Prelude
“Ah, he comes! He steps lightly, as ever, and the regalia of his office is not on him. Clandestinely he came, then, wishing not to be seen, indeed, but I-I…” a finger is waved poignantly in the air as the word is prolonged before being repeated. “I can sense the dark mantle of his power trailing the ground he treads on. See how he navigates with caution through the piles of my discarded creations. Curiosity, I think, overcomes caution as he scans the most extravagant among them – what has the Broken come up with this time, he wonders! – but his business is urgent. What does the mighty Prophet want with me, I wonder?”
The cloaked figure all but rushed as he wrapped his robes around him before sitting. At the back of the room, a heavy curtain moved by the air and candles flickered, giving the tune for shadows to dance around the filled with parchments table.
“I have no time for games,” the Prophet growled lowly, his barytone voice, like a slab sliding over a tomb, a stark contrast to the Broken’s frequent tenor cracks. Deep under his cowl, his eyes pierced the Broken’s back, who was still sketching furiously. “And neither do you. You should have told me that you had returned.”
“Why?” the Broken replied. “Why would he need me to tell him when his lackeys monitor my every move. If I didn’t know any better, I would say he fears me!” The last thought made him chuckle.
“Enough,” intervened the Prophet, the slab of his deep voice sliding shut over the tomb it ever grinded on. “We are closer than ever before, this time. So, for the Lord’s sake, focus!”
There was a change in his attitude. His frantic, almost erratic, moves of drawing another incomprehensible design ceased as he paused all movement. He turned, his head slightly tilted, the broken deathmask – kept in place by ribbons filled with prayers – allowing a glitter to dance playful and cunning in his one uncovered eye. The image was fitting, surrounded as he was by his macabre curiosities; rows upon rows of jars on shelves, some empty, labeled with elegant writing, others filled with liquid thick enough to hide the true shape of the shades that floated within. He straightened his head, almost as if he had forgotten it was tilted and suddenly realized.
“Ah,” he said. “He wants to talk about the ritual, he does. That does help me focus, doesn’t it? Do tell, do tell, dear Prophet. Have you discovered something new?”
“I found the Apocrypha Animonderis.”
“How many pages this time, mighty one?” the Broken said, faking a tired sigh.
“All of them.”
This truly gave him pause. He searched the Prophet’s eyes with his one, anger, fury but above all envy flaming in it. Where? Where had he found it? How had this worthless, power-hungry idiot managed to get his hands on his prize? But then, among the myriad thoughts that danced around his mind like leaves in a hurricane, one thought prevailed, and his dry, grey lips broke as he smiled.
“And you need someone to read it,” he said.
“I have already read it,” the Prophet answered flatly.
“Of course, I am sorry. I meant to understand it.”
“Focus,” the Prophet said, calm as death, as he produced the tome from under his robes. “My notes are inside. Let’s get to work.”
* * *
“Death then,” the Broken said finally, his eye matching his racing mind, jumping left and right, “and Life are just like any other construct. Except in all the ways in which they are, of course, absolutely different. Are you following?”
It was hard to withstand anyone’s weakness or idiocy; and the Prophet felt he was constantly being surrounded by both. But the Broken challenged him on a whole different level – working with him over the Apocrypha, hours upon hours of studying and experimenting, proved a constant strain on his abilities, a contest of will, intellect and power that drove him to his limits. It was as exhilarating as it was threatening; and he thrived in it for in the end he knew he’d always come on top. For, for all his power and intellect, crippled by his incomprehensible obsessions, trapped between his own mind’s fragments, the Broken could never match him. That, the Prophet knew, was the sole reason that had made him cooperate with him in the first place. The conviction of his superiority in practicality.
In short, he had found the perfect tool. One needed not care how fire worked. One only needed it to burn.
“Go on,” he said simply.
“For Animonderis, the soul is the one common building block of both life and death; one defined by its presence, the other by its absence. He believes that the integrity, the sanctity of the soul remains – must remain, in fact – untouchable and that this link to life and death is insurmountable. The question he poses, therefore, is what the soul truly is? The mysteries of the Dweghom, he proposes, would suggest that attitudes, instincts, even memories, are not attached to the soul. For if the soul is untouchable, then one could not cut a piece of it and stuff it in shapes, see? Good.”
“Yes, yes,” the Prophet said. “But Animonderis did not command the Pyre. Nor had he the chance to study its effects. Will the ingredients work? What am I missing? Do you believe it can be done, Broken?”
“What?” the Broken turned, his focus suddenly snapping back into the gloomy workshop and his visitor. “Of course it can be done. What a weird question! We have just solved it. I said the whole thing about the construct, didn’t I? All we need is the right materials and the right tools. And then… oh then, you and I have the power to do the building.”
“Do you know what we would need to complete it?”
“Why yes, yes, clear as the Pyre on the horizon it is. Your list is good, I added a few more. Small things, really. Scattered around the world, probably. Oh, and of course, we must return to the fire what we took from the fire.”
“Yes,” the Prophet muttered. “The others will not take this lightly.”
“Hmf. The others!” the Broken scoffed. “It does not matter. The materials must be right. No. The materials will define what is right.”
“I will make the arrangements,” the Prophet said eagerly, as he got up. “Do the same,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Indeed,” the Broken said but he barely heard him. Gliding into the night, his dark robe pierced the twilight, a flailing blot of darkness against weak shadows, until another shape creeped next to him without a sound.
“Divine one,” the newcomer hissed.
“Prepare the forces,” he barked, never slowing his eager walk. “We’ll need different teams. Infiltration, extraction, combat… And contact our agents with the Whisperer and the Warlord. Let us nudge them in the right direction, for a while.”
“Will it be done, my lord?”
