A tale of artists, intrigue, and the magical renaissance

4.7 – Domenico Fabula {Domenico’s Tale}

Whenever Erik yawned, he made a heavy, rasping, breathless noise that sounded like a snore in reverse. It was the kind of sound that set Domenico’s teeth on edge behind his mask. Having to put up with that reverse snore so many times in a given day was just another of the million little indignities that weighed down on his shoulders at every moment, so many indignities that it felt as if one couldn’t be angry about all of them.

With great effort of will, Domenico managed to stay angry about each and every one. He remembered every single slight that anyone offered him, and in his deepest heart of hearts he hoped he could repay all of them. It was that hope that let him stay awake now, when the very bones in his body screamed out for sleep.

“Please tell me you don’t have work in the kitchens tonight,” Erik groaned, “you’ve been there till three in the morning for the past two weeks, how much work can there be to do?” The answer was of course that there hadn’t been that much work to do. If Erik had been a more observant man he would’ve noticed that; vegetables and side-dishes prepared for meals that were days away, too much bread dough being prepared, long hours of cleaning areas that were spotless. “Hey, Rhetorman!” Erik snapped his fingers in front of Domenico’s face, “if I could take up a few seconds of your time here? I asked you a question. Do you have work in the kitchens tonight?”

You take up all seconds of my time, The rush of anger felt good, kept him awake. The snapping fingers was just another little indignity, but the phrasing of the question hit him in the gut. You take up every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every-

Domenico shook his head in response to Erik’s question.

Ego moriamet I’m glad to hear that,” Erik yawned again, his rattling rasping snore-like yawn. “If I don’t get a few days of good sleep soon I’ll fall asleep standing up, and I don’t need to get yelled at again. Not that the last time was your fault, but well…if you hadn’t been working so late, it wouldn’t have happened is all I’m saying.” He clapped a heavy hand on Domenico’s shoulder and gave him a little push in the direction of their room; a familiarity that was another little indignity.

If the book of indignities were written out, neat little columns of acts demanding vengeance, Erik would have his own dedicated volume.

Their room was dark when they entered it, and even though they would be going to sleep in a few minutes Erik lit all of the lanterns. It was a habit of the man’s, and he hadn’t seemed to realize what a waste of time it was. Domenico couldn’t point out the waste of time, couldn’t point out anyone’s wastes of time, so instead he had been forced into learning patience.

“Go use the restroom,” Erik ordered. Domenico didn’t have to, but he obediently entered the water closet and closed the door behind him. He leaned with his back against the door, closing his eyes and enjoying the few moments of his life where he could be alone. The deep breaths smelled like the leather and metal of his mask, but it was hardly a new smell.

I shouldn’t close my eyes, I’ll fall asleep, Domenico thought dully. Of all nights to fall asleep early, tonight would be the worst, after months of preparation. A small fraction of my book of indignities finally repaid-

“Hey, Garnet, you alive in there? I told you I was sleepy didn’t I?” Erik pounded on the door, and Domenico slowly took a final deep breath through his nose. ‘Garnet’ was a red stone, and ‘Garnet’ was a girl’s name, and every time they used it to refer to him he would fantasize about this night. He pulled the lever to flush the empty bowl, washed his hands, and emerged from the water closet.

“About time,” Erik growled. “Your sleep clothes are on the bed.”

Undressing in front of Erik was one of the minor indignities, now that the Rhetorguard had matured a little and stopped making jokes, but it was still just as uncomfortable as it had been the first night. Domenico distracted himself by thinking about the night ahead. Strangely enough, now that the moment had finally arrived, he wasn’t even excited; he felt numb.

Probably just the exhaustion of the last few weeks catching up to me, he reasoned. Keeping Erik awake and tired means keeping myself awake and tired.

“You’re moving slow as a glacier tonight,” Erik said as Domenico finally settled onto the small cot set up in the corner. The Rhetorguard yanked Domenico’s wrist over the edge of the cot and attached a heavy manacle to it, then snapped the other end to leg of the nearby dresser. “Right, can you get out?”

Domenico gave the manacle three hard tugs, demonstrating that it held fast. Beneath his Rhetor-mask, he held his breath. Erik was selfish, careless, and above all very, very stupid, but there was always the chance he would notice his mistake tonight, the chance that Domenico’s plan would be cut short at this last possible moment.

“Alrigh’ then, I’m going to sleep,” Erik made a circuit around the room, blowing out the lanterns one by one. “If you need anything in the middle of the night…well, I’ll probably sleep through it, so make sure not to need anything,” he chuckled.

