron can also represent the creative force; the cauldron representing the physical womb and the fire representing the spark of life within, effectively combining male and female energies.

While this may be good enough for symbolic ritual, many Kitchen Witches want a cauldron they can actually concoct magical (and perhaps not so magical) meals in. A full-sized cauldron or one of the modern variations on the theme is needed for this. You’ll have the best luck finding one if you do a search for a “cast iron dutch oven” or “camp dutch oven” rather than using the keyword “cauldron”. I highly recommend the Lodge brand.

The cauldron is closely related in form and symbolism to the chalice.

The Cauldron Greek Myth and Legend

Tantalus cooked his son Pelops in a cauldron. (And he was reborn.)

The Titans cut up Dionysus and cooked him in a cauldron. (And he was reborn)

Medea used a cauldron throughout her story to revive, rejuvenate, heal, enchant, poison and kill.

Celtic Myth and Legend

Cerridwen has Taliesin stir her cauldron for a year and a day and drops from it gives him his talents.

The Dagda’s cauldron was one of the four treasures of the Tuatha de Dannan. No one ever went away hungry from this cauldron.

The Cauldron of Dyrnwch the Giant, one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain, will not boil meat for a coward.

The Par Dadeni of Welsh lore is the cauldron of rebirth. Any dead man tossed into it would emerge alive again but lacking the power of speech.

Norse Myth and Legend

The Nordic version of the cauldron is a kettle. It had a rounded or conical bottom rather than legs and was generally suspended over the fire. According to Norse legend, Thor and Tyr were visiting Hymer in order to borrow his cauldron when they went on the famed fishing trip (when Thor caught the world serpent). A cauldron or kettle is mentioned in the Poetic Edda several times with poetic reference to sacrifice, the head (or skull) and the sea. In Norse lore, the source of all waters is called Hvergelmir, the boiling cauldron, perhaps the cauldron which caught the sacrificial blood of the giant Ymir whose body became the Earth and his blood the sea.

Modern Variations on the Cauldron

The cauldron or kettle was the primary cooking tool of our ancestors, but modern technology has made it somewhat obsolete. As such, finding an authentic cauldron may mean paying a pretty penny at a primitives antique store or a trip out to Pennsylvania Dutch or Amish country. However, depending on what you want to use it for, there are many cauldron and cauldron-like options readily available.

Decorative Cauldrons

If you are looking for something small to put on your altar, you have tons of options. Many specialized metaphysical shops carry cast iron and copper mini-cauldrons in a variety of handy sizes. While these won’t work for cooking, they’ll often work fine for brewing small amounts of potions, for burning incense, for scrying and for symbolic uses.

Also, you needn’t feel that a cauldron for ritual use be authentic-looking. Our ancesters used a wide variety of cauldrons, kettles and pots and we can too. My ritual cauldron (for holding blessed water and the Great Rite) is made of stoneware and has served me well for decades. Apparently some witches have used human skulls as a cauldrons, so I think we too can be flexible. (Not that flexible though. Bone is entirely impractical- heat will char and crack it, acids will wear it down further.)

The Dutch Oven

The dutch oven is very much the modern equivalent of the ancient cauldron though its basic construction hasn’t changed in a few hundred years. It comes in various shapes and sizes and is made of various materials. Unlike the ancient cauldron, a dutch oven always has a lid. It is often made of cast iron, but ceramic and clay are also available and work out quite well. Cast iron is best for many purposes, but you should choose a ceramic coated dutch oven for anything that involves extended contact with acidic ingredients.

Take care to choose a dutch oven that best suits your needs. If you are using it over a fire, it should have three legs or a handle to suspend it from a tripod,

Other Things as Cauldrons

Please do not feel that you have to have a cauldron that looks like a Halloween Witches cauldron, especially for ritual purposes. If it holds liquid, is fire resistant and looks and feels good to you, it’s just right. Many people use ceramic bowls for ritual cauldrons. Our ancestors used lots of different vessels for mixing potions. A Kitchen Witch is practical (like our ancestors) and uses what works.