“Yes,” he replied, dark eyes glittering with impatience under his hood. “Long have we been plagued by the limitations of our troops’ condition but soon I will command the mysteries of death. I shall awake their uses; awake them, yes, but never doubting.” He glances sideways at his faithful. “They shall be filled with the Lord’s Will,” he added, before turning ahead once more. “And then, we shall immortalize the world in it… Now go.”
Like a crow among shadows, the figure fled, equipped with the will of his Prophet.
Far behind, deep within the half-collapsed catacombs the Prophet had just emerged from, alone amidst the chaos of his workshop, the Broken one went on.
“Of course, Animonderis is wrong. Fundamentally so. Death is not the presence of the soul. And Life just happens to be an attractive host. And indeed, Animonderis had not the Pyre at his disposal; nor our Lord’s will; nor had he, or anyone, my power and understanding, did he?”
He walked slowly, almost hesitantly, to the dark curtain at the side of the room. With a trembling hand he pushed it aside softly, designs and hung materials dropping and shuffling as they were pushed aside. Behind the curtain, an all but empty room was bathed in soft candlelight. A simple box lay there, alone in the only neat corner of the workshop. There were no papers here, no curiosities, no jars of body parts. Just the one simple box – battered by age but repaired time and time again – big enough for one to fit in, lit by a single black candle. He smiled, reaching softly for it.
“Soon, my love,” he says, his voice as steady as never before that night. “I shall cure the soul of Life’s affliction. Soon, I will bring our flock back, willing servants of our Lord’s will. Soon, I will bring back you – defiant, free-spirited, untamable you.”
The Vessel
As the faithful – few as they were – sung their hallowed melody, Henrik raised both arms in blissful reverence and joined in their prayers.
Skagg, was a village of meagre means; it is a place where the word “comfort” seems foreign and aloof to the minds of its coarse-spirited populace. Situated along the windswept shores of Norvden, Skagg’s remoteness sticks out even amidst the standards of the region; with the closest proper town being a good three days to reach on horse-back.
The only thing this village was famous for – and Henrik used the word “famous” quite generously at that – was salted cod. Tough like boot-leather and excessively salty, these slabs of cured fish can last for months at a time, making them a sought out commodity for sailors, merchants, and soldiers alike.
There was no pretty way in framing it: Skagg was a backwater hovel of a village. Yet, despite its shortcomings, Henrik cherished his dilapidated parish with all his heart. He had been a priest here for ten years, spreading the creed of the Theist Church to a scant flock of fifty or so souls. Though few in number, the inhabitants of this village had unshakable faith – praising the glory of the Theos each and every day without fail.
Bolstered by such pristine faith, Henrik led today’s sermon – reading from the prayer book that was splayed in front of him atop the central podium of the church. His honey-dipped barytone of a voice reverberated as he preached, followed by the soft murmurs of the faithful that echoed his every word with religious captivation.
“In the fires of sin was Man brought low! Let those who remain seek redemption within the eternal light of the Theos!” exclaimed Henrik, dragging his gaze across the church hall. After a brief pause, he continued, “Seek deliverance ye of faith! Live this day as you do every other: with piety and reverence for the divine creed!”
As if on cue, the church attendants got up – muttering a few last words of prayer before exiting the building.
Henrik let the silence wash over him, carefully closing the prayer book in front of him and resting his fingers upon the ornate cover. He remained as such for a few minutes, the pattering of the rain outside buzzing throughout the gloomy church hall.
“You did not pray today, friends,” firmly spoke the priest – addressing four robed figures, two on each side of the hall. The silent visitors had occupied the darkened edges of the room throughout the sermon, not once partaking in the religious exaltations. Despite their efforts to remain obscured, Henrik had taken notice of them almost immediately – for he knew every crevasse of the weathered church building like the back of his hand, and his lingering company reeked of faithlessness to boot.
“Are you merchants, then? Though you lack the countenance of traders…” mused Henrik out-loud, “Or are you perhaps simple travelers, seeking a moment of religious solace while passing through Skagg?” As the priest spoke, three of the figures inched forward; the fourth made way for the church entrance, hastily barring the twin wooden doors.
Henrik felt a spike of uneasiness jolt through him, letting his hand drop to the hilt of the sword that was sheathed by his waist. One of the persons stepped forward: a giant of a man, broad as he was tall. He pulled back his hood, revealing a scar-marred visage that was devoid entirely of hair.
“Our lady seeks a vessel of prayers to no one, priest,” stated the man flatly. “Be it your form or the symbol of your faith,” continued the brute, gesturing at the prayer book that was positioned on the podium, “is up to you.”
“I know not your lady,” Henrik said defiantly, his blade catching candlelight as it rang, freed from its sheath. “But she will make no demands in His house.”
“Fear not for the serenity of your temple, priest,” the man smiled crookedly. “She speaks only in whispers.”
With a nod, the others moved towards Henrik, drawing their hidden weapons with hushed eagerness.
FORCES OF THE OLD DOMINION ARE IN THE HUNDRED KINGDOMS. THE OUTCOME WILL INFLUENCE THE RESULT OF THE RITUAL.
Poll
- Bring back the priest’s book (Result favors Prophet)
- Bring the priest back alive (Result favors Broken)
Blades that Keep Serving in Failure
Kare Valdirson was no coward.
He was a veteran of battles aplenty and no stranger to blood. He had spilled the blood of southerners while raiding. He had slaughtered Nords from other Aettir and kin from his own. He had spilled his own blood when his brother sullied his betrothed. Never, during those times, had he hesitated or feared. Kare Valdirson was no coward.
He smiled at this thought, as he leaned against the lighthouse’s outer wall, his boredom somewhat subsided. It was a good place to keep watch over the ships, for it overlooked both piers and the warehouse’s entrance. Others stood guard as well, of course, but Kare was willing to bet the ones on the ships were sleeping their mead off and Jork outside the warehouse was not the sharpest blade of the armory. It did not matter; the village had not raided yet so no one would raid from land. And from the sea, no ship could sail in without Soerbjorn knowing.
