Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Глава 3.2

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Camrad_RIP 03.02.26 в 20:03

The view from above shows a vast steppe, endless and beautiful, gradually focusing on a very large settlement consisting mainly of green-skinned people. But it is precisely that predominantly; there are also quite a few human steppe dwellers here, and even representatives of other races can be glimpsed, and we are not just talking about a couple of half-elf slaves in the chief's tent. It is clear to the naked eye that something large-scale is happening here; it is evident that many guests have arrived at the camp, and they have come with their detachments or even miniature armies. However, the gaze of sleep passes over the city-camp only briefly, lingering for a moment before moving on to the outskirts and beyond.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:27

And here, near the city but far from the noise, another tent can be seen, huge, not much smaller than the leader's, old, faded with patterns, as if ready to fall apart, but only the walls of this tent can withstand the blow of siege spells. And its inhabitants can strike back just as hard. The tent is surrounded by silent figures dressed in thick and incredibly heavy armor, mostly made of primitively forged iron, although there are also high-quality steel examples. Humans, orcs, even lizards — there is no racial discrimination among the guards, just as there is no life. Every single one of the ordinary (and not only ordinary) guards here is dead, and their bodies are controlled not by the mold of a corpse, bound by necromancy, but by wild necromancy, combining shamanism and witchcraft. Witchcraft prepared the body for the spirit to enter and function, and shamanism allowed the spirit to be summoned and anchored in the reworked body.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:51

Each guard wears an inconspicuous gray cloak embroidered or painted with the symbol of the person who hired them. And that symbol is known throughout the Steppe, from one end to the other, and beyond. Among the dead, dangerous, and far from ordinary undead, there are also the living—students, servants, hostages—who combine all these functions with their main task of being guides and leaders of the creatures under their command. The undead, possessed by spirits, are complemented by hosts of ghosts, also created on the basis of shamanic practices, as well as simply spirits who are one step away from incarnation, ready to tear apart and destroy those whom their summoner points out.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:58

The gaze goes further, through the walls of the tent, to its very center, past all the other rooms, where, in absolute darkness, slightly dispelled by the light of a burner, sits an orc. Old, hunched over, twisted by age, he should have died long ago, but he still exists, even if he breathes more out of habit than necessity. He has looked this old and barely breathing for more than a century, but he is in no hurry to join his ancestors. He sits in complete darkness, surrounded by a host of spirits closest to him, adorned with necklaces of shamanic amulets and talismans made exclusively from various types of bones. Mostly those that belonged to intelligent beings. And the spirits around him are just like him — death, destruction, rot, decay, and bones, bones, many, many bone entities.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 08:02

In complete darkness, his eyes scan the letters brought to him. Some are written on parchment made from animal skins, some on the still-bloody skin of humans or green-skinned creatures, and some on ordinary paper. He reads the messages one after another, literally absorbing them, inhaling the very essence of what is written in them, taking in not the letters of unfamiliar languages—the orc has never learned to read or write in his excessively long life—but the very meaning of what is written, what they wanted to say and convey to him. Some of the messages bring a barely discernible smile to his wrinkled face, while others elicit a discontented grimace. One of the letters, marked with the seal of one of the Confederate Houses, he crumpled up in anger and turned to dust, but most of the messages were to his liking.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 08:04

"Who did it?" He pointed at the remains of the ashes from the letter he liked least. "Whose failure?"

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:28

"Venerable sir, everything possible has been don..." The student who brought the report, including the one that angered the teacher, didn't even finish the sentence. The young steppe dweller is simply turned inside out when the spirits begin to pull the flesh from the bones without taking life. "H-h-h-h-h-h-h-h..."

