The dread incantation by which the Priests of the Count slay shipfuls of soldiers at a time is not unique to them, though they do wield it with more, ah, verve than one usually sees among bank clerks.
Even among their inferiors, however, it always presages a collapse in fire, and splinters, and death. Speak it only when you would tell a man he is soon to die at your hand, unless fate elects to be kind.
My colleagues are well-versed in such spellcraft, for while Royalty is to give names, Wealth is to give numbers. It can be said, therefore, that Mottom’s days have been given number.
As a mercenary I can confidently say that no sober quantity of money or goods could make me attend this war, which until properly named I am terming “The War of the Vault”.
Granted, there is quite a drunken quantity of both money and goods available on both sides, but I imagine the money belongs to one who would be loathe to part with it, and I’m holding a personal embargo with the goods of the other.
I have little intent to escape. Eventually someone will come along with an absurd quantity of money, goods, or both, willing to part with it to hire a mercenary, at which point I would be happy to earn my payment.
If I must escape, though, I have repeatedly heard of this wonderful place called Samura.
When one hands wealthy feudal subjects repeating firearms, the resultant aesthetic is predictable. Breastplates give way to coats suited for the trenches with great speed, though the old steel-helms remain in service for some time.
I am lead to believe such even happens when the firearms are developed naturally. The universe is full of wonders.
Anyone else notice the first panels Cio has the exact same stance and expression as the Book 1 cover’s Allison? I have little doubt in my mind that it isn’t a simple coincidence.
Well o’ course ol Yab is remindsom of that blithery wretch. Ol sieeve skin here had no confidence in her identity, I imagine dear Cio be goin’ through the same. I for one just wanna see ’em kiss agian when the soden arse aint dyin’ and the imp ain’t cryin!
It has been established elsewhere that the Demiurges have a certain degree of control over their subjects’ technological development. For their convenience, they tend to keep the good stuff limited to their personal attendants.
While the flame of splitting the unsplittable pales before GLORY manifest, there is less difficulty in managing subjects who can’t wipe each other off the map on a whim, you see.
Verily, it is the habit – nay, ADDICTION – of Tyrants to deprive their subjects of arms. That way, the masses cannot turn those arms against their masters.
Even, indeed, when the Tyrant achieved their position precisely by turning the people against their previous rulers. Tyrants raise hypocrisy and corruption to an art form.
It is not for fear of uprising the Demiurges hoard technology, friend Preem. One could rain nuclear fire on the least of the Seven for a week, and at that week’s conclusion, the one’s emissary would proceed to explain, at length, the peacefulness of his land, and the kindness of its inhabitants. An axe would likely be involved.
No, it is a simple matter of wanting to keep their subordinates’ infighting at a manageable level. Rather difficult for one world to conquer another when the foremost tool of war for either will be its vatra.
The blood prophet Machiavelli would tell you that there’s no hypocrisy in knowing you can do a better job at controlling the mob than your predecessor.
Chaos, suffering, fire and death come naturally. It takes a Will, to supplant those with order, prosperity, industry and life. The mob cannot comprehend this, thinking that they prosper naturally, and murdering their lord whenever nature takes it’s natural course.
It is natural for power to flow from hand to hand, and leave a trail of devastation, as it carves it’s course through time. It is as natural for the mob to rise up against their lord, as it is for that lord to fight back, in defense of his own life.
Would you fault Zoss if he had chosen not to arm the Concordance of Demiurges, knowing that they would use their power to make war on one another, and one day rise against him?
It is, therefore, the duty of every prince to become the best tyrant he can be, in order bottle up that monstrous thing within his dynasty, for as long as possible.
If the mob casts him down, another must take his place.
Now, since his time, there have been some strange experiments in making the entire mob into the lord of their own destiny. However, most mobs seem to respond by abdicating their responsibility onto a chosen lord, and then blaming him for all their problems.
I wonder if they’re actually draining their life essence to fire those anti-ship blasts.
Regardless it does not look like a healthy practice. Take it from someone with a thousand enemies. It’s not their death that matters, it’s your survival.
…and that looks counterproductive. Which is why fanatics are the worst.