Blade. He smiled at the thought of the word, drawing his sword once more and watching its blade catch the pale moonlight as he moved it. Two blades, sharpened and merged into one, sprouting from a hilt made of two metal serpents coiled around each other, their joined heads forming the pommel; despite the three missing stones from the eyes, it remained as beautiful as ever. Tvennr it had been named long ago by his ancestors, twofold, and it had proved a fitting name. This was the sword that Sjolne had used to subdue Heilfa and the same Kare had used to take his own brother’s life for it. A just killing, the elders had declared it. Twice over, he thought, for the blade should have been passed on to him in the first place.
It dawned on him, for a moment, that such a story was no stranger to the blade. After wielding it for decades, his grandfather, a true bastard of a man, had lost his life to it. His father, Valdir, had seen to it. Before that, his great grandmother, Aitta the Bloody, had wielded it, and she had killed more Nords than any in recent memory.
It had been suggested, of course, that the blade was cursed. An heirloom, they said, from the Fire Giants; some said it was, in fact, a dagger, some ceremonial thing in the hands of those that once wielded them. Others said that it was one of a pair, wielded by firechildren generals; twins that died side by side, failing to secure the Firegod’s flank. Skoffa of Bjornheim was supposedly wielding its sister blade, but other candidates were named as well. Truth be told, Skoffa’s Einnari was a similar looking blade, but feather themed; and Skoffa, if rumors were to be believed, had done his share of murder in his prime.
With a shrug, Kare sheathed the sword and scoffed. Such tales of curses were not rare in Mannheim; nor were tales of blood and violence. It was the Nord way. He had no intention of not wielding this family heirloom, and stories and fables be damned. Kare Valdirson was no coward.
Then, the water moved. His eyes narrowing he scanned the bay, cursing the weak moonlight piercing the clouds lazily. Eventually, he saw it, a big bulk, a small whale perhaps, lost in the fjord, sticking its back or head out of the water. Good; Soerbjorn was an expensive mouth to feed and this would buy them a day or even two, perhaps. Hoping the sea Jotun would keep the kill quiet, he waited for the familiar gust and spray of the whale’s blow to echo in the night, but it did not come. Instead, the whale just stayed there, floating gently as the weak current of the bay moved it. He smiled, thinking the hunt was already over and waited to see the carcass being pulled below water.
Instead, he heard more water stir, this time from the shore.
Kare Valdirson was no coward. But as he saw the dead walk out of the water, the wet plumes of their helmets dripping as they hung mournfully to the back or the side, their unmasked faces as expressionless and empty as the deathmasks among them, he felt his warning cry choke him.
Jork, gods bless him, rang the bell and screamed for the village to take arms. One by one, alarmed cries answered the call. But Kare did not. One of the dead, soaking dark robes dripping water and malice around him, stepped out and turned immediately to look at him, despite the distance. Then, the figure pointed at him, and the dead moved.
Kare Valdirson shook like a leaf in a storm before he died.
FORCES OF THE OLD DOMINION ARE IN MANNHEIM, LOOKING FOR RELICS OF THE LAST CRUSADE. THE OUTCOME WILL INFLUENCE THE RESULT OF THE RITUAL.
Poll
- Failure
- Success
The Womb of a Mother Designed
Tukkuni stared off into the moonlit, tropical thickets of the oasis, Huenantli, letting the moist-ladened air caress his nostrils and flood his lungs. Tonight was calm – at least by the standards of the great wasteland. Perched atop the remains of the long defunct spire – its organic ruins giving him a vantage point high above even the tallest oasis palm – the W’adrhŭn brave let his focus drift across the jade expanse below.
The air reverberated with the buzzing and clicking of insects and the distant – but never too distant – roaring and thumping of immense beasts. Occasionally, he would spot an aggravated tree-top, shaking violently by an unknown force beneath its leafy carapace. In the distance, barely visible, framing the oasis’ far off borders, he could spot the emptiness that lingered outside his people’s forested home – sandy browns turned into void-drunk blacks and grays under the night sky.
Below, spread around the base of the broken spire, like moss across the unearthed roots of a great tree, lay the sprawling oasis city – festooned with flickering torchlight and the near-organic architecture of the great tribes. Here, at one of the spire’s many lookouts – with the repurposed structure’s shell serving as an archaic yet imposing fortress – the brave started to resent his guard duties this night. It was too quiet, too uneventful – his wavering attention craved tasks with more mental robustness – and the brave felt the unwelcome sensation of boredom slither into his thoughts.
Tukkuni yawned. He never yawned. The gesture seemed alien to him – unaligned with his warrior’s composure. Yet, despite the unnatural novelty of this action, he yawned again, splaying his jaws like a hungering raptor. The brave’s eyelids felt ripe, wavering with irksome drowsiness. For an instant, Tukkuni felt his eyes snap shut – slipping into a momentary slumber that lasted but for a second.
Immediately, the brave snapped out of his involuntary rest, forcefully straightening his posture and grunting in self-disgust. Despite his best efforts, the feeling persisted: his brandished axe felt unusually heavy, his breathing was sluggish, and his thoughts were tempting him with sleep.
His second ever yawn also happened to be his last – turning into a muffled groan as all the air escaped his body in one forceful push.
Tukkuni, lost in a grossly uncharacteristic state of absentmindedness, had failed to notice the intruders that had stalked towards his position – scaling the spire’s sloped surface with hooks. What he didn’t fail to notice, however, was the dagger which was now firmly planted between his shoulder blades – slicing through his spine with its unwelcome intrusion.
Behind him, a ghoulish cloaked figure loomed; its lower body was obscured in a torrent of smoke and ash. The kheres drove its dagger further into the brave’s flesh – digging into the meat with a blood-drenched slosh. Tukkuni’s vision swam in a sea of crimson, toppling backward as his legs gave out. As the brave descended into death, the undead humanoid leaned into a whisper, crooning as it spoke.
