Guilliotine Valley | ходы игроков |

FACT 1

In the beginning there was the Judge, and the Judge was with Gods, and the Judge was God.

THE GARDEN

The Judge was walking through the hills. What were “hills” to him were Dragonclaw Mountains to his mortals. That was a long walk and he sat down on Mt. Philimgrope to catch his breath for a century or two: he was an ageing deity and these walks didn’t come as easy as they once used to. And yet – they were of grim necessity. If he didn’t patrol well, other Gods would sneak into his lands, desecrate his altars, seduce his mortals and do Gods know what else. With a sigh that rippled clouds and made stars blink he rose and continued his duty: tied oathbreakers’ tongues in knots, made gluttons eat other gluttons, stole thieves, forged forgers’ souls and generally brought order – for he was the Judge.

In the midst of celestial duties, he heard a call. Usually he heard plenty: mortals were always complaining, sometimes joking, sometimes simply crying. These days some of them even threatened, but in his lands such impudence was short-lived – in the very literal sense. This call surprised him. He scratched his magnificent chalk-white beard, cocked his head to one side and listened: it was not a single mortal calling – it was A CITY. A sweet chorus of human voices was singing to him – telling that he was the Lord Almighty. The he was the Law. He was the Light. He didn’t understand about the Light, but he liked the sound of “Almighty” whatever it was and he definitely liked the Law. Smiling benevolently, he kept nodding and tapping his foot to the tune – causing minor earthquakes, floods and a volcano eruption. He loved them like a father loves his stupid children – that is: he didn’t love them very much, but he somehow sensed that they were HIS. Didn’t he protect them, silly things, when their mages invented a space-time-machine and those tentacled abominations with blasters flooded in? Dind’t he ward off that bastard, The Fun, who taught them about wine, sex and belly-dance? Or did he leave them alone (although they asked) when they couldn’t understand his Commandments and created a tyrannical state instead of a well-balanced socialist utopia? No. He helped his children whenever they were in need and now he felt proud: they matured, they recognized his care and they decided to repay.

The song went on about how they loved their Father Almighty and how they would like to help him – to relieve his burden for a while. The crystal voices sang they understood his lessons. And they would help him to execute the law. If only he came to their city – from where they were actually singing already for a decade - they would let him have a rest and do the judgement by themselves. And there will be justice. And there will be order. They droned on and on – something about how that order will be new – but he didn’t listen to the particulars. The voices were clear as silver bells and the idea of a rest looked compelling. He was tired after a long day’s work, but what was more – he wanted to be amused: these creatures evolved by the day! It seemed like yesterday that they mastered fire and ceramics and now they were offering him to do his job. If anything – that was curious. Never did they any such thing before! Chuckling into his beard and whistling to the tune (the gigantic flying reptiles dropped dead, feathery hot-blooded things took their ecological niche at once) he went to the City of Bowls where a great temple was erected in his honor.

The Judge’s brow furrowed: the voices were coming out of the temple, alright, but the temple itself looked like a gigantic… vase? A vase with a nasty-looking slanted thing high above its neck. Did those dummies have no sense of style at all? Thinking of neck he unconsciously rubbed his. All of a sudden he experienced a feeling unbeknownst before: a feeling he couldn’t find a word to describe. The city was strange, he understood its name now – each house, each little shed looked like a bowl, or a vase, or a cup. None of them had roofs – they had… nozzles. And in some inexplicable way those nozzles looked at him from below – their black insides somehow shy – yet insolent, somehow silent – yet hungry. He didn’t like this city at all – the houses looked obscene. And the people – where were they? He ventured a peep inside the temple and saw their tiny upturned faces – like bits of paper, torn and scattered in the grass. Only it wasn’t grass, he realized. They were those tangled leafy things they called “trees”. He honestly didn’t remember ever creating them – the wretched things (they sometimes gave his bare feet splinters) seemed to have sprung up by themselves. Immediately silent – mortals just stared back at him. One of them said: “That’s Him”. He began to wonder why they would want a garden of trees at the bottom of his vase-temple, but the same mortal shouted: THE LEVER! He heard a whooshing noise from above and then the blade struck. His neck felt like burning coals and Ice-Age Ice – all at the same time. And he was flying down! His brow struck the side of the temple, his head slipped, turned over and he saw his own body – gushing with ruby-red blood. His hands were groping the air blindly, his knees were breaking, the red stream has painted his marble-white chest black within a second. The mortal roared: WE ARE – THE LAW! His head struck the cobbles of the street outside the temple and it caused him pain. He gasped for air, but couldn’t breathe any. The mortal shrieked: WE ARE – THE JUDGES! He felt his eyelids heavy, difficult to control. The mortal bellied: THE DRAGONCLAW KINGDOM IS NO MORE! In his dimming mind he wondered what the hell he was saying – kingdom what? Dragon – who? The mortal shouted – nearly tearing his vocal cords: THE SUN WILL NEVER SET ON THE CRIMSON REPUBLIC!!! A thunder of voices raved inside the temple-vase: gulping sounds, sobbing sounds, laughter. Fighting the blackness that flooded his head, the Judge made his last thought clear as ice, hard as diamond: the mortals shuddered and fell silent like sheep who saw the glowing eyes in the dark – for in their minds they heard clearly. IT WILL NEVER DO, HUMAN. FOR THUS – I CONDEMN YOU. AND WHEN IT BURNS YOU TO THE BONE – IT WILL BURN ON.