You, good sir, are of much sense. Draining one’s life essence to blast ships as if one’s people were nothing more than batteries? Quite a waste. I prefer a good, quick cut of the life threads if I must do this. Better to collect the power from a star’s light and breath, or a nice, hot ball of uranium, honestly. More efficient at physical strikes and a lot less damaging to one’s own body and spirit.
If it’s draining their fury, or some other renewable and useless-in-battle trait, such as compassion, it may be effective enough to solve the problem, and even enhance the odds of survival.
Also, when your goal is to protect someone with an infinite number of enemies, cutting that number down is always wise. Perhaps you need a few fanatics in your own employ, so that your numbers might fall to 970 enemies? Every enemy dead is one less that you have to worry about.
Hmmm…. the Corps of Krieg have arrived it seems. The shelling will begin in five minutes, and the trench warfare will continue until someone blows up the feeble star bathing them in it’s gaudy incandescent glow….
Then they will fight with bayonet, stick and stone in the pale light of the infinite cosmos.
That or they’ll all die in the first five seconds.
I have to wonder what Mottom thinks she is doing. She claims Alison is “hers” and that she wants to find her, but I can’t help thinking that basically turning the place into a huge conflagration is perhaps not the most effective method of conducting a search for a small piece of rather fragile property.
It’s kinda like “Ok, I need to find me a needle in this here haystack, so the obvious way to start is by nuking the haystack. This will make it easy to find the needle. D’oh.”
And people are saying that Mammon is senile. Old Motton doesn’t seem too bright herself.
That’s what landing paratroopers and standing orders are for. If you divide the haystack on thousand people and burn it in a piecewise fashion, the chances of needlefinding go up even when the roaches and mice of the haystack attack!
Whoever has been Me, it was so long ago... I can not remember Myselves
> And people are saying that Mammon is senile. Old Motton doesn’t seem too bright herself.
Methinks that you have expressed a deep insight into the Seven. They’re all way too old, they are fading and, though still powerful beyond easy comprehension, are — as said — fading.
The bird of the bottomless pit, worm of clear skies
Lowballing the number of worlds in an universe would give us something on the order of 1 quadrillion inhabited worlds. If the average population for each of these is about a billion people, that would work out at 777.777 sextillion people in Creation.
Which, of course, is worth a lot less than a cat, or Oscar’s wondrous pants.
I can only hope that there is a giant monster swimming through the coins like Scrooge McDuck about to jump out and swallow a ship. Or would that be asking for too much?
One wonders where those children are right now.
One hopes they got away safely.
One doubts in such an assault the children would be safe.
One wonders if escape/injury/death of any of those children will be shown on panel.
It is war. Though it rankles us to the very core, this fact is clear. Children are rarely spared for the carnage, if for nothing but incidental destruction. Artillery shells care nothing for the age of the bodies they blast to atoms, and in the thick of gunsmoke even a child’s frame can seem like a lurking foe, in dire need for a bullet.
there are always contingencies. know that the wretches will be delivered. whether their guardians escape with them, it is not known- but there is always a child displaced by war and ready to continue the cycle.
At a time like this the most risky and most expedited course of action would be to grab one of those ships in the chaos of battle and sail out the hole in the side of the building.
Then there exists the opportunity to start a fleet.
And low, Brother Maxwell, deep in the far corners of the Infinite Vault of YRE, whose Count numbers 99999, cleans in exasperation. For he is the newest and lowest of the Priests, yet, in the past hour alone, his Count has jumped o’er a hundred paces, and seems to be, ever so perceptively, increasing ever rapidly. He knows not whether he should continue cleaning, or join his fellow Priests. But he is very, very deep, and thinks the falling Count most likely is the result of someone leaving the door open to the Mimic Forge.
You know when you think about it, it’s times like this when one cannot help but bode on what has transpired enough for one to arrive to this fated outcome……But also what this will all accomplish the grand scheme of it all, if anything, all the fighting, all the bloodshed, all the pain and loss, all for one’s own desire, as infinite and unknownable as they might be. But now all this for simple drive; one last, great stand, a fervent rage against one’s own fading of the light as it were. Because that is what is this all for of course. For no matter who really wins, if you could call it that, one way or another, the old way must always give way for the new. For even the great wheel must always trade in its old, torn spokes, for something newer. But, who knows for we are all trapped in these inescapable cycle of disparities; light and dark, order and chaos, and what have you. And I as ever, just as we are all, are along just to see where this wild ride of ours will take us in the end; for better and for worse.
