kippilogue

## I AGREE. (link:"So.")[So. (link:"You agree.")[You agree. (after: time + 2s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[''Then, there is no other way that this story [[NO ENTRY FOR UNAUTHORISED PERSONS<-continues]].'']]]]

# NO ENTRY FOR UNAUTHORISED PERSONS ## (after: 2s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[A Kipperlilly Copperkettle Choose-Your-Own-Adventure.]] ## (after: 4s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[Otherwise known as:]] ## (after: 6s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[//THE KIPPILOGUE.//]] (after: 8s)[(t8n-arrive:"dissolve")[[>Continue.]]]

## TERMS AND CONDITIONS By continuing <a href="https://joanofradius.neocities.org/kipperlily">this story</a>, I agree to the following: (link:"I want to see more from this author.")[I want to see more from this author. (link:"I want to know what happens next.")[I want to know what happens next. (link: "I am denying this character a happy ending.")[I am denying this character a happy ending. [[I AGREE.]]]]]

You are KIPPERLILLY COPPERKETTLE. You have always been, KIPPERLILLY COPPERKETTLE. But who is, KIPPERLILLY COPPERKETTLE? You are the (cycling-link: bind $kippclass, "Administrator", "Pirate", "Rat Grinder"). (live:)|update>[(if: $kippclass is "Administrator")[<img src="https://joanofradius.neocities.org/valentines%20adaine.png" height="300px" width="auto">](else-if:$kippclass is "Pirate")[<img src="https://joanofradius.neocities.org/valentines%20fabian.png" height="300px" width="auto">] (else-if:$kippclass is "Rat Grinder")[<img src="https://joanofradius.neocities.org/valentines%20fig.png" height="300px" width="auto">]] [[>You know who you are.]]

(unless: (passage:)'s tags contains "no-header")[ (print: (passage:)'s name) ]

(unless: (passage:)'s tags contains "no-footer")[ --- (link: "save game")[ (save-game: "mySaveSlot") (alert: "game saved!") ] // (link: "load game")[ (load-game: "mySaveSlot") ]]

You are KIPPERLILLY COPPERKETTLE, and you are (if:$kippclass is "Rat Grinder" or "Pirate")[a](else-if:$kippclass is "Administrator")[an] ''$kippclass.'' (if:$kippclass is "Administrator")[You last saw Asmodeus on Tuesday. You still don't know the rate at which time passes in the Lower Planes compared to the Material, or even Upper. Occasionally, you'll catch snippets of conversation from lesser devils muttering along about their plans and schemes — that is, before you send them to their next assignment. Thankfully, you've been given a handy little calendar on your desk that seems to sync up with the material plane relatively well. Or, at least, enough to arraign for your boss's somewhat more cunning plans and schemes. Asmodeus pays well, at the very least. You'd bargained back and forth with him on a deal; he'd made you page through an obnoxious amount of legalese. Not to be deterred, you'd read the fine print only to learn that he was trying to swindle you into working weekends //and// having no bank holidays. Classic devil behaviour. You had studiously annotated the contract and handed it back, and he had chuckled mildly. "Clever girl." If you'd still had that rage star in your chest, you'd have ripped his throat out on the spot. But you'd been doing //so// much better on that front, so you settled for an chipper, bone-chilling smile, and, "when do I start?" According to your fancy Hell calendar, it's been six months since that moment. So what the hell are you doing //here//?](else-if:$kippclass is "Pirate")[You've been on the deck of The Goldenhoard for months now, working your way up the ranks. Well, you would be, if Captain Seacaster would let you progress any further than powder monkey. (It's annoying as hell, but you'll tolerate it if it means that your abilities rebalance properly as a Swashbuckler.) It's funny. You've always considered yourself somewhat of a stickler for the rules, someone who follows the rule of law to a T even if it means ignoring the spirit of them entirely. Now, you're a pirate. Or, as the Captain's idiot son used to say, a //privateer//. Not that there are many laws to break in Hell. Hell is a bureaucratic... hellhole, but there aren't many laws that every Circle abides by, and as an archdevil himself, the Captain has his way of getting what he wants, when he wants it. Frankly, you're impressed. While outright violent and downright threatening, there's a consistency to the kind of chaotic that he is. Multiple times you have caught yourself wondering how this highly competent, terrifying man produced his absolute chud of a son. You've been on that ship for what feels like six months, if you've been counting the length of your trips through the Circles correctly. So what the hell are you doing //here//?](else-if:$kippclass is "Rat Grinder")[You are a senior at the Aguefort Adventuring Academy, and you're already tired of it. Ever since that day you'd ported back into the Aguefort gym, horns and tail and all (and well, you hadn't been exactly sure what you'd walked into, and neither Lucy nor Applebees seemed to particularly want to elaborate on it), you'd been. Well. Acclimatising, would be the right word, you suppose. Your party, despite all attempts to convince them otherwise, has firmly disagreed with every attempt of yours to fire yourself, and you are technically back on track with senior year, given that the disruption happened at the end of the year. Principal Aguefort, back in his office, had only said the following when questioned about your return to school: "turning evil! Common occupational hazard for any decent adventurer. Not that I would consider The Rat Grinders a 'decent' adventuring party, but they've surely got some things going for them now. It's a bold choice to bring back the party member who utterly fucked them over, but that's how you get interesting! It invites intrigue! Pizzazz!" You don't even know where to begin to unpack that. Stupid fucking school. Stupid fucking principal. Stupid fucking counselling sessions, and classes, and Bad Kids. But you've done your best, because you owe it to Lucy, after you massively fucked her life over and derailed her entire year. She's still got a lot to catch up between the amount of school she missed in junior year, but between your copious notes, taken on behalf in between the classes //you// didn't need to attend, and... Well, the "tutoring" situation that she has between herself and Applebees, she's catching up quickly. And Lucy's smart, you know that. She'll be fine. //You'll// be fine. So what the hell are you doing //here?//] [[>Where's here?]]