The Sun did not set that night. Nor the night after. But the citizens of Bowls had a source to quench their thirst. And they had a Garden to protect. For everyone, but the Judge, – the life moved on.

FACT 2

Texxica is one of states of Crimson Republic.

FACT 3

Some time ago group of merchant returned through the desert. They were attacked by gang of outsiders. Two guards were killed. They tryed to make a Judge's work.

BLIND JACK'S STORY

They killed him. Stab him in a back (not really, but it was pretty sneak trick too). Blind Jack was blind, but he wasn't stupid. What will with country without the Judge? Jack didn't know. But he know that it'll be bad shit in which he didn't want participate.

So he left.

FACT 4

The Judge's body didn't rot, but instead it turned into a white shiny stone. People were happy about that, because it spared them from the suffocating smell of rotting flesh. Judge's body was a mountain, and it was too much carrion even for a city as big as the City of Bowls.
The stone was crumbly. Strong winds started to eat it out right away, turning into dust. Only later the citizens realized, that it wasn't stone at all. It was salt. And where it fell on the ground, the grass withered.

FACT 5

Guilt is a common thing. You always bear a part of it when you do something. You always bear a part of it when you do nothing.

SOPHIE



A 32-year-old widow and mother of two sons — age 9 and 5. A kind and nice woman. Good-looking too, though a bit tired and sleepy.

COMPLICITY

After losing her husband, who never returned from that trip where he guarded the merchants’ caravan, all Sophie could do was take care of her children and her pretty jar-shaped house. In fact, she had no time or energy left for anything else. She didn’t take part in the building of the Guillotine or looking after the Garden. She wasn’t really interested in what others were plotting. Sophie had never been an expert in beheading gods and couldn’t say she was fond of that. But… the others said that it would bring justice into their own hands, once and for all. And she might like having a little justice, because somehow she felt there wasn’t enough of it in her life. Of course, Sophie knew that all gangsters who attacked that caravan were dead. But there were times when she realized that she was not quite satisfied with that. There remained room for some more fairness. So she thought, maybe the others were right after all.

And so the others dared. And they succeeded. But it didn’t turn out quite as they expected, and Sophie was kind of glad that she wasn’t there at the moment. Was the Judge’s last prophecy true or not, she had nothing to do with that.

“Mommy!”
Her little son’s voice distracted her from her thoughts.
“Mommy, come here, I’ll show you something!”
Sophie sighed and went to the door — the yell was obviously coming from the street. She saw her younger son standing in front of the house, glowing with joy and pride.
“Mommy, look what I can do!” he exclaimed.
Sophie gave him a warm smile: “Alright, and what’s that?”
“Look!” the boy repeated and suddenly nodded — or so she thought at first — but his head kept moving downwards in a weird, unnatural way. Until it separated from the body with a loud squelch and thudded against the ground. The little body kept standing for a moment or two and finally fell down, pouring blood, turning the white salt covering the street into red mess.
Sophie shrieked at the top of her lungs. A man that was passing by stopped and turned to her with a puzzled expression on his face. Unable to speak or move closer, Sophie pointed at the boy’s body with her shaking hand. The man frowned incomprehensively.
“My son… oh gods, my son…” she stuttered.
“Oh, that!” the man finally said. “You shouldn’t worry too much, ma’am. It’s just…” He gave a strange gurgling sound and smiled.
Frozen with horror, Sophie was staring at him, watching a thin red line emerging across his throat, growing wider as the man kept smiling. Actually, the smile grew a bit wider and more cheerful as well. Blood gushed from the wound as his smiling head rolled off his shoulders to the ground.
Sophie sprang back, looking around for help. The street became almost crowded — she saw her neighbors and other people that were familiar and unfamiliar to her. They were turning to her one by one. Some waved their hands welcomingly, some called her by her name, everyone was smiling.
“Sophie! It’s just… You see? It’s just…” she was hearing here and there along with the disgusting sounds of their heads hitting the ground. There was so much blood the layer of salt couldn’t absorb it anymore. So it flooded the street like a river.
“Sophie!” came the voice from below. She looked down and saw a severed head that had rolled so close to her it was almost touching her toes. Sophie cried out and jumped away, but the head turned around and stared at her with a wild grin: “It’s just, Sophie! It’s just! It’s JUST!!! IT’S…”

Sophie sat up in her bed, panting and sweating. She didn’t know if she was still dreaming, she couldn’t recognize her bedroom or say if it was day or night outside. All she could think about — she didn’t want any justice anymore. She didn’t want it at all. But it was there for her, as well as for the others.