But don’t mind me, I’m just your humble lookie-lou, engaging in a little self meta philosophical pondering for mine own sake. Also, especially for those, curious enough to lend little old me and ear. But, for You decide, not Me.
I must say this as turned into quite the showing if I do say so myself, very entertaining. But one cannot help but ponder on all that has accumulated ever since this venture began. All the fighting, all the bloodshed, all the pain and loss, and for what. One’s own desire of course, as infinitely vague and unknownable they might be. Although, when get down to it, all this really is is just a last, great stand, a fervent rage against own’s fading of the light as it were. As it should be, the old way must always die at the hand of the new. For even the great wheel must trade in the old, rusted spokes for something newer, greater. For those timeless legends before us and those for their ilk are forever trapped in an inescapable cycle of disparity; light and dark, good and evil, order and chaos, etcetera, etcetera. However those such as unbound by such linear viewpoint are merely just along for the ride, to see just where all this excited madness will lead to in the end, for better and for worse.
But, don’t mind me, I myself am just your omniverse-friendly lookie-lou with a weakness for marvelous epics such as this, indulging in a little metaphilosophical pondering for mine own sake. And hopefully, those kind enough and curious enough to lend me ear. But, that is for You, not Me.
This is a decent outcome for Incubus, or more correctly Jagganoth. By manipulating Alison to go for Yre, Incubus got Mottom to go for Mammon’s throat, and almost killed Alison as well. He has very nearly taken out three players for the coming war, merely by getting them to try and kill each other.
I wonder how aware he was of Mottom’s motivations, if he could have planned this from the start. Probably not, though I wonder if he can wander around in peoples minds without them being aware of it.
The dread incantation by which the Priests of the Count slay shipfuls of soldiers at a time is not unique to them, though they do wield it with more, ah, verve than one usually sees among bank clerks.
Even among their inferiors, however, it always presages a collapse in fire, and splinters, and death. Speak it only when you would tell a man he is soon to die at your hand, unless fate elects to be kind.
Past performance does not dictate future returns.
My colleagues are well-versed in such spellcraft, for while Royalty is to give names, Wealth is to give numbers. It can be said, therefore, that Mottom’s days have been given number.
I feel shaken right to my nest egg. 10/10 first comment.
As a mercenary I can confidently say that no sober quantity of money or goods could make me attend this war, which until properly named I am terming “The War of the Vault”.
Granted, there is quite a drunken quantity of both money and goods available on both sides, but I imagine the money belongs to one who would be loathe to part with it, and I’m holding a personal embargo with the goods of the other.
How do you intend to escape, when this battle grows into a war that enfolds the cosmos?
I have little intent to escape. Eventually someone will come along with an absurd quantity of money, goods, or both, willing to part with it to hire a mercenary, at which point I would be happy to earn my payment.
If I must escape, though, I have repeatedly heard of this wonderful place called Samura.
It shall be a different war on that day, Fel, for by definition the war of the vault is confined within the vault.
It’s been said that War is Hell.
The reality is that Hell, at least, has decent bars.
War also has (in)decent bars
WHAMUU!
AWAKEN, MY MASTERS
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUhVCoTsBaM
Well *I’M* not cleaning all this up.
Are those Death Korps?
Death Korps of Mottom.
When one hands wealthy feudal subjects repeating firearms, the resultant aesthetic is predictable. Breastplates give way to coats suited for the trenches with great speed, though the old steel-helms remain in service for some time.
I am lead to believe such even happens when the firearms are developed naturally. The universe is full of wonders.
Aye, it seems many parts of the universe developed similiar fashions. It makes sense for the all the humanoids. How very universal
wearing uniforms of brown
in castle form and jayne cobb’s town
the corpse will keep your mother down
Did someone say die for the Imperiatrix?
What a shitshow.
Aye, it verily is.
The excrement has, indeed, impacted the rotary air-circulation device.
Oscar’s GOD DAMN FACE though
tonight only!
000752 VS jack Daniels!
who would win? who would survive!?who would claim.. the championship?!
Three tubes of black glass on the red devil.
“Why do we fight?”