Domenico didn’t let himself relax until the room was entirely dark, and he heard the comfortable bed on the other side of the room squeak as Erik eased into it. As usual, his manacle was short enough that Domenico’s arm hung over the side of the cot, it’s hard edge digging into his shoulder. Tonight the discomfort was a good thing; he didn’t want to fall asleep.

Given that his yawns sounded like snores, it was ironic that Erik didn’t snore in his sleep. the only way Domenico could tell that he was sleeping were his deep breaths in the quiet room.

One. Two. Three. Four. He started counting at the first breath, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room without the lanterns. No noise broke his silent count, even the street outside the studio was quiet. He had felt numb before, but as the time slowly approached he could feel the stirrings of excitement. Perhaps he just hadn’t let himself be excited before because he hadn’t believed this moment would ever arrive.

Two thousand nine hundred ninety nine. Three-thousand.

He slipped from the cot silently, but jingled the manacles on purpose to see if, beyond all indication, Erik was awake. In theory the Rhetorguard could be feigning sleep, lying in wait for him, but if he was so clever and insightful then he must have been a master actor for the last twenty years that Domenico had known him.

He slipped his fingers beneath the lip of the dresser and strained. He wasn’t a weak man, but the dressers were hefty and sturdy, and he had to struggle to lift it off the ground. Luckily he only had to raise it a few inches before he could nudge the end of the manacle out from beneath its leg. Holding the manacle so that it didn’t rattle, Domenico pulled the pillow from his cot and crossed the distance to Erik’s bed.

The past several weeks of long nights and early mornings had paid off. Erik didn’t even stir when Domenico pulled the knife from his sheathe. While he didn’t feel any joy in slitting his Rhetorguard’s throat, holding the pillow in his face to silence any sounds, Domenico didn’t feel a hint of guilt either.



As he’d suspected, the hallways of De Luca’s studio were dark and abandoned so late at night. If there had been patrols or guards he might not risk this step of his plan, but there was little danger in it now. Of all the people in his mental book of indignities, there were precious few people who had earned a debit, showing him kindness without asking anything in return, and there were only two in this studio.

The door wasn’t locked, and he slipped inside silently and easily, his mask in one hand, open manacles in the other, closing and locking the door behind him. The first thing he noticed was that Rolf had elected to take the uncomfortable cot, letting Emerald have the studio bed. The second thing he noticed was that, silent and stealthy as he had been, Emerald was awake.

Her gaze flicked back and forth between his face and the items in his hands, her expression unreadable behind her mask. Domenico grinned and gave her a wink, then crossed to where Rolf slept. He passed the manacles through the cot’s frame, then around Rolf’s wrists.

This Rhetorguard’s reflexes were much better than Erik’s. Domenico had barely closed the cuffs before he was awake and alert.

“Garnet?” He asked before Domenico clamped the mask down on the man’s face, smiling with satisfaction for the first time at the metallic sound of the mask locking.

“It’s actually ‘Domenico’, if you don’t mind,” he said quietly. The mere act of speaking felt glorious, even without his power buzzing in the words. After more than twenty years of silence he had a feeling that once he was safe, he would be quite the chatty person. He took key from around Rolf’s neck, ignoring the tiny muffled noise of the man trying to yell an alarm. “The mask is designed to keep people silent, do you think it’ll stop working just because it’s on you instead of me?” he asked with derision.

Emerald had been watching him intently throughout the interaction, and her gaze didn’t waver when he crossed over to her bed. He unlocked her mask and let it fall away, and without the obstruction it was clear that the expression she wore was one of worry. His Storm had been tingling in the back of his mind, just waiting to be let loose, and for the first time in two decades he indulged it.

“You don’t have to worry, you’re safe now.” Domenico said. His Storm was smooth and relaxing in his neck, like drinking hot tea after days of a sore throat. It rounded his consonants by the smallest hint and gave his words sharper definition, and as he spoke, the Storm supplied him the meta-information of what it had done. It was an accent from Florezia, specifically the northern area of Florezia in which the merchant class and the noble class melded the most seamlessly. An accent of a person with a noble parent who raised her and a merchant parent who only visited, occasionally, enough to affect her words but not enough to shape them.

Interesting. I wouldn’t have picked Emerald out as a Florezian.

“What did you do?” Emerald asked. Her voice was like a song made out of silver bells, even the brief question she had whispered. Domenico smiled appreciatively. That was a Storm he wouldn’t mind in a travelling companion. It was a voice a man could fall in love with no matter who the speaker was.