You've been here before — well, in the general area, but maybe not to this exact part. You're back in Avernus, otherwise known as the Bottomless Pit, First Circle of the Nine Hells. The red rock beneath your feet is achingly familiar, as is the smell of sulphur and the sounds of the tortured, screaming dead. Some part of you notes that you're glad that you're not still one of them, that you somehow managed to evade your fate through the auspices of the people you'd met here. Nevertheless, the sound still unnerves you. It reminds you of— —Well. You'd prefer not to think about it, really. You know she's been resurrected, but you can't say it doesn't bother you. [[>Elaborate.]]

You are simply not going to. [[>Talk about the Pit.]]

The first time you were here in the Bottomless Pit, you'd been a shade waiting to be processed, and then you'd spirited yourself away fairly quickly after that. As a result, most of your previous time in the Pit had been spent wandering near the top of the Ring, and even though you had briefly explored some of the tunnels, you hadn't reached anywhere close to the actually bottom on your last expedition. You're in a different part of the Pit this time — a much deeper part, in fact. The walls have crept up around you as you've descended further into the pit, darkening in colour from crimson to the copper of dried blood. The heat of Hell, which at the top of the Pit was sharp and searing, has become an enveloping warmth that surrounds you entirely. It's uncomfortable, and the air is so hot it feels thick. Still, you press on. You're going somewhere. You think. [[>Where are you going?]]

You've been walking through the depths for ages, which is on-brand for Hell. They don't call it the Bottomless Pit for no reason. But you //are// heading somewhere specific this time, and you need to be stealthy about it. This is child's play to you of course, as a high level Rogue (although, the exact nature of your Rogue-ness has changed significantly compared to it from before you had died). You've dressed yourself in a dark cloak, another one of the shades just here to blend in. No one has given you a second look as you've shambled past, but it has limited how quickly you can move through certain parts of the Ring. That said, you are now past the more crowded parts of the Pit, and this area is significantly less sparse, given what—//who//—it's meant to contain. You haven't passed anyone in the past thirty minutes, by your estimates, and you probably won't until you get to your destination. [[>Keep walking.]]

[[>You see it.]]

This place is a warren of red rock and sulphur. What you're looking for is buried deep down, a dead-end not meant for casual passers-by. It's an enormous steel gate, grand and terrible. The kind that they put in front of mansions to inform guests of the severity of the place they're about to enter, or prisons. It's much taller than you are, but then again, you were born a halfling, so that doesn't say very much. Last you checked, you were just over three feet tall, and this gate is definitely at least six times your height. It's imposing, but you know you're supposed to feel that way. This is Hell, after all. You read the [sign nailed onto it, just above your head.]<kipp1| (click: ?kipp1)[(replace: ?kipp1)[sign nailed onto it, just above your head. (t8n:"dissolve")[It's bright red and covered in grime, but the white text is clear as day. <center>(box:"=XXXX=", 6)+(bg:red)[(colour: white)[(cycling-link: "PROTECTED PLACE FORCE MAY BE USED NO ENTRY FOR UNAUTHORISED PERSONS", "TEMPAT LARANGAN TINDAKAN KERAS AKAN DIAMBIL DILARANG MASUK TANPA KEBENARAN", "保护区闲人免进擅闯者可遭强行处置","உத்தரவின்றி நுழைய அனுமதி இல்லை. அத்துமீறுவோர் பலவந்தமாகக் கையாளப்படலாம்")]]</center> When you touch it, the sign ripples and translates itself, sequentially, into every major language of Spyre, followed by Abyssal, and then Celestial. From your knowledge of at least two of them (Common and Halfling), they all say the same thing. [[>You shouldn't be here.]]]]]