Some Random Cauldron Lore

* Always stir in a clockwise/sunwise motion to keep the energies flowing in a positive direction.

* It is said that emptying your cauldron into the sea will encourage strong storms to be stirred up.

* You should never use a cauldron belonging to another, bad luck and misdirected energies are sure to result.

* Some traditions state that cauldron magic is strictly women’s magic. Other traditions point out the Taliesin, Thor, Hymir and other males were all about cauldrons.

* If you spill some of your brew on the floor, you will quarrel with a friend. If you spill it on yourself it’s good luck. Even if it hurts.

* It is bad luck and invites poverty to throw away the herbs strained from a potion. Instead, burn them, compost them or leave them on your altar for Hecate’s feast.

Sourced from: sacredhearth.com

[progressively-panicked-vi]

Engine Checks

Vi crouched in front of her vehicle. She hadn’t been able to watch Cait’s race in person, but she’d had Angie patch the video to her station, and had been keeping an eye on it. She had smiled when the Sheriff had placed. She’d heard that it was what she was aiming for, and Cait had talked about it being unlikely. The Enforcer had assured her that it was a definite thing that was gonna happen. Piltover’s Finest didn’t go after a target just to fall short. They went after it and they slammed it with the force of the whole future.

She took her wrench and checked the tires again before running her hand along the fender. The Light’s Limit had been something she’d been working on for a while, and it had been made completely from scratch. Fingers brushed along the mechanisms that turned the Limit into a marvel of aerodynamic engineering. She smiled as her knuckles brushed the seat. The most comfortable in all the race, for sure. Most people had gone for lightness and things like that, but Vi had developed her own synthetic material that made her seat comfortable and still lighter than most of the others were likely to be. She stood, rubbing her hands together, “Angie, run a system diagnostics. Don’t want a glitch to mess us up on the track.”

The AI’s voice chirped from the computer connected to the car, “Yes, Miss Vi. Running diagnostics on Limitless.exe”

[tangentcain]

Could entropy be delayed?

Stalled?

...Reversed?

To lesser minds, these concepts would be dismissed as playing god. To minds who do not yet know what can be lost by the universe’s cruelest machinations.

By the tyranny of life, by the bondage into which mortality can cast the human soul, both the dead and the bereaved.

She, the Sheriff’s right hand and piece of soul, had been callously taken from the living, and the world was arguably a lesser place for it.

She, the Professor’s close friend and family by proxy, had been robbed of the right to live, and the world was arguably a lesser place for it.

He could not weep. He could not wail or cry or sob. His very nature forbids these things. It denies him that catharsis. Instead, his mind darkens, plunged into a caliginous cyclone that awakens trains of thought he does not dare entertain for fear of being branded seditious, deviant.

There are ways around entropy. Ways around the inevitable return to the earth. The human mind was too profound a creation to be shackled by chemical finitude. The human form is a marvelous machine of machines, starting with the simplest motions of atomic nuclei to the most immaculate complexities afforded by organic chemistry.

But even these could not stave off entropy for an eternity.

He would be branded a deviant. He would be discredited for every achievement he claimed over the span of his life. He would be called worse than their neighbors across the bay.

But he’d save everyone.

He would make them free.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

There really is no two ways about it: an Ionian war-criminal has offered to assist her in her efforts to track down the remainder of the lost relics and the summoners who went into hiding. She cannot trust that he won’t just take revenge or power for himself, but he has offered his network and aid, to go where she cannot. Beggars cannot be choosers.

And yet, she might know a guy. Would he be interested in working for her? She might have to ask the next time they met at the Century.

So that was her weekend sorted. For the moment, her focus would be on the continuing unravelling of the counterfeiting case. The brief foray into Grimdark had provided her with enough evidence to bring to the General-Hand. His seal had allowed some progress into the contested area, but further support would be necessary. At least Darius had agreed that secrecy was to be maintained, for the sake of Piltovian economic strength and Noxian sovereignty (though she could tell the man really wanted to punish who was making his soldiers look like fools). 