“Where does he keep the key to your manacles?” he asked in Emerald’s accent. “I somehow doubt your Rhetorguard restrained you as shoddily as mine did. We’ll get you out of here, kill your Rhetorguard, and be on our way to wherever you want to go by dawn.”

“I don’t want him killed…Domenico, was it? This is wrong.”

“Fine, we don’t have to kill him, we can leave him chained and silent like my Rhetorguard is,” he lied. If she was squeamish about killing then there was no point in telling her exactly how quiet Erik now was, “but we need to unlock you-”

“Domenico, you’re misunderstanding…” Emerald interrupted.

Cunctis deos meos, my name on her lips is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.

“…I’m not going with you. I’m staying here.”

“What? Staying, under lock and mask for the rest of your life?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Emerald gave a little shrug, “my fate is here. I won’t leave Rolf, not like this.”

“You realize he’s heard you speak, don’t you?” Domenico couldn’t quite understand his fellow Rhetor’s reluctance, and it was making him angry. “He’s the embodiment of the Guardhouse, he follows the rules to the letter. He’ll kill you the very second he’s able to. It’s you or him, Emerald…or rather, whatever your name is.”

“‘Emerald’ is fine,” Emerald gave a sad smile, but it was towards the Rhetorgaurd on the cot. “I’m no stranger to the concept of my life being in his hands. If he truly believes he has to kill me…” She trailed off, turning her gaze back to Domenico. “Thank you for coming here to rescue me. I know it was a risk.”

“But you’re not coming with me?”

“But I’m not coming with you.”

Domenico swore and stood from her bed. So much for there being two at the studio who treated him with kindness. He considered killing them both, but he knew he was overreacting. Even now Emerald was still better than all but one of the others in this place, and he didn’t plan on killing any of them. Besides, he hadn’t told her where he planned on going. He left the room in a much worse mood than he had entered.

Stopping by Emerald’s room had been a mistake. He’d assumed that behind their masks, all Rhetor were just as hurt and angry about the way the system treated them as he was, longing for a chance to repay them a fraction of the hurt they’d dealt. It appeared that some of his brothers and sisters behind their masks had somehow learned to love their captivity.

Ungrateful. But I suppose it doesn’t matter anyways, she’s going to die for her idiocy within a day.

The courtyard was rather well-lit for Domenico’s tastes, but besides Rolf and Emerald, chances were no one else was awake; as long as he hugged the wall he was probably safe.

“Help! Someone help, they’re killing-” The sudden voice came from the kitchens just as he passed the door, and Domenico froze. So everyone wasn’t asleep then, and it sounded as if someone was in trouble. The Rhetor paused for a few moments, curiosity warring with caution. The voice had sounded like Ele, the Echo of the naive garzona Elena. Had it been anyone else he would’ve played it safe, left and not given it a second thought…but of everyone in the studio, Elena was the one person who treated the Rhetors like actual people.

He opened the door quietly, but the sudden moonlight that lit the room was enough to alert those within. Domenico took in the little scene before him. A muscular girl held Ele, which meant she was an Echo. That would indicate that the unknown squat fellow a Stormtouched. Elena sat stiff and unnaturally, so whatever the squat man’s Storm was, he could petrify people.

“Francis,” the strong girl warned, and the man who must be Francis whirled to face the door, drawing a knife and pressing it against Elena’s throat as he spoke.

“This situation may look a mite bad to you, stranger,” Francis said, “but I guaran-bloody-tee you this goes worse for ‘er if you don’ turn ‘round and leave.”

When he heard Ele cry for help, Domenico only had a passing interest in helping the pair, but now…

You’re a part of the problem, little man. The type who thinks that because you’ve got the knife you’re in charge. Domenico’s eyes were locked on the knife at Elena’s throat, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of his mealtimes, every single day, cold metal on his skin. Why does everyone assume that having a knife puts you in charge?

He let the door close, his storm buzzing in his throat and mind as he did so. Threats or warnings wouldn’t help against a man who thought he was in charge, so instead Domenico adopted a casual stance, leaning back against the wall.

“Did you not ‘ear me, tall dark an’ ‘andsome? Walk away or Cog ‘ere gets ‘er throat slit open.”

“Can I watch?” Domenico asked, tasting the accent as the Storm rolled it across his tongue and mind. Englisso, suburbs of Premblestin, a tiny little southern town so small it wouldn’t be on a map. A Stormtouched from such an insignificant little speck of a town would have a chip on his shoulder, no wonder he liked feeling in charge.