FACT 6

If you're new to the City of Bowls, you will likely meet the Cheery Man. When you do, don't look him in the eye for too long. And if you speak with him, don't ever mention the dead god.

FACT 7

Everyone who survived the meeting with the Cheery Man, described him differently. Some people say he's lean and scrawny, other describe him as obese as a cloud. Some even not sure if it is male with an unusually soft face or an ugly female. But you always recognize the Cheery Man by his teeth, and the shivering laughter. By then it is usually too late.
You can meet the Cheery Man anywhere in Crimson Republic, but the majority of incidents happened in Texxica.

The Architect


The architect was sitting in a chair on his balcony fully dressed in a three piece suit despite the fact that he had a day off today. His wife knew not to bother him, no matter how worried she was. He was looking at the city skyline with the giant guilliotine rising over it. The guilliotine he had designed for the Judge God. It was the seventh morning since the head of the Judge touched the ground and the crimson river flooded the streets. People drank that blood, for the smell was irresistible, and the boon it gave them was indisputable. For once mortals were matched to gods. They had the eternal life of gods and the godly vigor. There was no Judge over them, the people were the judges now. They were freed. They were freed by the architect.

He wasn't working alone, the architect, but he was the first to start pushing that idea and he designed the Guilliotine and he raised the funding and he persuaded the clergy to trick the Judge God to come into The City of Cups. He had been the seed from which the Guilliotine rose. He was the sparkle from which the revolt soaked in inflammable contempt finally caught fire. He truly believed in what he was doing and there was nothing to stop him. Like a convict in a prison, he was thinking about the escaping all the time, from his early age to the late maturity. The was no other goal more important, more urgent, more fundamental than building your own freedom.

Now his work had been done. There was nowhere to rush, no things to assign and check. His days off were probably the retirement he was yet to accept. But there was neither joy on his face, nor the feel of accomplishment in his heart. He could sit in that chair, for hours, petrified like the body of the Judge God. The wind would blow a whoosh of salt over the balcony, while the architect was sitting and frowning at the crimson stream that kept flowingafrom the crack in the Judges neck. The Architect did not taste it. Not a single drop, despite the promise of immortality. All that he was building, his raison d'être, was brought into life; the grand scheme was enfleshed and put into action. People drank the blood and became their own judges. But not the architect.

THE THRISTLE

The desert was hot and dry. Sheila had been walking through it for about three days now and was already dying of thirst. She was tired and desperate. ‘If the Judge were alive’, she thought, ‘he'd save me.’ That was a lie. If the Judge were alive, she wouldn't be here in the first place. She was a bandit girl who had missed all the fun and had found only dead bodies of her buddies lying under thristle bushes. Bushes very similar to that one in front of her. A very thick one. A bush that cast a shadow. She decided to lie down for a while - to wait until it would get cooler.

That was the last decision she made in her life. She fell asleep and never woke up again.

FACT 8

The day the Judge kindly delegated his authority to the citizens of Bowles, so much god’s blood spilled over the Garden, the leaves of its trees turned dark-red. The Garden had been considered sacred for many years by that great day. But after that it became fully blessed. Only few were allowed to enter the temple after that. On the biggest holidays the doors of the temple were opened, and people could see a bit of red foliage from outside.

THE PRIEST



It was him who had guided these people through many years and finally led the city to prosperity. It was him, of course, who commanded to pull the lever. Some whispers said that he didn’t do that all on his own. That he was guided by someone — or something — else. But who would ever listen to them?

THE VISIT

He was convincing as always, his visitor. The Priest tried to take a good look at him, knowing already that all he’d make out would be an enormous freaky smile in the shades. Whatever were the visitor’s other features, he was a very big man, sure enough.

The visitor had just shared his ideas, and now the Priest was mulling over it in silence. They did well, he thought, no doubt about that. No country could ever be considered greater than the Crimson Republic after their Deed. And the Republic’s people got their eternal youth and there was no one above them... or was there?
Some other gods remained out there. Since the Judge’s blessing gave people so much, what else would they achieve? It was hard to imagine the greatness they could get if they’d become blessed by the other gods. And it was impossible not to imagine. It was coming more and more clear to the Priest that there was not a single reason not to move forward.