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 08:10

This rattle, terrible and audible throughout the tent and outside, did not subside immediately, clearly telling all who heard it in the higher spheres that the master was angry. And the old, ugly orc was incapable of forgiving anyone's mistakes, except his own. In an instant, flesh crumbles to dust, which is absorbed into the trampled bare earth, and bones, dry and full of suffering, still full of unlived life, knock against each other, falling like rain. With one movement, the shaman takes from behind his back a large drum, at least a meter in diameter, made of the skin of long-dead but still unable to die enemies and friends, relatives and loved ones, and then beats it, setting an unpleasant, repulsive rhythm in its chaos.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 08:09

The bones of the disappointed orc apprentice fly upward, spinning in an endless dance, disappearing under the dome of the tent, where the bones of hundreds and hundreds of past victims, enemies, apprentices, or relatives of the orc have been spinning in the same dance for centuries. Right before our eyes, these bones partly turn to dust, partly break into smaller pieces, and only the skull of the unlucky gifted one remains completely intact. The student is dead, but he is the student of a student, slightly more experienced and slightly more valuable, a student who understood everything himself and sent his nephew to report on his failure, knowing what would follow. He no longer had any nephews, only his eldest son and two daughters, and the apprentice understood without a word that they would be the next to be blamed for the failure.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 08:06

Or he himself, together with the children.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 08:06

The old orc did not forgive anyone for failure.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:29

Only for himself.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:29

The old orc beats his tambourine, driving everyone mad with its hideous melody, but not a single note of this melody can be heard by the ears, not a single sound arises from the contact of his palms with the tambourine, only the invisible cry of the highest spheres, where restless spirits dance and scream in agony, tormenting restless souls.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:41

Day after day.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:29

Season after season.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:30

Year after year.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:30

Century after century.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:40

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Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:29

A large, even naturally enormous hall, filled with pure and purifying Light, literally the materialization of God's grace, and inside the hall, many personalities of the human and not only human are fiercely arguing. Right now, beyond the walls of the temple where the conversation is taking place, beyond the walls of the capital where the temple stands, an army of demonic invaders that has crossed half the world continues to advance. An army that seeks to destroy the Temple, the capital, and all those who would seek to stop the demons. And as bitter as it may be to admit, their chances are excellent, because somehow they got here, literally crushing, tearing apart, or even capturing and converting all the armies and garrisons that tried to stop them.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 08:12

The demons' chances would have been not just good, but almost certain, if it weren't for the last ritual, the last hope, with which the gods of this world turned outward. To where the will of other gods, much older and more terrible, reigns. And those gods responded, which is why a large-scale and very costly ritual was performed in the three main temples of the three continents of this world. A ritual that summoned the Heroes who were to stop the demons. On the continents of Himellat and Alevir, the summoned appeared alone. In one case, only the Hero himself, in the other case, the Hero, but with his extensive retinue. Here, in the central temple of the bright pantheon of the continent of All-Vankings, there were as many as three summoned possessors of the almighty Tablet of Souls. Either the venerable Vankings were in worse shape than the rest, or these three were weaker than the Heroes who arrived alone.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 10:45

And this caused involuntary horror because none of the three seemed weak; they and each of their entourages were terrifying in their power. The cooperation was somewhat overshadowed by the fact that all three clearly disliked each other, and in the case of two of the trio, they would have tried to kill their “allies” if it weren't for the restrictions imposed on them by their Patrons. Those who gave the Tablet of the Soul to their faithful and devoted followers. And so they remain silent, as do their entourages, and the Heroes themselves are in no hurry to slaughter each other.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:12

A very handsome and well-equipped half-elf stands silently, his aura barely visible beneath his disguise, making it impossible to even guess at his magical specialization. However, even a rough estimate of his power suggests that he is at least a magister. Behind the strange half-elf stand his comrades: a lovely blonde maiden, surprisingly frightening in how harmless and ordinary she seems; a gorgeous red-haired cat-woman, whose Beast's power is stronger than that of an army of werewolves; an extremely busty elf with the mannerisms of a battle mage; another elf, more like a diplomat, and behaving as such, and a real drow. A male. He looks at everyone around him, even his half-elf leader, as if they were small children, and almost asks aloud what he is doing here.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:14