Before Caitlyn can consider her calendar and her plans for her work both overt and covert, she hears her phone chime. It’s her father, asking her to bring some fresh lemons.

Why? She texts back.

For lunch.

Family lunch is next week.

Your mother calls it a schedule adjustment. Can you make it?

“Tsk.” Caitlyn smiles fondly at her father’s capitulation and her mother’s lackadaisical nature, then texts back. Lemons, of course. Anything else?

Capers and bread, just to make sure we have enough for the table.

Understood.

Vi stretches and pushes away her paperwork, getting to her feet. “Gonna get a snack.”

“Don’t you dare,” Caitlyn says, finishing her reply to her father. “You’ll fill up on doughnuts and have no room for lunch.”

“Uh,” she gives her partner a flat look, “Doughnuts are lunch, Cait.”

“Not today it’s not. We’re heading to Huxley House.”

Vi perks up immediately. “Dad’s cooking? Early?!”

Caitlyn hums a chuckle, and goes to get her hat.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

3rd Flora, Y9SyF. 

All papers are carefully checked at the borders. From visitors and traders to those of Piltover’s citizenry who travel further afield or who are even expatriated. All irregularities, from expired documents to forgeries to anything suspect, are noted immediately and wired to the Central Commissary in Piltover City. Everything will cross the sheriff’s desk eventually, but on times when there is an urgent discrepancy, the city clerks will contact her immediately.

Caitlyn puts her foot down, judiciously increasing her speed as her automobile leaves the city limits, the gleaming clusters of outer suburbia fading in her rearview mirror and the sky opening up overhead. Since the Long Bloody Spring, there had been no disturbances of note for the season; for five years straight, Spring had been quiet, broken only by the increased demands on the sheriff’s social calendar. It had seemed, for once, that peace had settled into Piltover’s borders, breaking even the standard traditions and expectations of the rowdier months following the Thaw. Even Urf Day had been sweeter, kinder, to all and sundry.

And yet, for all the quiet, here she is, speeding her way to the western border. Someone had come to the Ironspikes border pass not with papers, but with a bronze citizenship seal, one that had not been used for decades. The bearer of this seal had also asked for Caitlyn by name, a request which carried all the greater weight when the name of the seal’s bearer had been spoken, and signed, and passed through the wires.

Even at speed, the journey to the border takes hours. Caitlyn shuts the door and shades her eyes against the late afternoon light, and sees the man sitting on the grass outside the border office. On the Piltovian side - of course, they couldn’t deny the right of a citizen of Piltover to enter their home territory - but Caitlyn wonders whether this decision had been made lightly. There were consequences for every action, even those made with the best of intentions.

She approaches, her boots striking a military beat against the stone path. The man appears to be meditating, or at least sits still and silent, looking at the distant gleaming spires of Piltover City. It is not until Caitlyn drew closer that the man exhales - a raspy, burbling sound - and unfurls himself, not so much ‘standing’ as much as ‘getting to his feet’. It is a fluid, unhuman movement, like the bones in the man’s legs were closer to cartilage, or that gravity no longer had any claim on him. Or both, perhaps.

“Cysednnin ap Owyn.” Caitlyn inclines her head slightly. “Welcome home.”

“Just Kassadin will suffice,” he said. “It is the name others remember me by.” He sounded tired. Perhaps it is not a tone many would pick up on, over the distortion of a mask, but Caitlyn had a keen ear. “I thank you for this welcome, Sheriff Huxley. I am pleased to see our home still standing strong still.” He pauses, then draws his masked gaze from the city to look at her. His voice becomes even more difficult to decipher as he slips into his native tongue. “[May we speak in your vehicle? I do not feel comfortable airing my words.]”

“[Of course.]” She gestures, then returns the way she had come. Only her heels make a sound on the pathway; Kassadin drifts, rather than walks. She wants to ask, but she does not. Neither of them speak. She opens the passenger door for him, and waits until he is settled. She closes the door, rounds the vehicle, then takes her seat on the driver’s side.