“You….whot?” Francis blinked.

“Wot, got somfink in your ears mate?” Domenico said. “Only asked if’n I could watch didn’t I?”

“Why would you want to watch this?” Francis’ expression was somewhere between suspicion and confusion, and Domenico struggled to stay patient.

“Well you’re the one’s got the knife, but ‘slong as you’s gonna carve ‘er up a bit, thought I might enjoy the sight at least.”

“Garnet…please…” Elena whimpered.

“Shut up,” Domenico growled, and at the same time Francis snapped “shut your bloody mouth.”

“Lady Cog’s got a way of makin’ enemies wherever she goes then, don’t she?” Francis still looked suspicious, “what ‘xactly did she do to you, that you’s so okay wiv seein’ ‘er cut up?”

“Wot ‘as she done to me? Ain’t that a right bloody obvious question! She’s a bitch, wot more reason is there to need?” Domenico stalled for time to think, but he could see in Francis’ eyes that he needed to come up with something fast. “Every day I’m ‘ere, acts like she don’t even see me. Same as all o’ them garzonis, walkin’ ‘round as if I’m beneaf their notice.”

“Like they’s better than you,” Francis said, nodding. Domenico gave a mental sigh of relief; his guess had been spot-on.

“‘Xactly. Half of ‘em don’ even speak two words to me, ‘cause I’m jus’ a cook. T’other half jus’ take notice of me to order me ‘round, or make fun of me accent.”

“You’s got to teach them to respect you,” Francis advised, “that’s wot I do.”

“Yeah well, you’s a lot more valuable than me. I don’ ‘ave the luxury of teachin’ them respect. But if you’re ‘ere to sharpen your knife on ‘Lena’s bones, I repeat that all I want is to watch.”

“Well…only I ‘adn’t intended to kill ‘er, you see,” Francis said. Domenico’s heartfelt speech and subtle flattery had apparently won the squat man over, and he slipped a handful of vials into his belt, “you can bet that as soon as she’s free she’s gonna tell tales ‘bout you to Master De Luca. You’d best make yourself scarce after tonight.”

“Not going to kill ‘er? Is you an idiot?” Domenico asked. “You fink she’s gonna take ‘er lesson lyin’ down an’ not come after you? She’s a bloody Stormtouched, mate, they go for revenge.”

“‘adn’t thought of it like tha’,” Francis said, turning to look at Elena thoughtfully. “Normally when I teach someone a lesson, they don’t come after me.”

“You don’t know this one. Tenacious, she is. Tell you wot, this ‘ole mess is my fault on account of she saw me face,” Domenico hated this accent, it was all missed letters and broken vowels and was beginning to give him a headache, “‘ow about you ‘ave your fun, I watch your ‘andiwork, then I kill ‘er meself. You can bug off an’ no one’ll be the wiser.” Elena whimpered, and Domenico rolled his eyes.

“Do I detect a hint of Sluggasworth accent ‘bout you?” Francis asked.

“Nah, neva ‘eard of Sluggasworth. I’m from a little town called Premblestin, but you prob’bly ‘aven’t ‘eard of it.”

“You ‘aven’t ‘eard of Sluggasworth on account of I jus’ made it up,” Francis grinned, “Premblestin meself, born and bred.”

“Well ain’t you a sneaky bugger!” Domenico was pleasantly surprised that his Storm was coming in so handily for him so quickly, “I should’a recognized th’ lingo, only I’m ‘orrible with accents.” Sadly his joke was lost on everyone gathered in the room, but Domenico wasn’t bothered. He sauntered forward until he was only a few feet away from the stool, peering at Elena. “Why’s she not movin’?”

“It’s me Storm,” Francis said, “got ‘er pumped full of venom, custom made, it’ll keep ‘er stiff for a few ‘ours.”

“Ah,” Domenico said with disappointment, “I was ‘oping to see ‘er wiggle a bit. Takes the fun out o’ it when you can’t make ‘em squirm.”

“Hm…you know, now that I ‘ave someone to ‘old ‘er down, maybe the paralytic ain’t necessary anymore. Fran can even ‘old the Echo so ‘e can watch us have fun wiv ‘is Stormtouched. This’ll let ‘er move a bit,” he held up a small vial of purple fluid, “an’ then we can play wiv a live and kickin’ specimen.”

“Well, live and kickin’ for now,” Domenico grinned. Elena gave a shuddering whimpered again, weakly, and Francis turned back to flash her a quick smile.