“You are welcome, lost one.”
The last thing Tukkuni saw was the rest of the undead infiltrators climbing onto his vantage-point, hissing before descending into oblivion. His last thought was two panicked words.
The Matriarch…
Iulios licked his lips – or at least tried. The Xhiliarch’s state of undeath had robbed him of the saliva that once coated his tongue – now dull brown, cracked, and devoid of any moisture like the rest of his mummified physiology. Despite the pointless nature of such a gesture, Iulios repeated it nonetheless; some habits clung to him even in unlife.
Iulios hated this place. He despised the oasis with fevered tenacity indeed: insect ridden and riddled with primordial predators; this hermetic jungle was a forested maze that held countless dangers. On their way here, one of his men had complained of pain in his gut – their kind felt no pain, not of the physical sort at least – only to find out a maggot the size of a field mouse had burrowed into the wretch’s gut, causing him something approximating discomfort.
The Xhiliarch despised his mission most of all. Slinking in the dark, in such a roguish fashion, was unbecoming of a legion commander such as himself. While Iulios was tasked with entering the bowels of the broken spire to retrieve a spawning vat, the others, the second group of infiltrators, were sent to capture the W’adrhŭn matriarch – a far more honorable objective than his. The Warlord, his liege, had called the other mission “suicide”, insisting that Iulios pursue the less deadly prize – not wishing for his second in-command to perish needlessly. Despite his lord’s sound reasoning, the Xhiliarch craved a true challenge, and this was not it.
Iulios narrowed his eyes with parchment-dry lids, observing the single soul that was guarding the entrance to the spire’s bowels. The Xhiliarch and his squad were shrouded by the dense jungle foliage, silent as the grave while observing their target.
“One guard,” thought Iulios, “so close to the city. Easy. Too easy.”
Despite his lingering suspicion, the Xhiliarch proceeded with his objective, gesturing to a mummified female to his right. With a nod, the woman raised her bow, firing a single arrow from the inky darkness. The W’adrhŭn guard fell with a thud soon after – the arrowhead cleanly implanted between his eyes. Iulios couldn’t help but grin with a figment of pride: Augustia’s impressive marksmanship skills were a direct result of his tutelage.
Wordlessly, the Xhiliarch and his squad hurried into the spire tunnel. As they began their descent into the structure’s cavernous bowels, the interior brought forth a memory from Iulios’ distant – very distant – childhood. His mother would, on special occasions, make a dish consisting of lamb entrails wrapped around organ meat – they could not afford to waste any part of the animal. Iulios would clean the entrails himself, flushing out their contents with water and scrubbing their ribbed interior with his fingers. The spire tunnel reminded him of such innards – lacking the moisture of living tissue but unmistakably organic.
“Too easy,” thought again the Xhiliarch, as his group moved further in.
THE OLD DOMINION INFILTRATED THE OASIS OF HUENANTLI TO FIND A “WOMB OF A MOTHER DESIGNED.” WHAT DO THEY BRING BACK?
Poll
- The remains of a Spawning Vat
- The oasis Matriarch
A Memory Aware
There are abandoned Holds scattered around the face of Eä; tombs of ages past, hosting the worthy among those that walked their Halls once.
They are quiet places, these Holds. Most cemeteries are, after all. Their silence is broken solely by the disrespect of the world outside and the imagination of visitors. Often do such daring callers conjure whispers and movement, or the solemn eyes of lingering ghosts of lives long expired, watching from a place just at the edge of their vision. For the silence of death is scarier to the living mind than the voices of the dead; the stillness of those present more threatening than a movement imagined.
The visitors of Ghabol’Domn, were no strangers to such silence and stillness. Fitting company they found inside the sealed houses of the worthy and eager confidants in their quiet voices. Yet there was no camaraderie between them, no love lost by the worthy for their profane brothers-in-death. For, in their deathly procession, the visitors defiled both quiet and stillness. No light accompanied them, but no light was needed, for their coming was proclaimed unabashedly in the dark.
First came a rumble; a single note, deep and monotonous, of stone dragged against stone. Its low growl bounced against the sealed domains of the worthy, heralding the coming of the defilers and taunting the faces sculpted above each door, which stared in quiet anger. Then came the bells, as a censer rang its misty prayers, blessing the disciple of death that followed. Then, finally, came the steps, neither quiet nor careful, making armors and vestments rattle; defiant, derisive, confident.
Deeper and deeper this blasphemous choir ventured into the Hold; and deeper still their coming was announced to ears trained in the silence of the empty halls. When the procession appeared around the corner of the narrow corridor, wide scattered steps leading them to the halls below, the Sorcerer was waiting. Standing alone in the middle of the path, he frowned but did not waver.
First came a banner, worn and tattered, its once gilded sun now darkened and overcast. Then came the soldiers, the advance his scout had spotted; six, as was Remembered, sword and shield at the ready, their arms forever untired. Behind them came the robed wretch, gliding on dancing smoke, as if the fumes of the thurible he wielded carried their wielder. Then, perfumed by the almost sickening sweetness of the censer, came their leader; clad in gold and ruby red, scepter in hand, his face covered by a marble mask. Behind him, came the tomb, an entire marble sepulcher carried by one, its rear sliding against the floor, thudding ominously whenever a step was met. And last came the rest; rows of soldiers sporting armor that the Sorcerer remembered from ages past and an empire thought gone. He was not plagued by fear; but numbers mattered and the brutes of tombs and discarded remains among the soldiers would challenge his plans.
“HALT!” he yelled in the end. Silence followed his voice’s echo, broken solely by the thurible’s rings that did not stop. “You are trespassing on the Hold of Ghabol’Domn. I would pass judgement in the name of the Clan but it would seem death has already been offered to you. Turn back lest your bodies be destroyed.”