The door closes. There is not silence, because the pieces of Kassadin’s suit shift and hiss, gently, and the sound of air and fluids moving through pipes and tanks and his own organs provide an uncomfortably-organic white noise. Caitlyn taps her finger against her thumb in order to maintain clarity of mind, to not lose herself to assessing and analysing each gurgle and whisper. 

“[Something must trouble you greatly, for you to return to Piltover after all this time,]” she says, maintaining the Westie for his sake. There was no better way to ensure privacy than to speak a language less than 20,000 people in all the world speak fluently.

Kassadin exhales a sigh, the breath growling through the tubes that connect his mask to his chest. “[I have had dreams,]” he murmurs. His gloved hands worry at each other in his lap. “[They are never clear, nor would I wish them to be.]”

The Void took more than it gave, a lesson found out too late. A brief touch of it is more than most could stand. Kassadin’s own condition was testament to that; he was lucky to be alive, if ‘alive’ was the right word for it.

He continues, “[But in the glimpses I am given, I see something stirring. Something rising.]” The words, and the language, gave Kassadin’s words an evocative quality that Middletongue could not have replicated, even in the hands of the most capable poet. “[I have not felt such a stirring since the fall of the Institute, when all those vile things were released back to the pull of their progenitor.]”

Caitlyn looks out through the windshield of her automobile, watching as the sunlight changes. The sun was slipping below the western lip of the mountains. Shadows were falling, though night was still hours away. “[You are telling me to prepare Piltover’s defences, then.]”

“[Yes. Perhaps. I am not sure.]”

“[It is better to be safe than sorry,]” she says, though the aphorism feels dreadfully, woefully, inadequate. “[But why seek me out?]”

“[You are a true defender of Piltover,]” he says, gravely. “[You understand, too, what it is we are in danger of.]” He sighs, and hangs his head. “[I wish I could grant a better warning. All I have is... is a feeling. Something stirs, Sheriff Huxley. Something rises.]”

The Void has unleashed creatures of insatiable hungers before. Consumption in all forms, reaching into the material for what it should never possess. Caitlyn breathes in deep through her nose and out again, her mind picking over the scenarios she has for the defence of Piltover. None have ever been enough; all involve mass-scale evacuations. What kind of hunger threatens the world this time? Will the Void finally puncture Runeterra’s atmosphere like a soap bubble?

She pulls herself out of considerations of the worst-case scenarios, and turns to glance at him. “[I will do what I can to prepare us. Though you of all people would know that such defence could be inadequate.]”

“[Take heart,]” he turns to look at her, his helm catching what is left of the dying light. “[I have more to tell you. My daughter lives.]”

Caitlyn blinks, then, a hundred questions followed by a thousand more. “[Your daughter? The gods dead or buried, Kassadin, that is...]”

He makes a rough, ragged sound. It is short, almost like a burble of pain, but Caitlyn identifies it as a chuckle. Nervous and shaky and unused for decades, but a chuckle regardless. “[Good news, yes. Though I...]” He sighs again, sinking back into the seat. “[I have only known this from afar. I do not know what to do.]”

“[You find her and you speak to her,]” she says, decisively. “[You let her know of your search and your vigil.]”

“[I do not know if she remembers me,]” his fatigue settles into his tone again. “[And if she does, I do not think she would forgive me. I have failed her before, as a father...]” 

“[She has been alone for decades in that place-that-is-not,]” Caitlyn arches an eyebrow, slightly. “[Do not leave her thinking her solitude continues. Gods, Kassadin, your daughter...]” She raises both hands to the steering wheel, and taps out the silent notes of an old rite. “[Find her.]”

“[But...]”

“[You are her father, Kassadin. Do not let the Void keep that from you any longer. And,]” Caitlyn adds, dryly. “[I want to meet the girl. Factor that into your considerations.]”

Kassadin gives another tired, strangled chuckle, before inclining his head slightly. “[If you so wish, I shall... I shall attempt.]” He looks back out the windshield, to distant gleaming Piltover. “[She might like to see the home of her ancestors. Though I cannot imagine she will stay.]”

“[Like father, like daughter,]” Caitlyn murmurs, and hums soft amusement. “[Thank you for sharing such news with me.]”