[[>A little further.]]

[[>There.]]

You've let your feet carry you forward this far, but now, you're stuck. You know what lies beyond this gate. You've walked all the way here for it. Scoured the mountains of paperwork living in Figueroth's office (which, it's not like she let you in this time, but you're still a //Rogue//, god damn it) to even find this place to begin with. You know //who// lies beyond this gate. You //know// what you came here for. So why can't you move forward? [[>Why indeed.]]

The air down here is hot, but that's not the reason that drawing breath — habitual, even when you're not technically alive anymore — feels like torture. Your chest is tight, and even though your heart doesn't beat in your chest in quite the same way anymore, it still throbs away at a pace that you can feel. The problem is: your heartbeat, or what remains of it, is also echoed in countermelody. Left, then right. The hole in your chest, where a ruby-red shatterstar once resided: it pulses, steadily. [[>You hate it.]]

You've been feeling it for months, now. (if:$kippclass is "Administrator")[Being a Hell Secretary is potentially one of the occupations most suited to your disposition in all of Spyre. You take moderate amounts of joy in sending the dead off to be tormented, with the knowledge that if they've made it all the way down here, they probably deserve it, for one reason or another. It's a good thing Solace doesn't have meaningful child labour laws — you are from an //Adventuring Academy//, after all, or you wouldn't have had the chance to enjoy this. You'd probably still be wandering around the Nine Hells, somewhere. Nevertheless, there had been one or two instances that had really gotten under your skin. Asmodeus had mentioned offhand to you that there had been some mild power struggle in the Upper Rings, as //someone// (and here, you winced, because there was no way you wouldn't recognise the descriptor) dressed in Helioic evangelical garb had tried to swipe some part of a domain from a lesser devil for a new baby god he had made up. Somehow, the perp hadn't even been caught. Now, this aforementioned sucker of a devil was stuck somewhere (if you'd pardon the pun, and you had, because this was your boss talking) in a bureaucratic hell of his own making, and some parts of the Nine Hells wanted to start up a turf war with the Upper Planes. They didn't even know where the evangelical had went, they'd just //assumed// it was some bullshit on the part of Heaven again, leaving your boss to clean up the mess. You hoped Buddy had gotten away. If you ever have to see that stupid motherfucker's face again, it will be too soon. You'd also hoped your face hadn't revealed anything of what you knew about him, about Bacharath. Your heart — //hearts// — hadn't stopped pounding since then.](else-if:$kippclass is "Pirate")[On the deck of the Goldenhoard, you'd been wrapped up in drills, dueling Alistair Ash as you learned to master your new Swashbuckler abilities. You'd insisted that you would be able to duel as well as literally anybody else on this hell-bound crew, and the Captain had reminded you, poison on his tongue, that you, little lassie, had spent most of your high school career, before you had brutally cut it short, //stomping rats//, according to his darling boy. In that moment, you had once again been reminded of how Fabian Aramais Seacaster was crawling up the ranks of your personal list of nemeses. When you snarled this at the Captain, he'd only cheered, saying that his son definitely needed to be kept on his toes, now that Chungledown Bim was no longer in play. So. A tussle with Ash it was. Alistair, to his credit, had at least been a match for you in terms of build — he isn't that much taller than you are, even if he is ten times more annoying. He'd swung at you with his little cutlass, and you'd Uncanny Dodged it effortlessly, and Captain Seacaster had //scoffed// at you. "Bad form, lassie. Actually dodge it properly this time. Be //faster//. None of your cheap, fake abilities bullshit." You hadn't said anything. You'd just gritted your teeth and launched yourself back into the fray. It had taken you over two hours to realise that your two heartbeats weren't just a hallucination from the adrenaline.](else-if:$kippclass is "Rat Grinder")[School has been normal. With all the work your party had been prepared to go through to get you back onto the Material Plane already done, the paperwork had been relatively easy to clear. You'd done the rest as neatly and efficiently as you could, packing the events of your Junior Year away into your files and binders for submission to the school administration, or what was left of it, anyway. (Does this school even work at all? You swear, even if you hadn't been part of a plan to end the world and establish the domain of a new god, you'd have been a better Principal of Aguefort than anyone else currently in the administration.) It's been... Fine. Mostly. The other students still stare at you and your horns in the hallway, but you (as much as you're //loathe// to say it) are under the protection of The Bad Kids now. Not much harm is going to come to you, unless it's from them. And, well. You still ignore Riz Gukgak when you both stealth past each other in the halls. You have taken your precautions. He has taken his. Neither of you can skip senior year's homework or classes anymore, on account of both having found Eugenia last year. You've arranged your office hours with her accordingly, and she is marginally more useful than before. (It is slightly better than every year you have survived Aguefort Adventuring Academy //without// a teacher.) You have plenty of work to do. There is homework to do, and colleges to apply for. You are busy //enough//. But the first time you'd stepped into the Far-Haven Woods, with the intent of resuming your daily regimen: you'd gotten fifteen minutes into trekking to your usual spot, before the scent of the pine and the distant sounds of Lake Shimmerstone had you revisiting the contents of your lunch all over the grass. The members of your party had arrived, ten minutes later, to the smell of bile, and you perched up in a tree, tightly curled up against the trunk. That was the first time you had heard it. Your two heartbeats, if you could call them that.] [[>Ba-dum. Ba-dum.]]