“To win the war.”
Mottom, Mammon,
Moth,
Blastwave.
Backwise quickly yon floppy slatternbrains!
Chase the sun to the end of the land
the pass bristle and moor to put feet on the sand.
I left but I still have the keys in my hand.
Anyone else notice the first panels Cio has the exact same stance and expression as the Book 1 cover’s Allison? I have little doubt in my mind that it isn’t a simple coincidence.
All hail our new main character!
Well o’ course ol Yab is remindsom of that blithery wretch. Ol sieeve skin here had no confidence in her identity, I imagine dear Cio be goin’ through the same. I for one just wanna see ’em kiss agian when the soden arse aint dyin’ and the imp ain’t cryin!
Well, this looks exciting.
Holy crap. Three final panels are damned epic.
I’m partial to the tiny, crumpled remains of the priest in panel 5, to be honest.
It’s comedy GOLD! *badum-tssh*
Come now Cio, you’ll get out fine. chaos is where demons do best!
Here I was thinking that only Layla Brimstone got modern guns.
It has been established elsewhere that the Demiurges have a certain degree of control over their subjects’ technological development. For their convenience, they tend to keep the good stuff limited to their personal attendants.
While the flame of splitting the unsplittable pales before GLORY manifest, there is less difficulty in managing subjects who can’t wipe each other off the map on a whim, you see.
Verily, it is the habit – nay, ADDICTION – of Tyrants to deprive their subjects of arms. That way, the masses cannot turn those arms against their masters.
Even, indeed, when the Tyrant achieved their position precisely by turning the people against their previous rulers. Tyrants raise hypocrisy and corruption to an art form.
It is not for fear of uprising the Demiurges hoard technology, friend Preem. One could rain nuclear fire on the least of the Seven for a week, and at that week’s conclusion, the one’s emissary would proceed to explain, at length, the peacefulness of his land, and the kindness of its inhabitants. An axe would likely be involved.
No, it is a simple matter of wanting to keep their subordinates’ infighting at a manageable level. Rather difficult for one world to conquer another when the foremost tool of war for either will be its vatra.
We’re rather easy to distract, it turns out.
The blood prophet Machiavelli would tell you that there’s no hypocrisy in knowing you can do a better job at controlling the mob than your predecessor.
Chaos, suffering, fire and death come naturally. It takes a Will, to supplant those with order, prosperity, industry and life. The mob cannot comprehend this, thinking that they prosper naturally, and murdering their lord whenever nature takes it’s natural course.
It is natural for power to flow from hand to hand, and leave a trail of devastation, as it carves it’s course through time. It is as natural for the mob to rise up against their lord, as it is for that lord to fight back, in defense of his own life.
Would you fault Zoss if he had chosen not to arm the Concordance of Demiurges, knowing that they would use their power to make war on one another, and one day rise against him?
It is, therefore, the duty of every prince to become the best tyrant he can be, in order bottle up that monstrous thing within his dynasty, for as long as possible.
If the mob casts him down, another must take his place.
Now, since his time, there have been some strange experiments in making the entire mob into the lord of their own destiny. However, most mobs seem to respond by abdicating their responsibility onto a chosen lord, and then blaming him for all their problems.
Hrmm… Verily.
I probably don’t need to comment on my abject terror, huh.
I wonder if they’re actually draining their life essence to fire those anti-ship blasts.
Regardless it does not look like a healthy practice. Take it from someone with a thousand enemies. It’s not their death that matters, it’s your survival.
…and that looks counterproductive. Which is why fanatics are the worst.
You, good sir, are of much sense. Draining one’s life essence to blast ships as if one’s people were nothing more than batteries? Quite a waste. I prefer a good, quick cut of the life threads if I must do this. Better to collect the power from a star’s light and breath, or a nice, hot ball of uranium, honestly. More efficient at physical strikes and a lot less damaging to one’s own body and spirit.
If it’s draining their fury, or some other renewable and useless-in-battle trait, such as compassion, it may be effective enough to solve the problem, and even enhance the odds of survival.
Also, when your goal is to protect someone with an infinite number of enemies, cutting that number down is always wise. Perhaps you need a few fanatics in your own employ, so that your numbers might fall to 970 enemies? Every enemy dead is one less that you have to worry about.