“[I do not have many I can celebrate with,]” Kassadin shifts in his seat, ready to rise, his gloved hand on the door. “[And I know fewer still who understand the gravity of the situation.]”

Caitlyn inhales and exhales again through her nose, slowly. “[Have you a hexphone, good sir? I would like an immediate way to stay in touch with you, should there be any further developments, or dreams.]”

“[No, but... I shall reach you, regardless.]” He inclines his head. “[Farewell for now, Sheriff Huxley.]”

“Ffarwel am y tro.” She watches him let himself out, and the strange drifting motion of his passage back towards the border. Then she turns her head and looks out across the crater, the forests and roads and bridges and homes, and the little lights of the star-rods that gleam against the coming dark.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

Snowfall.

She looks out her window, a mug held lightly in one hand. It’s the round window of her office, the view that looks out across the city. The brassy, glassy tops of buildings are all rendered equal under the dense layer of white. The clouds are low today, and heavy. Judging from the view, it will snow tonight, too; people will be busy with their shovels to clear the paths and with gravel, alfalfa meal, and whiskey. 

And here she is, thinking about practical solutions. She hums, and sips her tea, and watches her city being smothered in a silent white blanket, from sky to earth. She is thinking about the roads, and how people stop from slipping on the ice; most choose to stay underground, in winter, in the malls and entertainment venues that the city has built into its foundations.

And below all that, the catacombs. 

“This is a city built on its own bones,” she murmurs. Her tea steams. She sips at it. People visit the catacombs more often, these days. Looking for ancestors, or walking the paths they took when they were the only escape route from a terrorist’s ferocious wrath. If it wasn’t for those tunnels, and the maps Ezreal had made, Piltover’s death toll would have been in the thousands, or the tens of thousands, not the hundreds. “So many bones.”

One winter, she’d watched Piltover’s broken spires and crumbled tiers be hidden under a blanket of snow. The shapes had all been amalgamated, the sharp teeth of bare stone and broken glass and twisted pipe all lovingly hidden by nature’s kindest cruelty and cruelest kindness: winter’s snow. It’s different now. Now, today, as she looks out the window, she knows that all these towers and buildings are study and whole under the blanket of white. In the spring, the colour will return. The brass will shine, the glass will gleam, and every wall and building will be an unchanged monument to Piltover’s survival.

“But there are bones beneath us.”

She sips her tea. She brings up her other hand to cradle the mug, sharing the weight and the warmth equally between her two hands. 

Tonight, she will dress in red and make her way to a dancehall, and then to a late night soiree hosted by some of her college friends, and then to her apartment for a few hours’ rest before she meets her parents for breakfast, and then return to work the next day, to work on the reforms she plans to push in the new year. This is not a nation that hibernates for Snowdown. It is a season for parties and events and practicing so that one and all can bloom like flowers for the spring. If Piltover had a personality, it would be an insomniac.

Caitlyn hums thoughtfully: this is why their marriage works. She sips her tea.

She realises, with some irritation, that her thoughts are going in circles. They’ve been doing that quite a lot this Snowdown. That’s why she had planned out so much for her week - to keep her busy - and why she stopped to have a cup of tea - to try to focus her thoughts - but she has been thinking about ice on the roads, snow on the buildings, and parties underground for the past five minutes, over and over and over again. It’s unproductive.

She takes one hand from the mug of tea, and checks her pocketwatch. "Hm.”

Caitlyn looks out the window again, at the snow falling, and lets her gaze trace down to street level, to the square with its frozen fountain and to the ice in the streets. She should go out there with whiskey again.

But before her thoughts can follow that route, to the route that circles again and again, the door to Caitlyn’s office is half-kicked open. “Cold as balls out there!”

“Vi,” Caitlyn says, in mild disapproval. But she smiles wryly to herself. Her practical distraction has arrived.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

She is seated at her desk. It is the end of the work day, and she should be going home. Instead, she turns on the lamp and picks up a pen. It’s a decorative one, a present from a friend, the metal flaring out into a bronze feather, the imiation of a quill. It’s heavy, it’s stately, and it feels good to hold. A craftsman needs good tools, after all, and this was a very good pen.