“Stay your judgement, Sorcerer Ravadh,” the masked priest said, his accent foreign but not unfamiliar with his tongue. A quiet voice, Ravadh thought, but heard too clearly, though that did not trouble him. What troubled him was that he had never given his name. “And hold your threats. You have no more than twenty in the Hold and they shall not be needed. I come in peace.”
“Peacefully come only those invited to a Hold,” he answered but his mind raced. How? How did that… that thing know? “No such invitation offered. I say again, though I Remember saying it before: turn back.”
“But invited I was, Ravadh,” the priest said again. “An invitation and a favor owed I was offered.”
Shivers crawled up the Dweghom’s spine, as his eyes widened. He saw the mask move as the face behind it smiled.
“Remember this, old friend: a handful of survivors of your clan. A small monastery. A monk offering kindness to his enemies. In exchange, an invitation and a favored owed.”
“Impossible… The human-Kerawegh? Pietus?”
“I am glad you made it to the Hold before the Fall, Ravadh. For a time, I fared worse. No longer.”
“You cannot be-!”
“Alive? No. I am more. And I have come to collect. A Memory Aware, I need. A Memory Aware I ask of thee, and a debt repaid. Your Mnemancer – Onrukhenadha was it? Or a Relic of Memories would do, if you have it.”
The Sorcerer Ravadh stayed silent, his heart racing as his mind struggled to fathom the situation and request both. It was an easy thing, to swear friendship to a man that would die in but a few decades. One did not expect it to come haunt him centuries later. “What you are… what you ask is impossible,” he muttered in the end.
“I said I come in peace, Ravadh. I gave an oath to you, with my Lord as my witness, that I would not harm you or yours and that I would keep your presence hidden. But you also swore friendship and a favor owed. Deny me this, and my oath to an oathbreaker cannot stand. What say you?”
Purpose returned in Ravadh’s eyes. His fist tightened, veins bursting in fiery light; as did the corridor behind him. Flames ignited, revealing the automata that responded to his will; tame ones, meant to work the forge or mine the earth, but their tools deadly if employed in battle. Among them, bathed in fiery light, a handful of warriors; the few survivors of a once strong Hold.
“You mean well, proud Ravadh,” said the priest. “But you cannot hope to fight his Will.”
“His will destroyed my clan.”
“His Will preserved it through the oath of His priest,” Pietus replied, his voice smooth, inviting. “Of all my people could send, I was chosen, without our friendship known. Do you not see Providence?”
“I see a dead god’s mockery,” growled the Dweghom.
“I… I understand,” Pietus answered sadly and fell quiet for a moment, before he spoke again. “Know this: the time when yours and mine meet on the field is coming. But that is not here and that is not now. Thus, I will try once more. If you do not see his Will in this, then honor the Memory of your own words. Return the favor, friend. Show the Aghm of your choices.”
Silence fell, broken only by the flames of the automata cracking behind him and the ringing of the thurible.
“What say you?” Pietus asked again.
Poll
- Offer the Mnemancer.
- Offer a Relic of Memories.
- Lead Clan Kankhalis to its end.
The Scent of Life
Negative Dearth stood alone.
Their withdrawal from the accord with their colleagues to join the mercenary army had left them bereft of allies and in dire need of new resources. While they had expected attempts on their life, the other Merchant Princes had chosen to steal contracts from them. This had left them with two choices: either rejoin the accord or find new contracts. In their desperation, Negative Dearth chose the latter. The offer had been extravagant for so small a charm. A Generic Pheromantic Attraction Extract, or, as their human clients called it, a ‘love potion,’ was trivially demanding in its production, unlike its aimed counterpart. Still, despite the insignificance of the product and the extravagance of the price, they were coming to regret their decision.
In that sense, therefore, it could be argued that Negative Dearth stood alone. In a much more real sense, one did not meet with clients such as these without proper support and protection. Their private guard was present if discreetly so, and the surrounding hills were peppered with Marskman clones. Negative Dearth stood as alone as they dared. And when the solitary robbed figure came gliding on smoke from the eastern path, Negative Dearth was glad they did so. Even the sight of the carts filled to the brim with broken, half-rotten extremities did not change their mind. Rows of them came behind the floating cultist, carried by rotten corpses of horses and bulls – ancient sacrifices to their so-called god, if reports were correct.
“I come with a new offer from my master.” The creature, half-rotten itself, floating on a wave of sickening incense smoke, spoke with obvious disdain – as if somehow an Exile was more of an affront to the cosmos than its own sickening existence. Not waiting for an answer, it went on. “He offers five times the price for the creator of the elixir. Accept,” it commanded, and its dry tongue smacked with displeasure in its mouth, as if insults and curses were barely being held back.
“Your master wants a Pheromancer?” Negative Dearth replied. “For five times the price?”
“Accept!” the thing said again.
No, Negative Dearth almost said. Almost. Five times the price…
The exchange would have ramifications; potentially grave ones. Negative Dearth would pick, of course, from their own retinue, someone like Diminutive Returns would serve well, so technically it was within their rights to make such an exchange. But should the Sovereign ever find out someone had exchanged a living Pheromancer… Unless Negative Dearth somehow managed to put a positive spin on it – if, for instance, the Sovereign wanted an excuse to engage the dead ones – it would potentially spell deletion. Worse, Abomination.
But this implied that the Sovereign would find out and for five times the price… That would provide Negative Dearth some much needed relief; comfort even. They would be able to reclaim some of the contracts lost to their colleagues.
Their mind racing with the possibilities, Negative Dearth drew breath and opened their mouth…
Poll
- I accept. We can alter the contract.
- I refuse. We will abide by the bylaws of the existing agreement.