A good end for a little adventure! Let”s go to the tavern and get another quest.
I’ve yet to see a bulletin board in any of the back-story shots.
LET THE MUSIC PLAY ON!
This party pleases my War Aspect.
Hmmm…. the Corps of Krieg have arrived it seems. The shelling will begin in five minutes, and the trench warfare will continue until someone blows up the feeble star bathing them in it’s gaudy incandescent glow….
Then they will fight with bayonet, stick and stone in the pale light of the infinite cosmos.
That or they’ll all die in the first five seconds.
The Black Speech is such a beautiful language.
Beautiful in the sense that a train wreck is beautiful, but still beautiful.
And the Universe itself trembled, as if it knew its time was drawing close….
My violence-bone has never been more FIRM. The yeast of my soul has RISEN. AND I MUST DEFILE IT.
You want butter on that?
To quote a gentleman and scholar: “The time has come, and so have I.”
Yeah.
Three “had” to die. Including the one that tried to backstab her and the one you backstabbed for no reason.
But I appreciate those priorities.
Thou hast portryed inferno wellwise.
I have to wonder what Mottom thinks she is doing. She claims Alison is “hers” and that she wants to find her, but I can’t help thinking that basically turning the place into a huge conflagration is perhaps not the most effective method of conducting a search for a small piece of rather fragile property.
It’s kinda like “Ok, I need to find me a needle in this here haystack, so the obvious way to start is by nuking the haystack. This will make it easy to find the needle. D’oh.”
And people are saying that Mammon is senile. Old Motton doesn’t seem too bright herself.
That’s what landing paratroopers and standing orders are for. If you divide the haystack on thousand people and burn it in a piecewise fashion, the chances of needlefinding go up even when the roaches and mice of the haystack attack!
> And people are saying that Mammon is senile. Old Motton doesn’t seem too bright herself.
Methinks that you have expressed a deep insight into the Seven. They’re all way too old, they are fading and, though still powerful beyond easy comprehension, are — as said — fading.
Hey, starting a war to find something that’s hidden worked for Bush, didn’t it.
Hrmm… The power of Prayer, brothers. The power of Prayer.
*very loud ride of the valkyries*
Wait…are those infrared goggles?
PHEW. The cat is still safe, y’all.
War has broken out that will almost certainly consume the whole of creation. Worlds will burn, again.
But still, the cat lives. So I am content.
Lowballing the number of worlds in an universe would give us something on the order of 1 quadrillion inhabited worlds. If the average population for each of these is about a billion people, that would work out at 777.777 sextillion people in Creation.
Which, of course, is worth a lot less than a cat, or Oscar’s wondrous pants.
A world at end, aye, a world that’s ending nigh.
I can only hope that there is a giant monster swimming through the coins like Scrooge McDuck about to jump out and swallow a ship. Or would that be asking for too much?
“What are they doing?” Asked the Pauper
“Playing” Answered the Priest
“Who’s winning?” Asked the Mason
“I am.” Answered the Least
Yes, Oscar. It is quite a mess.
One wonders where those children are right now.
One hopes they got away safely.
One doubts in such an assault the children would be safe.
One wonders if escape/injury/death of any of those children will be shown on panel.
It is war. Though it rankles us to the very core, this fact is clear. Children are rarely spared for the carnage, if for nothing but incidental destruction. Artillery shells care nothing for the age of the bodies they blast to atoms, and in the thick of gunsmoke even a child’s frame can seem like a lurking foe, in dire need for a bullet.
War is hell. Period.
there are always contingencies. know that the wretches will be delivered. whether their guardians escape with them, it is not known- but there is always a child displaced by war and ready to continue the cycle.
I love this?
Even if they filled their pockets with gold, that still wouldn’t be very much money. Plus that one guy is naked.
One of them is bound to have an iteration of a Bag of Holding. It might be cat, for all we know.
At a time like this the most risky and most expedited course of action would be to grab one of those ships in the chaos of battle and sail out the hole in the side of the building.
Then there exists the opportunity to start a fleet.
Intriguing, no?