She smooths her free hand over the blank sheet of paper, and begins to write.

Spring has always been the season when kings go to war. For Piltover, we have no war, no kings, and no

She pauses, hums, and taps the tip of the metal feather against her lip. No kings? Hm. She crosses that out and tries again.

Piltover has not known conflict as many nations, and for that we are fortunate. But Spring always brings its own challenges. New dangers and challenges rise out of the thinning snow, before the daffodils do.

She should be careful. She doesn’t want to veer too deeply into prose. Someone might recognise her writing style.

Hatcher Kincaid almost succeeded in his coup, his attempt with The Long Bloody Spring to return Piltover to a time when powerful families and criminal lords ruled and the streets were not s

She is just warming up, and she remembers the smile of the demon, not a year past. Caitlyn’s triumphant smile sours, and she sets down her pen, folds up the paper, and sets it aside.

She writes on a new paper, making a new attempt. She takes a moment to consider the angle, a slight frown creasing her face. She crosses out the sentence. Another folded page joins the first. 

Then another. And another. And more, still.

The clock chimes the hour, six bells, and she sighs through her nose, setting her pen down and going to make herself a cup of tea. She leans against the wall and looks out the window as the kettle hums and heats; Piltover’s lights are beautiful as always.

There is a reflection. Her eyes trail from the lights outside to this reflection, allowing her vision to be drawn back inwards, into the office. Vi’s desk is a mess. Not as bad as it has been in years past, certainly. There are no food wrappers or half-full coffee cups (paper and ceramic both), but the stationary is scattered and there are knick-knacks and tools for gauntlet maintenance amidst the paperwork, and goodness knows how Vi can tell which of her papers are ‘done’ and which ones are ‘need work’. Caitlyn tsks slightly, but then stops, and turns away from the window, and looks at the desk directly.

Vi sits there, watching the sheriff work. Vi is first on her feet when the telephone rings. Vi always gets the door when they leave. Vi has never stopped calling Caitlyn ‘cupcake’, except when she does, and when it matters.

“Hm.” Caitlyn looks at the mess, then back at her desk, where there is a stack of folded papers, a growing pile of rejected first drafts. Her lips quirk slightly, then she turns back to her tea station, selecting the cup and the leaf and pouring the water. Then she returns to her desk, pick up the pen that looks like a quill, and tries once more.

I wrote Willing Apprehension when Piltover did not believe I could stand my ground. It was a messy transitional period, full of unrest and uncertainty, and very few had any reason to believe that I would make any difference as the new Sheriff. I had more enemies than friends - indeed, I could count the number of my true supporters on one hand - and I continued to make more with every push I made. My first book was a declaration of intent as much as it was an explanation of my methodology and ideology; it was also a direct challenge to those who did not look anywhere else but my legs and décolletage.

Her lips quirk slightly. She keeps writing. 

I served my first year and three months as Sheriff, as per the obligated contract laid out by my predecessor, and then it was put to vote over whether I would be reinstated or replaced. The result was almost equally balanced, only two votes in my favour. The year after that, three quarters of the votes supported me. The third vote saw me entering my term as Sheriff with the full support of the public, not a single dissenting voice among them.

And now here I sit, at my desk in the Commissary, looking at our new calendar. This coming Snowdown, I will enter my fifteenth year as Sheriff of Piltover, an incredible feat. It seems right, then, to revisit Willing Apprehension. Piltover has changed a great deal since I took office; I like to think that I, also, have changed. We have all had the chance to learn, and to grow, and to come to understand things so much more.

And so I shall begin by correcting my younger self’s most egregious error: the whole might indeed be greater than the sum of its parts, but one cannot succeed by willpower and methodology alone. No-one is an island, not even the great Sheriff Caitlyn Huxley of Piltover. Friends, family, colleagues, rivals and enemies all played a part in making me who I am today.

Hm. She sits back, and watches the ink dry, then looks over towards Vi’s desk, and to the window with the view beyond.