That Which Bends Reality
Report Excerpt No. 1
This is an urgent report from Lochagos Thespianos – garrison commander for the isle of Mynakos –addressed to Helias’ most honorable Scholae. It is with anger and pain in my soul that I must inform you of the following: this year’s dramaturgical festival has been unceremoniously delayed due to unforeseen obstacles. Seven moons ago, our island experienced a chain of devastating fires, scorching the eastern portion of our dearest Mynakos. While the main town has been spared from the devastation, the east portion of Mynakos contains most of our food supplies and the island’s precious water reservoir – we have lost many farms and much of this year’s harvest already. Considering the dry-season is still a few months away, and factoring in the selective nature of these flame-bound outbursts, I fully suspect that this is the work of arsonists; investigations have already begun to flush out the culprits.
Mynakos’ dramaturgical festival is an important celebration in its own right, for the most talented of the attending actors and writers will get the chance to perform within Helias’ radiant walls – showcasing their talents under the divine gaze of Dionikos, our godly patron and the master of all wealth and the high arts. Due to the important nature of this event, we expect a lot of artistically inclined visitors over the coming month; I kindly ask that you delay all boats leaving for Mynakos by one week, giving us enough time to investigate this urgent matter and to ensure safety can prevail!
Report Excerpt No. 2
Esteemed and most wise Scholae of Helias: I, the most unlucky and potentially cursed Lochagos Thespianos, must regretfully inform you that Mynakos is under attack – no doubt about this remains! Two moons ago, unknown brigands emerged from the very sea – or so do eye-witnesses claim – attacking our citizens and facilities in the dead of night. Almost all of our grain storage silos have been burned to cinders, farmhands have been deprived of their lives and subsequent utility, and several deceased animals have been dumped into the isle’s water reserve – poisoning it.
While I have not encountered these vile intruders myself, as the marauding cowards choose only to assault the weak and the unarmed, witnesses speak of walking corpses and airborne specters wreathed in sizzling ash. Furthermore, the inhabitants of the main town are growing dangerously uneasy: many claim that Mynakos is cursed, causing infighting and societal discordance. Madness has gripped the populace and its starting to spread amongst the troops that are stationed on the island; I fear a full-blown riot might erupt if we do not deal with these escalating raids.
Further adding to our ongoing calamities, our group of employed mercenaries from Tauria have broken their contract and fled the island. The dishonorable departure came after their attached Minotaurs whipped the waters, from which the attackers supposedly emerged from, for an entire night – trying to “scare the evil things away.” The retreat of those manure-brained, bovine-worshipping superstitious cowards has left us in an even more precarious position: our defenses are limited, our supplies are dwindling, and our assailants reek of sorcerous intervention.
Knowing full well of the gravity of my request, I ask that you dispatch a Primodynamic Globe and a supporting Mechanist to aid our island. From my understanding, the device is supposed to nullify magic in its vicinity, and the occurrences mentioned so far should justify the use of such a tool well enough.
Our enemy seeks to break our will before they reveal themselves for the killing blow – for that, I am certain. We must take away their magical tricks so the truth can be revealed!
Report Excerpt No. 3
This is Deputy Lochagos Loukianos – Thespianos’ lifeless body was found floating in the isle’s water reservoir. Being next in the chain of command, I have ordered for the immediate evacuation of all civilians and festival attendees to the main island of Helias. Assaults have occurred within the main town, although we have limited the spread of the fires to just the outskirts.
I regret to inform you that Clio, the Rhodean Mechanist you employed to aid us, and the Primodynamic Globe you dispatched have been compromised. The device and its handler were sent, along with a sizeable military escort, to combat the dreadful attackers during one of their latest raids and have since remained unaccounted for. We have dispatched a force to retrieve them and will inform you of the results in a subsequent report. In the meantime, I urgently request for more soldiers, rations, and a tanker ship with fresh water.
I have seen the enemy with my own eyes, and I fear my mind is failing me. I cannot tell if I am fighting mirages or real creatures; it all feels like an unending nightmare. All I see are corpses – wielding fire and spreading madness wherever they tread…
Dionikos help us during our greatest calamity!
OLD DOMINION FORCES HAVE ATTACKED THE ISLAND OF MYNAKOS – A PROTECTORATE OF THE CITY STATE OF HELIAS – TO FIND “THAT WHICH BENDS REALITY.” WHAT DO THEY BRING BACK?
Poll
- The Primodynamic Globe
- Mechanist Clio
[[THE FOLLOWING IS A DIRECT RESULT OF THE MATERIALS GATHERED, BASED ON YOUR DECISIONS DURING THE EVENT. THREE RESULTS FAVORED THE BROKEN. THREE FAVORED THE PROPHET. THIS IS THE INITIAL OUTCOME. MORE WILL BE REVEALED NEXT WEEK.]]
It was a quiet place, Capitas.
But for the roar of the Pyre, few things disturbed the silence and stillness of a dead civilization. The devoted to the Final Creed respected this, going about their profane business with calm reverence, their robes gently shuffling around them. Now and then, something would disturb the silence; the collapse of a ruin, a scream of a newly unborn, the wail of one of the old Pantheon. The entire city would listen in then, insulted by the noise, and figures everywhere, from the deepest dungeons to the open fields hosting motionless legions, would slowly turn their heads towards the sound. Like a cough in an empty cathedral, noise was anathema, an oddity violating the sanctity of the unholy ruins of Capitas.
Then, the Ritual took place.
* * *
“NO!”
The desperate cry momentarily covered the liturgy of profane chanting that mingled with howling winds and roaring, purple flames. It climbed higher than the crackle of lighting strikes, their cores muted in color but not in sound, striking again and again and again from the bowls of the pyre and into the ashen clouds above, like the electric storms of an erupting volcano. It covered the triumphant growl of the Prophet, as his magic poured through him and into the Ritual on the other side of the Pyre.