Not saying a word, a surprisingly unremarkable-looking man of indeterminate age between twenty and forty, also concealing his aura, but unable or unwilling to hide his specialization as an obvious mentalist and biomancer. His entourage, clearly altered in body and mind, is vivid proof of this, and it's not the pair of dark elves or the red-haired aristocrat wearily massaging her temples, who seems to be the only one not enslaved to him, but the huge two-and-a-half-meter-tall orc woman. Such musculature and such enormous breasts, combined with a pleasing appearance and dog-like devotion to her master, are rarely found in nature. Perhaps not the most ideal ally in the fight against the demonic army, where Greed and Lust form the basis of the legions, but he has already proven himself to be a somewhat dubious but extremely useful ally.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:15

The last of the trio, still a young man of the human race, remains silent, clearly not entirely present in the here and now, as befits a monstrously powerful shaman surrounded by a host of spirits so powerful that even God's avatar would feel uncomfortable. In fact, they did feel uncomfortable when the young man almost revealed several higher and almost great spirits. His retinue consists of two slant-eyed shamanesses, most likely mother and daughter, who have experienced the wind in all its manifestations, an extremely impressive-looking and equally extremely busty bloodsucker, quite worthy of being called ancient, and a very young maiden with the habits and speech of a city punk. And an aura that drives all passing priests into catatonia and panic defecation, which is why it is not immediately possible to notice the features of this slum maleficarum that are characteristic of space mages and portalists.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:26

All three remain silent, except for one, who is not summoned, but a local—Sir Judas Kissed, one of the most famous and celebrated paladins of the era, an excellent tactician and outstanding politician. Now, when the first weeks of the demonic army's unstoppable march had passed, and all the survivors were trying to catch their breath around him, as perhaps the only surviving figure of sufficient caliber and compromise, the remnants of armies, magicians, orders, and other guilds gathered, wishing to live rather than give their souls and those of their loved ones to the demons. And he speaks strictly to the point, explaining quite clearly why now is the time for a counterattack. Not ideal, and not even the most suitable, but simply the only one possible.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:27

Now, while the demons are stretched logistically, while they are not ready for such audacity, while they do not know about the three heroes, while they are only preparing to storm the walls of Weissenstein, Snow White Rock, the largest city in the world. And even if the plan is somewhat dubious, the chances, especially with the help of the Three, are quite good. Everyone sees this, everyone understands this, and therefore accepts the proposed tactics. In fact, they have already accepted it and are only discussing the details and roles. What no one sees is the incredibly subtle and impossibly skillful illusion created by the half-elf, covering the already unrealistically hidden figure of another woman, a slant-eyed killer in clothes that conceal her very essence. She slowly appears behind the silent Sir Judas, just as slowly and carefully sticking needle after needle into him, paralyzing his aura, flesh, spirit, thoughts, and even his soul.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:30

And he doesn’t even notice it until it turns off.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:31

But everyone else noticed and nearly killed the secretive woman, despite seeing her in the mentalist's retinue. They would have killed her, or at least tried to, if Judas's disguise hadn't slipped. It concealed a carefully hidden, but clearly long-established infernal seal of servitude. The fact that the Asian woman had to tear off the knight's and paladin's heavy armor in half a second and bend him over doggy style to reveal the mark will have to be omitted from the chronicles. As will the location of the mark, yes.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:32

"I've kept it," the mentalist exhales, clenching his hands tightly around the strange orb he'd picked up some time ago, oblivious to one of the dark elves wiping his nosebleed. "The feed has been intercepted, the signal has continued."

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:33

And the stream of thought images, the virtual live broadcast of the council's events, sent to the demonic command headquarters, was indeed intercepted. Despite the fact that the demonic puppet has been eliminated and is now practically being gutted by the hate-filled gazes of those who have realized why all attempts to rally forces or counterattack have thus far resulted in defeat and further losses. Yes, the signal has been intercepted and continues to show everything that transpires at the council, but the trouble is, it wouldn't be a good idea to show the demons such things, signaling that their agent has failed miserably.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:35

"I'm keeping it." The half-elf isn't bleeding from the nose, but only now has the illusion lifted, revealing a face almost green with a bluish tint, along with pouring sweat. "I gave them a false broadcast, so they didn't seem to suspect anything, the assholes."