The smile in the shades widened even more and then disappeared.

THE MISTAKE

The Architect sat in his chair, watching solemnly as the never-setting sun hovered over the City of Bowls. He did not know when he had last eaten, or slept, or left the room. These days, he could only think of one thing. He might have made a mistake.

The first weeks after the Deed were good. In the streets, people would celebrate, and sing, and dance like careless spirits from the old tales. For once they forgot all their quarrels and were truly together, bonded by partaking of the holy gift of blood and life. In the joy of those days, they did not look like they would ever need any justice, be it from gods or from their own equals.

The problems began when the bloodstream started to run out. All of a sudden, there wasn't enough blood for everyone. And they wanted more, badly.

All attempts to ration the blood failed quickly because people did not trust those in charge, and rightfully so. Some were smart to fill up and stash a couple bottles. Others wanted to buy them, but no one would sell. Money, power, women — nothing mattered anymore except for the blood. Many were robbed. A few were killed. The city was slowly slipping down into madness.

The Architect observed from the balcony, like a king keeping a bitter watch over his dying kingdom. Down there, they fought over the drying red trickles. They licked the salt off the ground like animals, hoping it had soaked up a few drops. But there was more. Dark, bizarre rumors filled the city. Rumors even he could not hide from in his secluded tower.

They had always said they wanted justice, and he worked hard to give them a chance at that. But in the end, all they craved for was this accursed blood. Perhaps they were not ready for this gift. Perhaps it was never meant for them in the first place.

Perhaps he made a mis...

"Dinner's waiting, love."

The Architect leaped up in his chair. It was only his wife. His beautiful, loving wife. She had been standing beside him for who knows how long, while he was deep in his thoughts. Since when has she developed this ability to creep up on him so silently?

"I'm not... I'm not hungry, darling," he replied, quickly regaining his stature after the momentary embarrassment. "Anyway, how have you been? Where's Jenny?" Jenny was the Architect's daughter, a wonderful creature of age ten.

Somehow, his wife seemed puzzled at this simple question. She thought for a while, knitting her brow like a child. "Dinner's waiting, love," she finally repeated with a happy nod.

The Architect's heart froze as he recognized the wet glint in her eyes. "Have you been drinking it?" he asked quietly. She did not reply. In a second, he rose up and approached her. "The blood. Have you been drinking it?" he demanded, shaking her by the shoulder. As he shook, her head cocked helplessly to the side like a doll's. She closed her eyes and smiled dreamily. Somehow, her teeth seemed bigger than he remembered. And certainly much pinker.

The Architect gasped with anger and despair. He'd told her not to, he'd told her so many times not to!.. He had seen too much of what that blood does to people's minds. And now his wife, his careless, idiot wife, was one of them. For the first time since their wedding, the Architect almost felt like he would hit her. And then he noticed her hands. She saw him stare at them and waved them awkwardly in front of his face with a quiet chuckle. They were oily red with blood. Human blood.

"The dinner..." she whispered before bursting into nervous, trembling laughter.

The Architect pushed her away and rushed downstairs. The kitchen was a mess of red. And at the center of this mess, on the table, lied Jenny. She looked exactly as he knew her, ever so pretty in her favorite yellow dress. The only thing missing was her head. Under her neck was a tub full of dark, thick blood.

He paced the room desperately, looking for anything that could help, refusing to admit it was too late. Then, suddenly, it became very hard to breathe. He felt a sharp sting in the chest, and his legs failed. He sat on the table heavily, almost falling, and made a strange whistling sound that turned into a quiet, high-pitched howl. He clutched his daughter's tiny cold fingers. And then he wailed.

"You don't like it?" he heard his wife's voice over the sound of his own sobbing. She stood in the door, smiling diffidently. "It's not as good as what you gave us. Still good though."

The look the Architect gave her was not human. He jumped up and grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be a butcher's knife. And, with a terrible scream, he slammed it onto his wife's head. The knife hit between her neck and shoulder, slashing her open with a loud chunk, and stuck in her chest.

Somehow, she managed to stay on her feet. She looked in astonishment at the handle sticking from her body, then at the Architect. "Why, love?" she asked in somebody else's voice. "Why, love? Why, love? Why love?" she kept repeating on a single note, like a broken clockwork toy, as she moved slowly towards him, grabbed his neck with her both hands and started squeezing.

The Architect did not resist. He realized he had made another mistake. He forgot that only beheading could kill one who'd tasted a god's immortal blood.