“NO! NO! NOOOO!” the voice cried out again, croaking and breaking, matching the face of the man that voiced it, until finally it became little more than a sobbing cry. “No….Nonononono…No-” Only sobs could now be heard as he rushed towards the ritual pyre opposite his, one of six spread around the Pyre. Three had the Broken manned and fueled and three the Prophet. He had not cared which. The Prophet had… Screaming, sobbing and cursing as he run, his twisted legs failing him yet again in undeath as they had done in life, the Broken rushed to stop what he knew was already over.
And it was over long before he reached his destination.
Six purple eruptions roared around the Pyre, pillars of flame seeking the heavens that once housed the divinity that had fueled their fire. Lightning cracked, again and again, as Pyre and pillars met amidst expanding ashen clouds, dark shapes in purple lines forming as a muted glow travelled among them. Finally, as suddenly as the world had erupted, light and sound died out, save for the weak rolling of distant thunder. Quietly did the ashen clouds expand now, ever onwards, ever further.
Then, a raiN drop fell. Then another, and another, until a gentle rain began to wet the ruins of Capitas, the cracked and dusty remains of Hazlia’s Dominion. And for some time, the Prophet laughed, almost happily, almost alive, as the rain fell on his hooded head.
“Traitor!” the Broken shrieked, leaning on a staff like a crutch and dragging his left leg behind him, his knee finally having given way. “Snake and venom of a man! You muted the power! You channeled my power, MY ritualthrough dead vessels! You…! You-”
“Quiet, you old, ruined fool,” the Prophet said, raising his finger to tap beneath his eye. “Look.”
A thin veil of rain covered the ruins. Weak smoke still rose from the cinders of the ritual pyre next to the Prophet, with a dozen cultists collapsed and drained around it, expendable and expended.
Then, one of them twitched.
“It is done,” the Prophet smiled, sighing with obvious relief, as he looked at the moving body.
“We were to Awaken them…” the Broken whimpered. “We were to bring faithful, bring more minds that freely offer their will. We were to bring consciousness and will and lif-”
“What good is free will? What good did free will ever do to Him? It drove Him to…” he sighed, stopping himself. “Free will brings question. This is my victory. A nation unquestioning. The perfect faithful. The perfect soldiers.” Another cultist followed and another still, until all of them were moving, bringing themselves to stand.
“Liar!” the Broken spat the word. “Lie to the rest but not to me. Nothing you did had to do with Him.” Then, he went on, quietly, talking to himself “then again, nothing I did had either…”
“The perfect vessels,” the Prophet concluded, ignoring him while he stared at the cultists’ eyes, once filled with madness and zeal, now void and grey, unmoving and staring into endless nothingness. Ignoring the sobs of the Broken, for a moment the Prophet knew bliss.
Then, they kept moving.
“No…” it was the Prophet’s turn to mutter now.
Like ragdolls, puppets with twisted strings, the cultists started cleaning the ritual site with awkward, uncertain moves.
“What is this? No!”
From somewhere in the city, a hammer struck an anvil. There was nothing to receive the blow save for the cold steel of the anvil itself but still the hammer struck, again and again and again, the rings echoing around the ruined city.
“How?” the Prophet asked, turning towards the noise. “They were supposed to be…” He looked to the ragdoll cultists sweeping and gathering the ritual’s remains, then turned to the Broken, his head still shaking but now with a twisted, grin painted over it. “What did you do?”
Someone chiseled on stone. Then a croaky voice tried to yell today’s prayer.
“This is not my doing,” the Broken said, curiosity overwhelming his gloat. “They are not Awakened. They just… remember, I think. They are memories without will. Action without purpose. Habit without intension. Is this not what-?”
“No,” the Prophet answered grimly as he began to walk away. Behind him, the Broken laughed, bitterly, gloatingly, feverishly… desperately. “But if there is no will, then perhaps something can come out of this,” the Prophet went on but as he walked by the Broken, he paused.
“Thank you, old… friend,” he said with spiteful venom in his voice. “I could not have done this alone.” Starring into the empty eyes of the cultists that worked aimlessly around the ritual pyre’s remains, the Broken wept without tears.
With eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, the Prophet moved through the city. He passed before catacomb entrances, once quiet, now slowly spitting sluggish, mindless bodies, some walking, many crawling. Each new awakened he saw, he realized their minds had something in them… but they were not filled. It was not perfect… but it would have to do. He moved through a market where muted and loud merchants alike waved their hands over goods that were not there. He sidestepped workers that made repairs to broken roads, without tools or effect. Going through dozens of calculations and potentials, he never realized.
From their respective dens, other Anointed were watching the rain, the rotten roots it watered and the foul fruit they bore. Each was hatching plans, how best to exploit the madness of their two peers and the outcome of their failures. But that would come later. For now, the Anointed looked and wondered, for they realized.
It used to be a quiet place, Capitas.
No more.
The Aftermath
[[THE FOLLOWING IS A DIRECT RESULT OF THE MATERIALS GATHERED, BASED ON YOUR DECISIONS DURING THE EVENT. THREE RESULTS FAVORED THE BROKEN. THREE FAVORED THE PROPHET. THIS IS THE OUTCOME FOR EACH CHARACTER, AS NEITHER COMPLETELY ACHIEVED THEIR PURPOSE BUT NEITHER FAILED ENTIRELY EITHER.]]
A blacksmith. A general. A tailor. An architect. An embalmer. A merchant. A soldier. A priest. A sorcerer. A beggar. A taxman. And a Caelesor.
It was maddening. It was damnation. It was LOUD.
Not the eerie sounds of the half-living city around him of course. Those he ignored as much as he had ignored the silence of centuries. For a man of the Prophet’s intellect, the outside world existed only when it was to be manipulated, molded or governed. The rest of the time it was a distraction for the living and the feebleminded. One’s existence was one’s own. When one passed, one’s home was not destroyed, one’s family did not follow in death, one’s friends did not cease to exist. The world outside one’s mind was simply scenery until it became a stage of execution.