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:36

And they didn't suspect it because the illusionist, who had managed to take casts of everyone in the room, conveys a remarkably high-quality image; all the "characters" are playing as they should, continuing to prepare for the doomed counterattack. Which, perhaps, will indeed happen, but certainly not the way, not where, and not how the demons will calculate and expect. For once, the unpleasant surprise awaits the invaders, not the defenders.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:39

"Well then," the shaman exhales, his spirits simultaneously helping to hold the thread of connection between the traitor and his masters and adding credibility to the illusion being conveyed. "As you can see, the plan you've been given is crap. Let's figure out how to feed the demons this crap and get us home. Otherwise, I don't give a damn about these shared group quests or my role as raid leader."

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:48

Yeah, a raid leader, with all the systemic bonuses, as well as a certain degree of authority over the questing party members and their retinues. Because the other two were willing to appoint a feeble-minded goblin to command their trio, just to avoid each other. The shaman refused to consider himself a feeble-minded goblin.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:49

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Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 07:42

The last major fragment I remember is a red-haired girl with freckles on her face, dressed in a tight-fitting suit, reminiscent of both science fiction and spandex for aerobics. However, the woman is not quite doing aerobics, because the blue-skinned alien instructor with very prominent curves is teaching completely naked, and the image is constantly changing. One, or even half a second for each micro-fragment, which is selected porn, and the inscriptions that appear in the corners of the screen seem to flow into the subconscious of the red-haired aerobics enthusiast. The enthusiast herself drools onto her own chest from her wide-open mouth, rubbing her nipples through the thin synthetic fabric with one hand and lazily, slowly, evenly masturbating with the other.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 11:59

A few hours later, the woman wakes up, blinking sleepily, simultaneously deleting the last video and sending a short message to an unfamiliar address via her messaging app, immediately forgetting about the first, the second, the reply, and the new instructional video scheduled for that evening. Instead, she remembers one of the many work contracts offered to her, one that seems more and more appealing with each passing day. Maybe she should actually sign it?

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 12:02

Towards the end of the dream, the images once again mingle into a bubbling soup; the sleeping mind sees space marines praising the greatness of the soup, and trolls in ballet tutus flying around, and a huge horned wendigo signing autographs for kids at some children's matinee while simultaneously telling a bunch of journalists, and even Rodislav Gastoldovich Yanin, looking at a petrified, crystalline mass of dead demons fused together, whose faces are full of indescribable agony, giving these demons an ominous failing grade.
https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Great+soup

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 12:09

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Stepan wakes up slowly but surely, first rolling out of bed and pouring a full jug of cool water with drops of some citrus juice. From all the alchemy he had taken before and after the voyage behind the head of a bad man, he predictably experienced the wildest dryness. As usual, he has no memory of what he dreamed about, only separate fragments — the coat of arms of some Trading House, a dark tent inside which someone is beating a tambourine, a children's matinee with autograph signing, someone's sky-blue eyes, and, it seemed, spacemarines. Warhammer, you can't even hide from it in another world.

Camrad_RIP 03.02.26 в 20:07

After getting up and doing some quick exercises, the shaman, undercover, headed back to his usual job, first checking the spirits that had been put into his body so he could better play the role of a person in love. Singha would be walking around the city a lot that day, and given the recent discoveries, her security would be tightened, and her entourage expanded. This was quite clever. Few would know that Stepan would be hiding inconspicuously in her retinue, playing a minor role. It was like a lady's pistol taken out of a handbag, only instead of a pistol, it was a self-propelled 155 mm Paladin artillery unit. Not quite what you'd expect when attacking the woman carrying the handbag.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 12:55

We should add that the honorable Fourval de Lomer, Mrs. Singha's beloved uncle and brother of the equally honorable Urvag de Lomer, was still staying at his house. It seems that some important issues arose with several Trading and Noble houses, in which August de Mont Ross personally acted as a separate party to the negotiations. Therefore, he had to burden his brother with his visit. In fairness, he did not burden him too much, and he arrived with such gifts that it was even a little awkward.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 12:59