Domenico slammed his knife through the back of Francis’ neck with one smooth motion.

The look on Francis’ face as he turned, full of hurt and bewilderment and shock, was too amusing for words, and Domenico had to chuckle a bit, stepping back to avoid the small spurts of blood from his neck.

“Francis!” The Echo girl, Fran, barreled forward and skidded on her knees to where Francis slumped. “Francis! Talk to me, say somefin!” Her hands did nothing to slow Francis’ decent, and he wound up on his side. The squat man tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet gurgle. “Francis don’ go, not loike this, it weren’t supposed to be loike this.” The wound bled fast. It took less than a minute for Francis to die.

“No…don’ leave me you arsehole,” the Echo whispered. “Francis don’ leave me.” She looked up at Domenico, helplessly. He didn’t really care about Francis or Fran now that he’d repaid Elena for her kindness, but the look on the Echo’s face caught him in a wave of nostalgia. How long had it been since he’d got that rush, seen that mixture of fear and helplessness on the face of someone who knew they were going to die?

Not enough fear though, he thought, mildly disappointed, that makes it a little less fun.

“‘e’s gone,” the Echo whispered. She was beginning to unravel at the edges, little wisps of her melting away as if her skin was letting off steam. It was the worst around her throat; it was vanishing so fast that her neck was starting to go transparent. “‘e’s gone and soon I’ll be gone too.”

Still too much shock, not enough fear there, she’s ruining this. Domenico cast his mind back, trying to think of what he knew about Echoes and fears. He suddenly leaned in closer to Fran and smiled.

“When you get where you’re goin’, say ‘ello to th’ gale-devils for me luv,” he whispered.

“No…no don’ make me go back, I can’t go back there…please”

Aaah, there’s the fear.

Domenico turned his attention to Elena as Francis’ Echo waned and dwindled, tears streaming down her face as she melted away in mist-like strands.

“Everything is alright now, Elena, you’re safe,” he said, Storm swirling in his mouth. The Carpian accent, straightforward and plain like its people, was a relief after the rasps of the Premblestin accent. “You’re lucky I happened to be passing by.”

“P…please,” there were tears on Elena’s cheeks, and her teeth were chattering, the effect of her whole body wanting to shake but too paralysed to do so, “please don’t talk to me.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to someone who just saved you from being tortured, or worse.”

“I’m s..sorry, I am grateful Garnet but please-”

“Shh, it’s alright, I understand,” Domenico put a finger on her lips, quieting her before she said something stupid that would upset him. “You’ve been taught to distrust and hate Rhetors all your life.” He bent down and unhooked Francis’ belt, heavy with vials. Stormtouch-made poisons could only help him on his journey. “I’d stay and take you to your bed Elena, but I see that Ele has run off and is probably waking someone as we speak, so I really must leave.” He picked up the purple vial from the puddle of Francis’ blood where it had rolled, and on his way out of the kitchen he placed it on the table where it would be seen.



The Street of Yellow Artisans seemed so much more pleasant when he could actually smell the scents of the city, when he could look late-night passersby in the eye without them nervously averting their gaze. With a belt of venoms around his waist and a light jaunt to his step, Domenico began whistling as he strolled off into the night.


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15 responses

  1. An extra special double-length chapter for you lovely readers! Also, a huge thank you to Karen, Emre, and John for your donations, the bonus chapter page has been updated!

    If you’d like to support me but are broke, rumor has it that a vote for Twisted Cogs can warm the Maddi’s frozen heart.

    Desire Beyond the Dojo – OOPS ignore that, I must’ve dropped that link to my newly published novella, a kinky romance about ninjas. This is so awkward. I hate it when I accidentally just drop links to sweet and smutty ninja stories available for only 99 cents, don’t you? HOW EMBARRASSING.

    If you don’t know what to do while you wait three whole days for the next Twisted Cogs update, I’ve been getting really into two new (to me, at least) serials lately that you might like as well:

    The Gods Are Bastards – I like to think of Twisted Cogs as “fantasy and magic in rennaisance italy instead of the european middle ages”, and maybe that’s why I like TGAB so much, because it’s essentially “fantasy and magic in the Old West instead of the european middle ages”. I’m a girl who hates prologues (usually I find that they are only interesting on a second readthrough, after you’ve figured out what the hell is going on), so when I say that this serial hooked me from its prologue alone, you’ll know how serious I am. Check it out!