So, after he brutally reached into their minds, tendrils of his iron will slithering around their incoherent, fragmented minds, the twelve’s memories started screaming in his mind, mingling with his inner voice, disrupting his will and expanding his own thoughts with new and unfamiliar ones; and the Prophet, for the first time in his existence, found himself fearing eternal damnation.
With a painful, dry gasp, he took a step back, struggling to keep his balance as he finally managed to pull his will back from the vessels before him. He almost panted out of reflex, before his disciplined mind overruled the notion as unnecessary considering current circumstances. He welcomed the thought with recognition and relief then paused to assess the situation.
He had dedicated two months to locate and gather proper candidates, ones that were both left sufficiently unaffected by the Broken one’s attempt to return true will, but also whose memories and skillsets were intact enough to be of use; an array of aptitudes meant to augment, compliment and expand his. He had then dedicated another month to perfect the theory behind the practice of domination.
He used the next three months to ensure that he was left unaffected, combing through every corner of his own mind and destroying every rogue thought or memory that had somehow sneaked into him after merging with all twelve vessels. Only then did he try again, this time one by one, his will a force of nature.
Like a breath of air it slipped in at first, softly filling the gaps in the minds of the vessel. Every nook and every cranny left lifeless by the Awakening, there his will’s gentle caress swirled and slithered, a breeze’s cool, at first alien, then soothing to the broken minds, offering surety and the promise of purpose and potency. And once his lulling presence held them, once every random thought and rogue memory were gently folded in a velvety embrace, only then did the gentle breeze of his intrusion turned into cold, iron claws.
A blacksmith. A general. A tailor. An architect. An embalmer. A merchant. A soldier. A priest. A sorcerer. A beggar. A taxman. And a Caelesor.
When he was done, the Prophet’s Disciples were born, filled with his unfathomable power and a single, iron will.
And his enemies, his peers, the entire world would come to fear them.
* * *
“Where are… I…I heard you.”
It was a spell. The first spell he ever knew.
“His words can see. and found you… beloved? Through Death ash and Him.”
There, behind the curtain, it was written, in dried blood against the wall of the cave that stood there before his workshop was set up. A madman’s first spell.
“I dream again black I never knew. the mists now. dead dream. I hear of life… whispers at dawn …of Dawn?”
A handful of lives passed before his eyes. A bone here, a leg there, a piece from somewhere else… He was a monk. A mason. A pilgrim. An architect… He was a lot of things. A lot of men.
“I walk The dead. They… Prayers walk.”
They did not know, the others. Not even that snake, the Prophet. They called him the Broken. They were wrong, the way they said it. He was not one man broken. He was many broken men mended. All loved Him, believed in Him. One, however, loved her and that love extended through the centuries to all of him.
“I of the faithful? He reached me. died lives.” He leaned over her and kissed her forehead as he chanted the words faithfully.
It was not the only thing the others were wrong about, of course. All the theories about his power and his madness. He possessed the power of many Anointed, not one. And he was not mad. It’s just… different sides of him passed the reins along without let others know. It was funny, really.
“Death.” He finished, chuckling.
And now, they would see.
He stood straight, his limping gone, his hunched figure unfolding, looming over her resting place. He looked angry.
He had often been annoyed. It was impossible not to be, considering his nature. Someone would get annoyed with something, wouldn’t they? But he had never been angry, not after his Anointment. But this time, the Prophet had angered him – he had angered all of him. He had been wronged and robbed and cheated and he would strike back for he would not be denied. The will and love of many men demanded it. One by one he gathered their minds and they all spoke in unison.
He opened his mouth and started chanting, his voice clear and resonating in the tones of all that were the Broken.
“Where are you beloved? I can see you through ash and black mists. I heard His words and found Him. Death of Dawn.”
There was not a single unliving that did not hear him. From the awakened marbles and the lowliest soldier of the legions to the twisted Pantheon and his peer among the Anointed, all felt the power surging from his words, their attentions tugged like candles pulled by wind.
“I dream now. I never knew the dead dream of life. I hear whispers at Dawn. Prayers of the faithful?”
“They reached me. I died. I walk. The dead walk.”
Outside, the Pyre stirred, tugged by a small pyre burning within him. More and more it grew until the once ragged figure of the Broken was consumed by a Pyre of its own, smaller, yes, but neither less furious nor less mighty.
“He lives!” he screamed amidst cries of pain and agony, as the twisted flames of the pyre raged around him in a tornado of purple energy and fire, his sizzling bones exhuming dark fumes that spiraled around him. And the Pyre obeyed, raging harder and with more fury than ever before. Not even the ritual had mastered such power, not even any of the Anointments. Half-mindless citizens were pulled to it, its call echoed in the hearts of all the faithful across the world. And then, it was over.
His charred facemask fell, the leather melted, revealing half a skull that did not match the one exposed. His charcoal lips, purple veins in embers hissing still smiled as his empty eye sockets turned to her, before he whispered his final word.
“Death.”
Somewhere in Capitas, a blacksmith stopped hammering his own anvil, his hand paused midair as he looked questioningly around him. A woman’s shrieking cries holding a baby that was not there stopped her wailing, as she looked around before crying dryly. Around the world, will showered some unliving, like a belated blessing of the unGod.
In the workshop, one body did not move. A charred skull lied on the floor, ruined by the power wielded there. But for the worms of smoke still escaping the remains, nothing, nothing betrayed the immense power that had reigned here but moments ago. Nothing even moved.
Until a voice spoke.
“I heard you,” it said. “Through the ash and black mist, I heard you.”
She leaned over his skull, tufts of dark hair covering his eyes like a curtain as she kissed his charring chickbone.
“Sleep now,” she said. “It is my turn.”