Singha has only recently finished riding an extremely rare Halif breed gaited stallion, of which there are now only a few left in the entire confederation. The issue is not even that they are so damn expensive, although yes, they are expensive, but that they are rare, and only a true connoisseur can appreciate the breed, of which there are few in the Confederation. This lover of expensive horses constantly updates and replenishes her personal “horse park,” and horses that have already been broken in are sold or given away.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 13:01

In general, it was noisy, tedious, and still nerve-wracking. As Stepan understood, after thinking everything over, Urvag did not tell his brother about the attempt on Maega's life, which in itself was telling. No, they all lived in harmony, and their brotherly love was supported by very serious vows, but it was still tedious. Uncle Furval had no direct benefit from killing Maega. Nor was there any benefit in moving Urvag, but the little man who whispered about Lodermark was one of Furval's men, even though he worked for Urvag, like Figaro serving two masters. That's reason enough to hold back. Especially since Furval can't help in this matter anyway, or maybe he can, but not much. Not enough to really attract him.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 13:12

Not at this stage, at least.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 13:01

One could say that the Morgrave representative office of de Lomer gradually shifted to a semi-military state, were it not for the fact that this representative office had been in that state since the arrival of the head of the entire House. Yes, for Stepan, the trap that had been set for him and the attempted kidnapping were undoubtedly extraordinary events, but only by the standards of earthly society. For Maega and Urvag, it was certainly not a simple Tuesday, but it was far from a disaster. Attempts on the lives happened with annoying regularity, but they were usually of noticeably lower quality. Poisoned letters and attempts to slip alchemical bombs into barrels of wine were mere trifles by the standards of local high society.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 13:16

The super bombs, specially prepared for your aura and class, located exactly where you were supposed to be, are already much more dangerous. So no, everyone remained calm, without unnecessary panic and without showing any signs to outside observers that they had noticed any cause for concern. The good guy Stae had no choice but to silently salute and carry out the orders of Master Lavis and the youngest Mrs. Singha. And to work as her bodyguard on the side. For free, or rather, for the salary of a simple, gifted footman. Urvag was extremely lucky to hire him; on Earth, he would have been immediately taken on as head of the personnel department.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 13:56

"Y-yes, of course, Ms. Singha, Master Lavis." He emerges from his thoughts and light meditative trance, automatically adding a slight hesitation to his voice and general kinesthetic movements, thanks to the infused souls, and then heads to the neighboring shop for spices. "It will be don. That is, it will be dane. It's done. Yes. It's done."

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 14:32

He muttered the last words under his breath, adding a barely audible “I'm such an idiot,” and moved toward his destination. The security guard who had unobtrusively accompanied him, and it was indeed a security guard, not just an entourage member, was struggling to suppress his laughter. To be fair, he was laughing at Stae only in a good-natured way, but it was still a little embarrassing to be treated like a clown. And yes, the fact that he is accompanied by a single escort, who doesn't even try to pretend that he is not there for his direct protection, is due to the fact that the shop is literally in the next room. In fact, they are all now in a separate courtyard, a micro-market located in the middle of a large market.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 14:45

The entire complex of small shops and warehouses belonged to one owner, with whom de Lomer was on good terms, as was Urvag himself. They traded not only in spices but also in a whole range of goods from different corners of the world, including special exotic items from the jungle region. The mistress of the house, Veronica, despite her thoroughly Confederate name and upbringing, was a half-breed Khotta, one of the phenotypes of the local black population. In fact, it was thanks to her connections with her father's homeland, who was not the least important person in the court apparatus of Ngabo-Khele, that this very attractive woman achieved her heights. Many would like to push her aside. Many would not refuse to take her trade themselves and get a very large area right in the central part of the Upper Town market. They would like to. Only then would goods from the black lands be sent in different volumes, with different tariffs and at completely different prices.

Camrad_RIP 04.02.26 в 14:14