## <center>(t8n:"dissolve")[(colour: red)[''[[PORTER CLIFFBREAKER.->>IT'S HIM.]]'']]</center> (if:visits >= 5)[What are you going to do, [[turn around and leave?->>IT'S HIM.]]] (if:visits >= 10)[You can't do that.] (if:visits >= 15)[[[You won't let yourself do that.->>IT'S HIM.]]] (if:visits >= 20)[[>The only way through is forward.]]

You still haven't gotten used to the rhythm of it. It's most bothersome at night, when you lay down to rest, and you can hear them both pulse when your head touches the pillow. You don't know why this is happening. Dying removed the shatterstar from your chest, you're sure of it. Or at least, stopped its effects. Once you'd calmed down from the violent impacts of fiery death, your disposition had levelled out to a normal level of homicidal. You know you died with it //physically// in your body. You don't know whether it stayed with you when you moved from the Material Plane to here. You'd seen the shatterstar exit the bodies of your party members when they'd been slaughtered. Yours hadn't done the same, on account of the different ritual being used. Even then, you know the residuals of burn scars on your body aren't exactly the realest, either. It's what you had imagined yourself to look like, when you had died. [[>You'd noticed it.]]

When you'd peeled off your shirt for the first time in the bathroom, after dying. The symbol from the ritual was still there, albeit faded, no longer glowing with red light. You hadn't felt the weight of it then. You know what it feels like to have the crystal in your chest. You //know//. So why the //fuck// is it still beating? [[>That's what you're here to find out.]]

You've done your best to minimise physical contact since the event of your passing. (You were never the hugging kind, anyway, your parents know this well enough). Yes, you've been sparring and training, but you're dextrous enough to slip out of most grapples, so no one's held onto you for long. At least, not long enough to examine what your chest currently looks or feels like. You haven't told anyone, either. They wouldn't get it, after all. This one is on you. [[>Break the lock.]]

The seal is based on terribly ancient abjuration magic — it //is// from a goddess whose name has only recently been revived, after all. Ironically, it is also no match for your prowess with Hexcel. After diagnosing the issue sufficiently, you reorganise some cells in your spreadsheet and hold your phone up to the gate. The lock breaks within a matter of seconds, and no alarms go off. You allow yourself to feel a little bit of satisfaction. Let no one ever say that you don't enjoy breaking and entering when it suits your needs. [[>Cross over the threshold.]]

You push the gate just wide enough for you to slip through, and step over the threshold into Ankarna's domain. It is hot here. Hotter than Avernus. Hotter than any fire you've felt before. Hotter than the lava that burnt you to death. But you've felt this before. You remember it from when you met her. When you recited the words that he'd told you to say to her, to see you as one of her followers. That you were nothing to fear, you were only here to worship in awe and respect. To accept (cycling-link: "her", "his") symbol into your body, as part of you. The heat had been searing then, the fire of eternal rage and conquest turned upon you as it attempted to decipher the truth of your discipleship. Now, you //know// the fire is different. It is brighter, lighter. It reminds you of the heat of a summer day, and the cleansing fire of baptism and justice, even as it is technically still Infernal in nature. To give credit to Figueroth, she's done a good job maintaining this domain for its true owner. But you're not here for either of them. [[>Walk into the flames.]]

There is a clear path to follow, and you trace it in your Mary Janes, which thankfully do not get particularly singed. Magic fire, you suppose, has its benefits. What you're looking for is not particularly deep into the domain. [[>THERE.]]

A figure, a silhouette settled starkly against the blinding light of the fires of justice. [[>IT'S HIM.]]

Man