And low, Brother Maxwell, deep in the far corners of the Infinite Vault of YRE, whose Count numbers 99999, cleans in exasperation. For he is the newest and lowest of the Priests, yet, in the past hour alone, his Count has jumped o’er a hundred paces, and seems to be, ever so perceptively, increasing ever rapidly. He knows not whether he should continue cleaning, or join his fellow Priests. But he is very, very deep, and thinks the falling Count most likely is the result of someone leaving the door open to the Mimic Forge.
You know when you think about it, it’s times like this when one cannot help but bode on what has transpired enough for one to arrive to this fated outcome……But also what this will all accomplish the grand scheme of it all, if anything, all the fighting, all the bloodshed, all the pain and loss, all for one’s own desire, as infinite and unknownable as they might be. But now all this for simple drive; one last, great stand, a fervent rage against one’s own fading of the light as it were. Because that is what is this all for of course. For no matter who really wins, if you could call it that, one way or another, the old way must always give way for the new. For even the great wheel must always trade in its old, torn spokes, for something newer. But, who knows for we are all trapped in these inescapable cycle of disparities; light and dark, order and chaos, and what have you. And I as ever, just as we are all, are along just to see where this wild ride of ours will take us in the end; for better and for worse.
But don’t mind me, I’m just your humble lookie-lou, engaging in a little self meta philosophical pondering for mine own sake. Also, especially for those, curious enough to lend little old me and ear. But, for You decide, not Me.
I must say this as turned into quite the showing if I do say so myself, very entertaining. But one cannot help but ponder on all that has accumulated ever since this venture began. All the fighting, all the bloodshed, all the pain and loss, and for what. One’s own desire of course, as infinitely vague and unknownable they might be. Although, when get down to it, all this really is is just a last, great stand, a fervent rage against own’s fading of the light as it were. As it should be, the old way must always die at the hand of the new. For even the great wheel must trade in the old, rusted spokes for something newer, greater. For those timeless legends before us and those for their ilk are forever trapped in an inescapable cycle of disparity; light and dark, good and evil, order and chaos, etcetera, etcetera. However those such as unbound by such linear viewpoint are merely just along for the ride, to see just where all this excited madness will lead to in the end, for better and for worse.
But, don’t mind me, I myself am just your omniverse-friendly lookie-lou with a weakness for marvelous epics such as this, indulging in a little metaphilosophical pondering for mine own sake. And hopefully, those kind enough and curious enough to lend me ear. But, that is for You, not Me.
This is incredibly badass. What a wonderful and terrible world this is.
Would love to see more of what warfare looks like in throne.
Is that the first male priest of the count we’ve seen, or is it just me?
It is just you. There were hundreds of them in the fight inside the invisible maze.
CON-FLA-GRA-TION !
With Black Speech Rhyming,
And Feckless Timing,
This Reckless Band
can Scarper from the Land
of Yre – now fallen to Fire and Sword.
Sure – pillage the Horde !
Fill your Pockets
– Mind the Blizzard of Rockets !
Yon false Prince be held by another Lord,
What perils must you now ford ?
Throw Ali-Sun into a Sack,
Trek ye Back.
Now – Dash under Goddess Gaze ?
Or Across Perilous Maze ?
Can you find yet Other ways ?
It seems like he doesnt bother to include poor felicia in the death count
Felicia was brought with the explicit purpose of being killed. She was never considered an actual team member
Maybe she was Lucky?
I really want to see what Mammon, Motton and #1 are up to
Yabalchoath’s pose in the first panel totally echo’s Allison’s pose on the first chapter cover, doesn’t it?
Since when do they use magic?
This is a decent outcome for Incubus, or more correctly Jagganoth. By manipulating Alison to go for Yre, Incubus got Mottom to go for Mammon’s throat, and almost killed Alison as well. He has very nearly taken out three players for the coming war, merely by getting them to try and kill each other.
I wonder how aware he was of Mottom’s motivations, if he could have planned this from the start. Probably not, though I wonder if he can wander around in peoples minds without them being aware of it.
THIS IS A PEACEFUL LAND.
I am disappointed in Oscar that he is not a quote “weed demon” unquote.
omg im so loving this comic so much its awesome 3 of my favorite things 1.blood 2. weapons 3.DEMONS
Communications must be a mess. Kinda reminds me of the 32947nd Siege of Angratha, that was chaotic as a drunken monkey in a bar fight.