“Not bad for a first draft,” she murmurs, setting her pen down. She looks over the page, then picks up the pen, and scratches out a few words, jotting some notes, unable to keep from editing even such a small segment. This is difficult. She is making herself vulnerable. She wants it to be right. It is going to be part of her legacy, after all.

She has no idea what she’s going to call it. Perhaps another pun is in order.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

The Eve of the Lunar New Year. In years past, she would be in Little Ionia all day and all night, being part of the celebrations. Whether traditions were brought over the sea or down from a distant mountain, they were welcome here, and Piltover loved its celebrations. There is richness in a shared heritage, after all.

But for this year, as with the past eight, the sheriff’s interactions with the temples and food stalls and folk ends with the setting of the sun. She retreats, with her snacks and her tea and her gifts, to sit in the sanctuary of her apartment.

She cannot bear the sound or sight of fireworks anymore. She plays on the piano to try to drown out the distant explosions, and bites her tongue. 

It is wrong and she knows it. This is a time of celebration. No-one is in danger here. But her mind has many dark shadows, and she cannot shake them. 

She almost jumps when she doorbell rings, curses quietly, then goes to let her partner in. And other friends. They bring the party to her; she knows what they are doing, and she knows that they know. 

There is a party, for once, that her mind cannot distract her from. She smiles at Vi, knowingly, before she focuses on playing hostess and finding seats for all who came to celebrate with her.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

It has taken the better part of the month, but finally, all the cakes from her birthday celebrations have been properly removed. Vi was a big help.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

Piltover has undergone some significant changes over the past decade and a half. Jayce’s rise to stardom. The Battle of Black Pools. The city attacked by a terrorist, and rebuilt with walls and towers and a quiet recruitment of military force. The closing and subsequent opening of Piltover’s borders. The Grand. The discovery of a dragon in the Ironspike Mountains. The Long Bloody Spring. The integration of a non-contact payment system. Caitlyn’s hair beginning to turn white.

Next fortnight, she will have been Sheriff of Piltover for thirteen years. A landmark by any standard, but particularly here, in Piltover, where positions of power are decided by the voice of the people. Her term may have begun mired in the scandal and drama of popularity and fear, but now there isn’t anyone else that Piltover wants - or could even imagine - taking her role.

Her brow furrows as she looks over the paperwork before her, the profiles and personnel reports of the new recruits, and tries to find someone who might be capable of replacing her. Like Piltover, she can’t imagine it either.

But her hair is going white, and she remembers the promise that Death made to her, and she wants to know that Piltover will still function even without her there to watch over it.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

Willing Apprehension was written years ago. When she was younger, and angrier, and people sent her letters about how she deserved to suffer and die for disrupting the status quo, when she took the position of Sheriff and started making certain powerful people very uncomfortable.

Things are different now. The constabulary are no longer a representation of corruption or state violence, they are no longer feared for their cruelty or mocked for their impotence. People praise her tireless dedication, and popular fiction is rife with imagined deeds of the hatted detective or any derivative variations on ‘plucky young vigilante with a brain’ motif. 

It’s time, perhaps, for her to write another book. Not a book of spitfire, spite and determination, this time. A reflection, perhaps. A reassessment of her methods, her successes and her failures. The politics, the people, the past and the present. 

Maybe that’s something that will keep her busy, in her first year of retirement.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

There are more streaks of white in her hair with every passing day.

She hums as she considers her reflection, running a brush through the length of it to ease away the unkempt shape it has taken overnight. The stress of the job has taken its toll, yes, but the rate this is accelerating is, perhaps, a sign of something more.

Mana sickness. She has had it since she was a child. Or, more accurately, she has had it since in utero. Mother’s experiments and research to push Piltover’s cutting-edge has had consequences, but Caitlyn has taken it all in stride.

She considers the strands of white, twirling her curl around her fingertips. A few months ago, this white streak had been thinner. Now... 

“Hm.”

At this rate, she’ll be silver-haired by the time she hits her late thirties. She chuckles, finishes brushing her hair, and gets ready for work.