    The Bitter Drop – It’s a sci-fi-ish, dystopian-ish, fantasy-ish…you know what, I can’t really put this one into a specific genre. What I CAN say is that it’s author chthonicbell can WRITEholycrapcantheywrite. Seriously, they write so well they could make a shipping label interesting; the fact that their story is intriguing and heartrending and beautiful is just an added side-bonus. A heartrending, beautiful, intriguing side-bonus.

    Liked by 2 people

    2014-10-19 at 11:14 pm

    • Thank you sooo much for the link, I’m really flattered you’re enjoying my serial!


      2014-10-23 at 7:58 am

  2. rocjawcypher

    Huh. How about that?

    So the power of a Rheator is a charisma score of 400, and a voice that sounds like whatever will help you most. Talking to a noble lady? Gain the voice of a suave gentleman or a dashing rouge- whatever suits her fancy. Not quite siren, but close enough that let free, they would rule the world.

    I will say that I empathize with Domenico. He didn’t kill where it wasn’t needed, despite the hatred he holds for the people who treated him like crap, and he did care for those showed him kindness. While I may be able to understand the system, I root for him for fighting it. It’s a crappy system and he had every right to fight for his freedom.

    Liked by 1 person

    2014-10-20 at 12:08 am

  3. Now, Domenico is exactly the kind of bastard I can root for. Ruthless, smart and with a streak of honor.

    Also, thanks for the link! It’s a thrill to learn that a writer of your caliber is enjoying my little story.

    Liked by 1 person

    2014-10-20 at 12:29 am

  4. :slow clap:

    LOTS of plot and backstory weaved into this one. The echoes dont DIE, they go back some place they already know about, some kind of hell…

    his storm seems largely accents and knowledge of them, but emeralds did not seem to be so, so even rhetor have different ways they are effected?


    2014-10-20 at 12:31 am

  5. Unmaker

    The restraints on Rhetor would make sense if they were flat-out verbally-based mind control, but are over the top for people with greatly improved influence (IMO). So Domenico’s position makes more sense, especially if he is an intelligent, detail-sensitive person chained to a stupid, uncaring-due-to-inattention guard. For Eric, a Darwin award. I still don’t see this act of rebellion ending well for Domenico.

    To be consistent, there would have to be a back story where a Rhetor used his abilities in the worst possible way and gained a lot of power thereby, maybe made a state ruled by Rhetors (especially if their powers work on each other so he could lead a cadre of them).

    Don’t Stormtouched have an Echo as a rule? Where are the Rhetors’ Echos?


    2014-10-20 at 11:29 am

    • I think they may not have an echo, but can influence and effect them, perhaps echoes are in them (ie, they ate their twin in the womb) and that power over echoes is one of the reasons for the harsh rules.


      2014-10-20 at 11:58 am

    • Isa Lumitus

      I wonder if this act of rebellion really will go badly for Domenico. I mean, if he’s smart, he’s very unlikely to reveal that he’s a rhetor. All he has to do is move to another city, and no one will likely catch him. If he avoids towns with Stormtouched, he shouldn’t react to Echoes, which should make him indistinguishable from a mortalis.


      2015-07-23 at 6:24 pm

  6. DeNarr

    Hmm, that seems kind of underwhelming. So, they can make themselves more convincing, but it seems to be by pseudo-natural means. An accent you trust, as well as the knowledge of where it comes from. There doesn’t seem to be any mind control involved, and we are shown an example of him not being able to convince Emerald to come with him. This doesn’t seem like a dangerous enough power to excuse how they are treated.


    2014-10-20 at 12:15 pm

  7. zeuseus


    Happy Zeus does a Happy Dance.

    Liked by 1 person

    2014-10-20 at 4:28 pm

  8. So that’s where Echos go. What I think is a screaming, howling abyss from which there is no escape.


    2014-10-20 at 10:19 pm

  9. Oh maaaan, good stuff.

    Liked by 1 person

    2014-10-21 at 9:39 am

  10. Gareth

    Nother Pre-read call: Rheator’s echo’s are too dangerous to keep alive. So they kill the Echo when they catch the Rheator. A Rheator with an Echo is much more powerful, as echo’s are links to the storm.


    2015-07-28 at 10:36 pm

    • Isa Lumitus

      I see we’re in agreement about echoes of rhetori being killed as a matter of policy. I didn’t pick up on the link to the storm element, though. I figured that it was a combination of spite, and just not wanting anyone loyal to the rhetor to exist.


      2015-07-30 at 12:22 am

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